The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

THE FORTUNE-TELLER

 
"Show his eyes, and grieve his heart,
Come like shadows so depart."
 

Shakspeare.

The insatiable desire to penetrate the dark veil of futurity, which pervades all classes, from the highest to the lowest, renders the occupation of the Fortune-Teller one of considerable profit. In no part of the world are there so many professors of the art, as in Ireland. The most insignificant village has its cunning person, of one sex or the other, whose province generally is to cure bewitched cattle, be well acquainted with all the scandalous gossip of the vicinity, and give advice and assistance in all delicate and difficult affairs of the heart; added to which, in some instances, a "trifle of smugglin'," and in all, the vending of interdicted drink: Potieen, that had never seen the ill-looking face of a gauger; a kind of liquid fire you might weaken with aquafortis, that would scrape the throat of an unaccustomed drinker as if he had swallowed a coarse file, but which our seasoned tipplers "toss off," glass after glass, without a grin, their indurated palates receiving it like so much water.

The class of individuals who take up, or are instructed in the mysteries of Fortune-telling, combine rather antagonistic elements. They are generally the shrewdest, cunningest, cleverest, laziest people you can find. Studying, and understanding to a charm, the most assailable points of human nature, they obtain from their applicants, by circuitous questioning, the precise nature of their expectations; then dexterously "crossing the scent," with an entirely different subject, astonish them at last by expounding their very thoughts. Nor are the old-established mysteries, the appliances and incantations omitted, although they necessarily must be of a simple and curious nature; the great oracle, the cards, is brought into requisition on all occasions, varied by a mystic examination of tea-grounds, melted lead, and indeed, sometimes in imitation of the ancient soothsayer, facilis descensus, by the sacrifice of some poor old cat.

Bridget Fallow, or Biddy na Dhioul, as she was most commonly designated, was an extraordinary specimen of the genus. Many a heart-breaking was averted through her agency, and numberless the strange doings ascribed to her powers of witchcraft. The love-stricken "from all parts of the country round," a comprehensive Irish phrase, signifying a circuit of some twelve or fourteen miles, consulted ould Biddy, daily. Immense was her mystic reputation, and very many the "fippenny bits," the smallest piece of coin that could be obtained to "cross her hand," did she sweep into her greasy pocket, from the credulous of either sex.

It would be difficult to describe accurately the temple of this particular dispenser of fortune. Bent nearly double, partly from age, and partly to give greater effect to her divinations (for the older a witch appears, the more credit is given to her skill), she sat, or rather crouched in a small, dimly-lighted room, surrounded by some dozen cats, of all ages and complexions, from playful kittendom to grave and reverend cat-hood; black, white, pie-ball'd, skew-ball'd, foxy, tortoise-shell, and tab. Now, those companions of Biddy's were held in especial horror by her visitors, who firmly believed them to be familiar demons, attendant on her will. But never were animals so libelled, for they were in truth, as frolicsome and mundane specimens of the feline, as ever ran after a ball of worsted. Biddy was fond of her cats, and though naturalists doubt the sincerity of cat-love, they certainly appeared to be greatly attached to her; night and day did those three generations of puss gambol about her; perhaps, indicating their preference for still life, they looked upon Biddy, as, in rigid mobility, she sat motionless and silent, inly enjoying their pranks, as merely a portion of the furniture, and so had as much right to jump on her shoulder, and hunt each other's tail, over and about her as upon anything else in the room. Certain it is they did not respect her a whit more than an old table, and Biddy, delighted with such familiarity, put no restraint on their impertinence. A dingy curtain, reaching half-way across the room, concealed a large, rudely-finished mirror-frame, which Biddy found extremely useful on several occasions. There were none of the awe-compelling accessories of the magic art, no alligator stuffed, no hissing cauldron, no expensive globes; nothing, save an old black-letter folio, Biddy's universal book of reference, and a terribly dirty pack of cards, the marks nearly effaced from constant use, being the second, which, in a long life of fortune-telling, she had ever consulted. Adapting her mode of operations to the wish of her applicant, Biddy had various ways of penetrating the clouds of futurity, enumerating them to the curious visitor as follows: "Wirra, thin, it's welcome that yez are to ould Biddy na Dhioul; may you niver know sickness, sorrow, poverty, or disthress. It's myself that can tell yer fortune, whativer it is. I can tell it be the stars, or the cards, be the tay-grounds, coffee-grounds, meltid lead, or baccy-ashes; be signs, an' moles, an' dhrames; be the witch's glass, or be yer own good-lookin' hand."

