The postillion went in, and returned.

‘She won’t at all—­I knew she would not.’

’Well, I am obliged to her for the night’s lodging she did give me; I have no right to expect more.’

’What is it?—­Sure she bid me tell you—­“and welcome to the lodging; for,” said she, “he is a kind-hearted gentleman;” but here’s the money; it’s that I was telling you she would not have at all.’

’Thank you.  Now, my good friend Larry, drive me to Clonbrony, and do not say another word, for I’m not in a talking humour.’

Larry nodded, mounted, and drove to Clonbrony.  Clonbrony was now a melancholy scene.  The houses, which had been built in a better style of architecture than usual, were in a ruinous condition; the dashing was off the walls, no glass in the windows, and many of the roofs without slates.  For the stillness of the place Lord Colambre in some measure accounted by considering that it was Sunday; therefore, of course, all the shops were shut up, and all the people at prayers.  He alighted at the inn, which completely answered Larry’s representation of it.  Nobody to be seen but a drunken waiter, who, as well as he could articulate, informed Lord Colambre that ’his mistress was in her bed since Thursday-was-a-week; the hostler at the wash-woman’s, and the cook at second prayers.’

Lord Colambre walked to the church, but the church gate was locked and broken—­a calf, two pigs, and an ass, in the churchyard; and several boys (with more of skin apparent than clothes) were playing at hustlecap upon a tombstone, which, upon nearer observation, he saw was the monument of his own family.  One of the boys came to the gate, and told Lord Colambre ’there was no use in going into the church, becaase there was no church there; nor had not been this twelvemonth; becaase there was no curate; and the parson was away always, since the lord was at home—­that is, was not at home—­he nor the family.’

Lord Colambre returned to the inn, where, after waiting a considerable time, he gave up the point—­he could not get any dinner—­and in the evening he walked out again into the town.  He found several ale-houses, however, open, which were full of people; all of them as busy and as noisy as possible.  He observed that the interest was created by an advertisement of several farms on the Clonbrony estate, to be set by Nicholas Garraghty, Esq.  He could not help smiling at his being witness incognito to various schemes for outwitting the agents and defrauding the landlord; but, on a sudden, the scene was changed; a boy ran in, crying out, that ’St. Dennis was riding down the hill into the town; and, if you would not have the license,’ said the boy, ’take care of yourself.’

‘If you wouldn’t have the licence,’ Lord Colambre perceived, by what followed, meant, ‘if you have not A licence.’  Brannagan immediately snatched an untasted glass of whisky from a customer’s lips (who cried, Murder!) gave it and the bottle he held in his hand to his wife, who swallowed the spirits, and ran away with the bottle and glass into some back hole; whilst the bystanders laughed, saying, ’Well thought of, Peggy!’