O'Connor pursued his way towards the city, following the broken horse-track, which then traversed the low grounds which lie upon the left bank of the Liffey. The Phœnix Park, or, as it was then called, the Royal Park, was at the time of which we write a much wilder place than it now is. There were no trim plantations¹ nor stately clumps² of tufted trees, no signs of care or culture. Broad patches of shaggy thorn spread with little interruption over the grounds, and regular roads were then unknown. The darkness became momentarily deeper and more deep as O'Connor pursued his solitary³ way; and the difficulty of proceeding⁴ grew every instant greater, for the heavy rains had interrupted his path with deep sloughs⁵ and pools, which became at length so frequent, and so difficult of passage, that he was fain to turn from the ordinary track, and seek an easier path along the high grounds which overhang the river. The close screen of the wild gnarled thorns which covered the upper level on which he now moved, still further deepened the darkness; and he became at length so entirely⁶ involved in the pitchy gloom, that he dismounted, and taking his horse by the head, led him forward through the tangled⁷ brake, and under the knotted branches of the old hoary⁸ thorns, stumbling among the briers and the crooked⁹ roots, and every moment encountering the sudden obstruction¹⁰, either of some stooping branch, or the trunk of one of the old trees; so that altogether his progress was as tedious and unpleasant as it well could be. His

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