The great secret of Biddy's success was, that all her auguries presaged some amount of good, and it was observed that the larger the piece of silver with which her hand was crossed, the more extensive was the fortune predicted. A "fippenny-bit," might produce a "smart boy for a husband," but "half a crown" would insure a "jaunting car," or, hint obliquely at "the young masther," give mysterious foreshadowings of "silken gounds," and an "iligant family of childher." A cute old soul was Biddy, and extensive the knowledge experience had given her of the pregnable points of general character. Why should we not give her a call?

I'll just tell you a few secrets, known only to two or three individuals besides myself, and as some of them will be very likely to need Biddy's assistance, we shall unceremoniously accompany them on their visit.

It is Sunday; mass is just over; the sober gravity of the morning (for no people are more earnest in the performance of their religious duties during the time so allotted, than are the Irish peasantry), is beginning to change to a general aspect of enjoyment. The girls in their neat, clean dresses, are tripping along homeward; and many a bonnet and shawl, or calico dress, is descanted upon, praised or censured according to the opinion of the speaker, for the universal duty of the feminine chapel or church-goer, is to criticise at intervals the dresses of her neighbors.

"Athin, Mary," says one, "did you ever see such a pattern of a gound as Miss Machree had on her back this blessed day; if it hadn't as many colors in it as would make nigh hand half a dozen rainbows, I hope I may turn into a nagur. I declare to my goodness, I wouldn't give my ould washed-out gound for two of the likes of it."

Wouldn't she?

"True for you, Nell," replies another, "an' did you remark purty Norah, as the boys call her? Purty, indeed! it wouldn't take blind Barty, the piper, a month of Sundays to see all the purty there is about her. I wouldn't be seen with such a nose on my face; an' she comin' over us wid the pride of a sthraw bonnet, this beautiful summer's day; the hood of an ould grey cloak was good enough for the mother before her, to wear. It isn't disgracin' my mother's memory I'd be, by puttin' sthraw bonnets on my head."

"Well, it is a shame; do you know what I've heerd?"

"What?"

"Why, neither more nor less than that purty Miss Norah is setting her sthraw bonnet at Pat Kinchela."

"No!"

"It's the heaven's truth; didn't I see her to day, lookin' at him dhreadful? I wouldn't look at a man the way she did, no, not if he was made of goold."

"Whist! Nelly; look yondher! if there isn't Pat, see and that consated minx walkin' arm-in-arm; bless your sowl, there's quality manners for ye. I wonder, for my part, the road doesn't open and swally such impidence right up; now just obsarve them, sthruttin' along as if everybody else was the dirt undher their feet. Well, if that isn't owdaciousness, I wish somebody would tell me what is."

But, inasmuch as our story has more to do with Pat and Norah than with those chattering specimens of a rather numerous class, we'll attend to them, and let the others go about their business – of detraction.

Pat has just hazarded an important question, as would appear from the sudden and more brilliant flush that spread over pretty Norah's cheek, than from any significancy in her reply, which was simply:

"You're mighty impident to-day, Mr. Kinchela."

"Athin, Norieen, jewel," answered Pat, "if it comes to the rights of the thing, how the divil can I help it? Sure an' haven't you kept me danglin' afther you for nigh hand a twel'month, an' it's neither yis nor no, that I can squeeze out of your purty little mouth."

"Ah, indeed!" said Norah, with the shadow of a pout that might have been simulated, "then I suppose you'd be satisfied whichever it was."

"Faix, yis would be satisfactory enough," replied Pat, who did his wooing in rather a careless manner, philosophically.

"And if it happened to be no?"

"Why, thin, I suppose I'd have to put up wid that for the want of a betther."

"An' try your luck somewhere else, may-be?" continued Norah, with a dash of lemon.

"An' why not?" answered Pat, with apparent carelessness. "If you couldn't ketch a throut in one place, you wouldn't come back wid an empty basket, would you? unless, may-be, you had no particular appetite for fish."

"Then, sir, you have my permission to bait your hook as soon as you like, for I have no idea of nibblin'," said Norah, letting go Pat's arm, and walking very fast – not so fast, though, but that our cavalier friend could keep up with her, flinging in occasional morsels of aggravation.

"Now, don't be foolish, Norah; you're only tellin' on yourself. The boys will see that we've had a tiff, and the girls will be sure to say you're jealous."

"Jealous, indeed! I must love you first, Mr. Impidence."

