character increased by a drooping moustache of black hair, the points of which descended below the chin. His eyes were black as a raven's wing, and glanced with all the brilliancy and quickness of youth, while the incessant motion of his arched eyebrows gave to their expression a character of almost demoniac intelligence. His voice was low and sonorous, and, although unmistakably Irish in accent, occasionally lapsed into traits which might be called foreign, for no one that knew him would have accused him of the vice of affectation. His dress was a claret-colored coat edged with narrow silver lace, and a vest of white satin, over which, by a blue ribbon, hung the medal of a foreign order; white satin breeches and silk stockings, with shoes fastened by large diamond buckles, completed a costume which well became a figure that had lost nothing of its pretension to shapeliness and symmetry. His hands, though remarkably large and bony, were scrupulously white and cared for, and more than one ring of great value ornamented his huge and massive fingers. Altogether, he was one whom the least critical would have pronounced not of the common herd of humanity, and yet whose character was by no means so easy to guess at from external traits. Amid all the tumult and confusion of the scene, his influence seemed felt everywhere, and his rich, solemn tones could be heard high above the crash and din around. As Forester stood and leaned over the balcony, the noise seemed to have reached its utmost; one of the company--a short, square, bull-faced little squire--being interrupted in a song by some of the party, while others--the greater number--equally loud, called on him to proceed. It was one of the slang ditties of the time,--a lyric suggested by that topic which furnished matter for pamphlets and speeches and songs, dinners, debates, and even duels,--the Union. “Go on, Bodkin; go on, man! You never were in better voice in your life,” mingled with, “No, no; why introduce any party topic here?”--with a murmured remark: “It's unfair, too. Hickman O'Reilly is with the Government.” The tumult, which, without being angry, increased every moment, was at last stilled by the voice of the chairman, saying,-- “If the song have a moral, Bodkin--” “It has, I pledge my honor it has, your 'Grandeur.'” said Bodkin. “Then finish it. Silence there, gentlemen.” And Bodkin resumed his chant:-- “'Trust me, Squire,' the dark man cried, 'I 'll follow close and mind you, Nor however high the fence you ride, I 'll ever be far behind you.' “And true to his word, like a gentleman He rode, there 'a no denying; And though full twenty miles they ran, He took all his ditches flying. “The night now came, and down they sat, And the Squire drank while he was able; But though glass for glass the dark man took, He left him under the table.