The sagacity of the Irish people, in the estimate they form of personal appearance and character, is, indeed, very extraordinary.  Our friend, the stranger, when casting his eye over the town of Ballytrain, on his way to have an interview with Birney, who, we may as well observe, was in his confidence, perceived that it was market-day.  As he went out upon the street, a crowd of persons were standing opposite the inn door, where an extensive yarn market, in these good old times, was always held; and we need scarcely say that his gentlemanly and noble figure, and the striking elegance of his manner, at once attracted their attention.

“Well,” said one of them, “there goes a real gintleman, begad, at any rate.”

“Divil a lie in that,” added another; “there’s no mistakin’ the true blood.”

“Who is he,” asked a third—­“Does nobody know him?”

“Troth,” said the other, “it doesn’t signify a traneen who or what he is; whether he’s gentle or simple, I say that the whole country ought to put their heads under his feet.”

“Why so, Jemmy Trailcudgel,” asked a fourth; “what did he do for the counthry?”

“I’ll tell you that, Micky,” replied the other—­“The Black Baronet, bad luck to him, came to the inn where he stops, and insisted, right or wrong, on knowing who and what he was.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him, the turk o’ blazes!  Well, an’ what happened?”

“Why, the gintleman got up, and tuck a hoult o’ the black villain by the nose, led him to the head of the stairs, then turned him down before him, and made his feet right and left play against the barrow knight, like the tucks of a cloth mill, until he thrundled him clane—­I’m not so sure of that, though—­out o’ the hall door.”

“An’ for that same, God prosper him!  Begad, he’s a bully gentleman,” observed a stout, frieze-coated fellow, with a large bunch of green linen yarn on his lusty arm—­“he is, and it’s in him, and upon him, as every one that has eyes to see may know.”

The object of their praise, on entering the office of his friend Birney, found him at his desk, with professional papers and documents before him.  After the ordinary greetings of the day, and an accurate account of the baronet’s interview with him, the stranger introduced the topic in which he felt so deep an interest.

“I am unfortunate, Mr. Birney,” said he; “Fenton, notwithstanding his eccentricity, insanity, or whatever it may be termed, seems to suspect my design, and evades, with singular address, every attempt, on my part, to get anything out of him.  Is he absolutely deranged, think you?  For, I assure you, I have just now had a scene with him, in which his conduct and language could proceed from nothing short of actual insanity.  A little affected with liquor he unquestionably was, when he came in first.  The appearance, however, of Sir Thomas not only reduced him to a state of sobriety, but seemed to strike him with a degree of terror altogether inexplicable.”