This species of logic I give as a specimen of Mister M'Keown's power of, if not explaining away a difficulty, at least getting out of all reach of it,--an attribute almost as Irish as the cause it was 'employed to defend. As we journeyed along, Darby maintained a strict reserve as to the event which had required his presence in Athlone; nor did he allude to the mayor but passingly, observing that he did n't know how it happened that a Dublin magistrate should have come up to these parts,--“though, to be sure, he 's a great friend of the Right Honorable.” “And who is he?” asked I. “The Right Honorable! Don't you know, then? Why, I did n't think there was a child in the county could n't tell that. Sure, it 's Denis Browne himself.” The name seemed at once to suggest a whole flood of recollections; and Darby expatiated for hours long on the terrible power of a man by whose hands life and death were distributed, without any aid from judge or jury,--thus opening to me another chapter of the lawless tyranny to which he was directing my attention, and by which he already saw my mind was greatly influenced. About an hour after daybreak we arrived at a small cabin; which served as a lockhouse on the canal side. It needed not the cold, murky sky, nor the ceaseless pattering of the rain, to make this place look more comfortless and miserable than anything I had ever beheld. Around, for miles in extent, the country was one unbroken flat, without any trace of wood, or even a single thorn hedge, to relieve the eye. Low, marshy meadows, where the rank flaggers and reedy grass grew tall and luxuriant, with here and there some stray patches of tillage, were girt round by vast plains of bog, cut up into every variety of trench and pit. The cabin itself, though slated and built of stone, was in bad repair; the roof broken in many places, and the window mended with pieces of board, and even straw. As we came close. Darby remarked that there was no smoke from the chimney, and that the door was fastened on the outside. “That looks bad,” said he, as he stopped short about a dozen paces from the hovel, and looked steadily at it; “they've taken him too!” “Who is it, Darby?” said I; “what did he do?”