"So you do."

"I ain't such a fool, sir."

"Yes, you are, ma'am; an' what's more nor that, you can't help it, ma'am."

"Can't I?"

"Not a bit of it. You've caught the sickness, an' it's the goolden ring that'll cure you, an' nothin' besides."

"It isn't you that'll be docthor, anyway."

"The divil a one else."

"High hangin' to all liars."

"I'd say that, too, only I wouldn't like to lose you, Norah, afther all. Come now, darlin'," he went on, varying his tactics, "don't let us quarrel on this blessed day; let us make it up acush; take a howld of my arm, this right arm, that would work itself up to the elbow to do you any sarvice, or smash into small pitatys the blaggard that offered you the ghost of an offince."

This blarney-flavored speech had some effect upon Norah, yet she concealed it like – a woman, sinking it down into her heart, and calling up a vast amount of anger to overwhelm it. Is it at all astonishing that the latter flew away in words, while the former nestled there for ever? Poor, foolish little Norah, her real feeling concealed by the cloud of temper she had raised, thought at that moment there was not a more unlovable being in existence than Pat, and what's more, she said so.

"Mr. Kinchela," said she, in her iciest manner, "I'm obleeged to you for your company, such as it is, but here is Cousin Pether, an' you needn't throuble yerself, or be wearin out shoe-leather any more comin' afther me."

"Norah!" said Pat, suddenly stricken into gravity, "are you in airnest?"

"I wish you the best of good mornin's, sir;" and taking Cousin Peter's arm, with a provoking smile on her lip, and triumph in her eye, off went Norah, leaving Pat gazing after her, looking rather the reverse of wise – once only did she turn as she passed the corner of the street, but that simple circumstance rekindled hope within Pat's soul.

As he was thus standing, utterly unconscious of the observation he attracted, he was suddenly accosted by his best friend, Jim Dermot.

"Why, tear an' nounthers," said Jim, "is it ketchin' flies, or fairy-sthruck, or dead all out you are, Pat, avic? why, you look the picther of misfortune, hung in a black frame."

"Hollo, Jim, is that you?" cried Pat, waking out of his reverie, "wasn't that too bad intirely?"

"So it was – what was it?" replied Jim.

"Why, to lave me stuck here like a post, and to go off wid that omadhaun Pether."

"Well, it was quare, sure enough," replied Jim, without the slightest idea what Pat was driving at, yet hoping to arrive at it better from an apparent knowledge than by downright questioning. "To run off," he continued, "an' wid Pether, of all fellows in the world;" adding to himself, "I wondher who the divil Pether is, and where he's run to?"

"I didn't think she could sarve me so," said Pat.

"Oh! it's a she that's in it, is it?" thought Jim, saying, with a sage shake of the head, "I nivir would have b'lieved it of her myself; but wimin is conthrary divils, an' that's the truth. When did she go, Pat?"

"Why, now, this very minute."

"You don't say? well, an' what do you mane to do?"

"Do? why, nothing; what would you do?"

"Well, I believe I'd do that same, Pat, an' nothin' else."

"It isn't very likely that I'll let her know how much her conduct has hurt me."

"It might make her consated."

"She's a shameless jilt."

"That she is, as sure as her name is – what it is," said Jim, hoping Pat would fill up the pause.

"What would you advise me to do, Jim?" inquired Pat.

"Well, I don't know," replied the other, "it's a mighty delicate point to give a man advice upon; but if you'd be ruled by me you'd go an' ax ould Biddy na Dhioul."

"By gorra, but you're right there," said Pat, "I wondher I didn't think of that afore."

"It isn't too late."

"True for you; an' it's there I'll go this blessed minute. I'd rather know my fate at onst, than be kep' like a mouse in a thrap, wondhering whether the cat'll play wid me, or ate me in the mornin'."

"So, it is thrapped you are, Pat, is it? arrah, how did you manage that?"

"Faix, an' I walked into it wid my eyes open, like any other omadhoun of a mouse."

"Bedad, it takes a sinsible mouse to walk away from the smell of cheese, anyway, Pat."

"That's a fact, Jim, but I must be off to ould Biddy's: I'll get my mind aised one way or the other, wid a blessin' afore I sleep."

"Good luck attend you," said Jim, sorely mortified that with all his cunning, he couldn't get at the rights of the matter.

Pat made the best of his way to Biddy's cabin, truly in a miserable state of mind: this, the first obstacle to his love, had so increased its strength and intensity. After he had knocked once or twice the door opened, and he found Biddy in her usual position, surrounded by her usual play-mates.

