through mud and mire, rain and storm. On we went, splashing, bumping,
rocking, and jolting, till I began at last to have serious thoughts of
abdicating the seat and betaking myself to the bottom of the chaise, for
safety and protection. Mile after mile succeeded, and as after many a
short and fitful slumber, which my dreams gave an apparent length to,
I woke only to find myself still in pursuit--the time seemed so
enormously protracted that I began to fancy my whole life was to be
passed in the dark, in chase of the Kilkenny mail, as we read in the true
history of the flying Dutchman, who, for his sins of impatience--like
mine--spent centuries vainly endeavouring to double the Cape, or the
Indian mariner in Moore's beautiful ballad, of whom we are told as--

"Many a day to night gave way,
And many a morn succeeded,
Yet still his flight, by day and night,
That restless mariner speeded."

This might have been all very well in the tropics, with a smart craft and
doubtless plenty of sea store--but in a chaise, at night, and on the Naas
road, I humbly suggest I had all the worse of the parallel.

At last the altered sound of the wheels gave notice of our approach
to a town, and after about twenty minutes; rattling over the pavement
we entered what I supposed, correctly, to be Naas. Here I had long since
determined my pursuit should cease. I had done enough, and more than
enough, to vindicate my fame against any charge of irresolution as to
leaving Dublin, and was bethinking me of the various modes of prosecuting
my journey on the morrow, when we drew up suddenly at the door of the
Swan. The arrival of a chaise and four at a small country town inn,
suggests to the various employees therein, any thing rather than the