Others he saw with homes and family ties; all seemed to have hopes and love to look to but he—­“I alone am alone!  The whole world is in love with me, and I’m utterly alone.”  Alone as a wreck upon a desert ocean, terrible in its calm as in its tempest.  Broken was the helm and sailless was the mast, and he must drift till borne upon some ship-wrecking reef!  Had fate designed him to float over every rock? must he wait till the years let through the waters of disease, and he foundered obscurely in the immense loneliness he had so elaborately prepared?

Wisdom! dost thou turn in the end, and devour thyself? dost thou vomit folly? or is folly born of thee?

Overhead was cloud of storm, the ocean heaved, quick lightnings flashed; but no waves gathered, and in heavy sulk a sense of doom lay upon him.  Wealth and health and talent were his; he had all, and in all he found he had nothing;—­yes, one thing was his for evermore,—­Ennui.

Thoughts and visions rose into consciousness like monsters coming through a gulf of dim sea-water; all delusion had fallen, and he saw the truth in all its fearsome deformity.  On awakening, the implacable externality of things pressed upon his sight until he felt he knew what the mad feel, and then it seemed impossible to begin another day.  With long rides, with physical fatigue, he strove to keep at bay the despair-fiend which now had not left him hardly for weeks.  For long weeks the disease continued, almost without an intermission; he felt sure that death was the only solution, and he considered the means for encompassing the end with a calm that startled him.

Nor was it until the spring months that he found any subjects that might take him out of his melancholy, and darken the too acute consciousness of the truth of things which was forcing him on to madness or suicide.  One day it was suggested that he should stand for Parliament.  He eagerly seized the idea, and his brain thronged immediately with visions of political successes, of the parliamentary triumphs he would achieve.  Bah! he was an actor at heart, and required the contagion of the multitude, and again he looked out upon life with visionary eyes.  Harsh hours fell behind him, gay hours awaited him, held hands to him.

Men wander far from the parent plot of earth; but a strange fatality leads them back, they know not how.  None had desired to separate from all associations of early life more than Mike, and he was at once glad and sorry to find that the door through which he was to enter Parliament was Cashel.  He would have liked better to represent an English town or county, but he could taste in Cashel a triumph which he could nowhere else in the world.  To return triumphant to his native village is the secret of every wanderer’s desire, for there he can claim not only their applause but their gratitude.