feminine accomplishment.  Poor Raymond, notwithstanding his privation, is, however, exceedingly shrewd in many things, especially where he can make himself understood.  As he speaks, however, in unconnected sentences, in which there is put forth no more than one phase of the subject he alludes to, or the idea he entertains, it is unquestionably not an easy task to understand him without an interpreter.  He is singularly fond of children—­very benevolent—­and consequently feels a degree of hatred and horror at anything in the shape of cruelty or oppression, almost beyond belief, in a person deprived of reason.  This morning he was with me by appointment, about half-past nine, and after getting his breakfast——­but no matter—­the manipulation he exhibited would have been death to a dyspeptic patient, from sheer envy—­we sallied forth to trace this man, M’Clutchy, by the awful marks of ruin, and tyranny, and persecution; for these words convey the principles of what he hath left, and is leaving behind him.

“‘Now, Raymond,’ said I, ’as you know the country well, I shall be guided by you.  I wish to see a place called Drum Dhu.  Can you conduct me there?’

“‘Ay!’ he replied with surprise; ’Why!  Sure there’s scarcely anybody there now.  When we go on farther, we may look up, but we’ll see no smoke, as there used to be.  ’Twas there young Torly Regan died on that day—­an’ her, poor Mary—­but they’re all gone from her—­and Hugh the eldest is in England or America—­but him—­the youngest—­he’ll never waken—­and what will the poor mother do for his white head now that she hasn’t it to look at?  No, he wouldn’t waken, although I brought him the cock.’

“‘Of whom are you speaking now, Raymond?’

“‘I’ll tell you two things that’s the same,’ he replied; ’and I’ll tell you the man that has them both.’

“‘Let me hear, Raymond.’

“‘The devil’s blessin’ and God’s curse;—­sure they’re the same—­ha, ha—­there now—­that’s one.  You didn’t know that—­no, no:  you didn’t.’

“‘And who is it that has them, Raymond?’

“’M’Clutchy—­Val the Vulture; sure ‘twas he did that all, and is doin’ it still.  Poor Mary!—­Brian will never waken;—­she’ll never see his eyes again, ’tany rate—­nor his white head—­oh! his white head!  God ought to kill Val, and I wondher he doesn’t.’

“‘Raymond, my good friend,’ said I, ’if you travel at this rate, I must give up the journey altogether.’

“The fact is, that when excited, as he was now by the topic in question, he gets into what is termed a sling trot, which carries him on at about six miles an hour, without ever feeling fatigued.  He immediately slackened his pace, and looked towards me, with a consciousness of having forgotten himself and acted wrongly.

“‘Well, no,’ said he, ‘I won’t; but sure I hate him.’

“‘Hate whom?’

“’M’Clutchy—­and that was it; for I always do it; but I won’t again, for you couldn’t keep up wid me if I spoke about him.’