Excerpt from Tom Burke of Ours, Vol. 1 of 2
It was at the close of a cold, raw day in January - no matter for the year - that the Galway mail was seen to wind its slow course through that long and dull plain that skirts the Shannon, as you approach the "sweet town of Athlone." The reeking box-coats and dripping umbrellas that hung down on every side bespoke a day of heavy rain, while the splashed and mud-stained panels of the coach bore token of cut-up roads, which the jaded and toil-worn horses amply confirmed. If the outsides, with hats pressed firmly down, and heads bent against the cutting wind, presented an aspect far from comfortable, those within, who peeped with difficulty through the dim glass, had little to charm the eye; their flannel nightcaps and red comforters were only to be seen at rare intervals, as they gazed on the dreary prospect, and then sunk back into the coach, to con over their moody thoughts, or if fortunate, perhaps to doze.
In the rumble, with the guard, rode one, whose burly figure and rosy cheeks seemed to feel no touch of the inclement wind that made his companions crouch. An oiled-silk foraging-cap, fastened beneath the chin, and a large mantle of blue cloth bespoke him a soldier, if even the assured tone of his voice, and a certain easy carriage of his head, had not conveyed to the acute observer the same information.
Unsubdued in spirit, undepressed in mind either by the long day of pouring rain, or the melancholy outline of country on every side, his dark eye flashed as brightly from beneath the brim of his cap, and his ruddy face beamed as cheerily, as though nature had put forth her every charm of weather and scenery to greet and delight him.
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