For to the Child is given to spin a web
Of golden glamour o'er the everyday.

Happy is he who can, in spite of years,
Retain at times the spirit of the Child."

My own personal ambition at that period was a modest one. My
mother always drove out in Dublin in a carriage-and-four, with
postilions and two out-riders. We had always used black carriage-
horses, and East, the well-known job-master, had provided us for
Dublin with twenty-two splendid blacks, all perfect matches. Our
family colour being crimson, the crimson barouche, with the six
blacks and our own black and crimson liveries, made a very smart
turn-out indeed. O'Connor, the wheeler-postilion, a tiny little
wizened elderly man, took charge of the carriage, and directed the
outriders at turnings by a code of sharp whistles. It was my
consuming ambition to ride leader-postilion to my mother's
carriage, and above all to wear the big silver coat-of-arms our
postilions had strapped to the left sleeves of their short jackets
on a broad crimson band. I went to O'Connor in the stable-yard,
and consulted him as to my chance of obtaining the coveted berth.
O'Connor was distinctly encouraging. He thought nine rather young
for a postilion, but when I had grown a little, and had gained
more experience, he saw no insuperable objections to my obtaining
the post. The leader-postilion was O'Connor's nephew, a smart-
looking, light-built boy of seventeen, named Byrne. Byrne was less
hopeful about my chance. He assured me that such a rare
combination of physical and intellectual qualities were required
for a successful leader-rider, that it was but seldom that they
were found, as in his case, united in the same person. That my