It was at the close of a cold, raw day in January--no matter for the year--that the Gal way 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 outsiders--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; th…
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