MY ESCAPE. 11 



safely deposited in the kingdom of Connaught, without injury 

 or interruption worth recording. 



On the subject of my travels I intend to be laconic, inas- 

 much as, with a temporary intervention of steam, I have resided 

 in the royal mail since I left the lamps of London. I believe 

 I am not exactly cut out for a traveller : I am incurious as 

 to names of guards and coachmen never inquire after their 

 wives, or take the population of their families ; I generally 

 sleep from the start to the close of the stage. I did observe 

 that the colour of corn was nearly alike in both countries ; and 

 remarked further, that English drivers seemed partial to ale 

 and overalls, and Irish ones preferred frieze coats and naked 

 whiskey. 



And now, George, you shall have the particulars of my 

 escape ; and, since the times of the Anabasis, or the more 

 recent exploits of Lavalette and Ikey Solomons, never was 

 retreat effected in more masterly style. Candour obliges 

 me to admit, that mine was unaccompanied by sound of 

 trumpet, or other "pomp and circumstance of war;" and 

 rather resembled the hasty retirement of a detected thief 

 from a tabernacle, than a bold operation in noonday, and in 

 the face of the enemy. But let that pass. I embarked a 

 miscellaneous cargo of guns, dogs, and fishing-tackle, under 

 the surveillance of a trusty servant, on board a Dublin 

 steamer, and the following evening started quietly for ' ' the 

 Head;" leaving directions with mine host in Grafton-street 

 to acquaint Lord Leatherby, and all suspicious-looking in- 

 quirers, that I had departed for Constantinople, and that any 

 commands for me must be forwarded, under cover, to the 

 Sublime Porte. 



I have no talent for statistics, but if my memory serve, 

 the interesting portion of the British empire from which I 

 write, is thus laid down by a modern tourist: "It lieth," 

 says this intelligent traveller, " under a dark gray cloud, which 

 is evermore discharging itself on the earth, but, like the 

 widow's curse, is never exhausted. It is bounded on the south 

 and east by Christendom and part of Tipperary, on the north 

 by Donegal, and on the west by the salt say. It abounds in 

 bogs, lakes, and other natural curiosities ; its soil consists of 

 equal quantities of earth and stone; and its surface is so 

 admirably disencumbered of trees, shrubs, hedges, and ditches, 

 that an intelligent backwoodsman from Louisiana was heard to 



