XVII. A TALE OF A TURBOT.
XXXVIII. CONDEMNED.
XXXIX. FOX-HUNTING IN SPINNY LANE.
XL. THE FOX IN HIS EARTH.
XLI. THE LOBBY OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
XLII. ANOTHER JOURNEY.
XLIII. PLAYING ROUNDERS.
XLIV. CONCLUSION.

CHAPTER I.

THE BARONY OF DESMOND.

I wonder whether the novel-reading world--that part of it, at least,
which may honour my pages--will be offended if I lay the plot of
this story in Ireland! That there is a strong feeling against things
Irish it is impossible to deny. Irish servants need not apply; Irish
acquaintances are treated with limited confidence; Irish cousins are
regarded as being decidedly dangerous; and Irish stories are not
popular with the booksellers.

For myself, I may say that if I ought to know anything about any
place, I ought to know something about Ireland; and I do strongly
protest against the injustice of the above conclusions. Irish cousins
I have none. Irish acquaintances I have by dozens; and Irish friends,
also, by twos and threes, whom I can love and cherish--almost as
well, perhaps, as though they had been born in Middlesex. Irish
servants I have had some in my house for years, and never had one
that was faithless, dishonest, or intemperate. I have travelled all
over Ireland, closely as few other men can have done, and have never
had my portmanteau robbed or my pocket picked. At hotels I have
seldom locked up my belongings, and my carelessness has never been
punished. I doubt whether as much can be said for English inns.

Irish novels were once popular enough. But there is a fashion in
novels, as there is in colours and petticoats; and now I fear they
are drugs in the market. It is hard to say why a good story should
not have a fair chance of success whatever may be its bent; why it
should not be reckoned to be good by its own intrinsic merits alone;
but such is by no means the case. I was waiting once, when I was
young at the work, in the back parlour of an eminent publisher,
hoping to see his eminence on a small matter of business touching
a three-volumed manuscript which I held in my hand. The eminent
publisher, having probably larger fish to fry, could not see me, but
sent his clerk or foreman to arrange the business.

"A novel, is it, sir?" said the foreman.

"Yes," I answered; "a novel."

"It depends very much on the subject," said the foreman, with
a thoughtful and judicious frown--"upon the name, sir, and the
s