"God save you, Biddy," said he, taking a seat, and brushing the perspiration from his brow, "you're a knowledgeable woman, an' can tell me what I want to know."

"In coorse, I can, Mr. Pat Kinchela, whativer it is; not that I pretind to tell anything but what the iligant stars prognostify," replied Biddy, gravely referring to her miraculous volume, not that she had the slightest occasion to employ her shrewd plan of pumping this time; she knew all about it.

"The saints be good to us, Pat, darlin'," she suddenly exclaimed, "but here's a bitther disappointment for some one."

"Not for me, Biddy; don't say for me," cried Pat, "here, take this, an' this, pouring out all the copper, very thinly intersected with silver, which he had about him, into her apron; now, give us a good fortune if you can; long life to you."

"I didn't say it was for you, did I? just howld your whist, an' let the stars work without bein' hindhered, for they're mighty fractious now and thin," said Biddy, mumbling some unintelligible expressions and slily counting the while the extent of Pat's donation. The result was satisfactory.

"Pat, jewel," she said, "howld up your head, for there's money bid for you – you'll be a thremendious rich man yet."

"Oh! I don't care for that," he interrupted, "tell me of" —

"Norah Malone," quietly interrupted Biddy.

Pat was wonder-stricken, he gasped for breath.

"It's thrue, then, that you do know everything, Biddy."

"A'most everything," replied the old crone.

"Then, it's no use in my telling you," continued Pat, "how every life-dhrop of my heart was devoted to that same girl, how every wakin' thought, an' every sleepin' dhrame was filled up with her; now I've lost her, and the sunshine of my life is gone with her for ever."

"I know it all."

"But what – what am I to do? tell me, or I shall go mad."

"Thry your luck somewhere else."

"Pshaw! I might as well thry to stop the tide with a pitchfork."

"You do really love her, then?"

"Love her! Why do you ask? Do you doubt it?"

"I do."

"That shows how much you know, and now I doubt your power to tell any one's thoughts, since you can't tell mine."

"Oh, yes, but I can, if you want me to prove it, I'll tell you who you're thinking of at this moment."

"Do, and I'll believe anything."

"Cousin Pether!"

Pat fairly started from his seat; large drops suddenly gathered on his brow; he was frightened.

Biddy, seeing her advantage, went on: "You're a purty fellow, to call my power in question. I've a great mind to make you feel it in airnest. Will I go on or not?"

"Go on; anything," said Pat; "I'll say no more."

Biddy then shuffled the dirty pack of cards, cut and set them out in her lap, saying, as she proceeded: "Bad – nothing but bad luck. There, that queen of clubs is your sweetheart, and that knave of hearts must be Cousin Pether; he's rather carroty-headed."

Pat groaned.

"Here's a wedding," Biddy went on, "and lots of money, to who? Let me see: if it isn't to that knave of hearts again."

"Curse the knave of hearts," cried Pat, starting up, "I have had enough of this. I do believe you've been playin' wid me all this time. Good-bye" —

"Stay one minute; you think I've been playing with you, eh?" said the old witch, rising, and speaking in a mysteriously solemn tone of voice, "Young man, have you strength of mind enough to look upon the magic glass, and have your eyes convinced?"

"What mean you?" exclaimed Pat.

"To show you what you least wish to see – Norah and her cousin in each other's arms."

"Impossible; you're juggling with me now; you cannot show me that."

"Look!" screamed old Biddy, tearing back the dingy curtain – and there, sure enough, within the frame of the mirror, locked in each other's embrace, were Norah and Peter.

The suddenness of the disclosure, combined with the terror of the moment, acting upon a frame rendered weak from apprehension, made the blood rush into the brain of the unfortunate lover, and without uttering a sound, he fell heavily to the floor in a faint.

It was some time before he was restored to consciousness, when the first form that fell upon his sight was that of the detested Peter. He shut his eyes in the misery of unavailing rage, but opened them again in astonishment, as a well-known voice whispered in his ear:

"Dear Pat, it's your own Norah that's beside you."

Pat's delight was perfectly indescribable, and I shrink from the responsibility of attempting it; suffice it to say, for the elucidation of our mystery, that Norah and Peter were beforehand with him at old Biddy's, when, seeing him approach, they hid themselves behind the curtain. Norah had such a convincing proof of Pat's truthful love, that she never quarrelled with him again – at least before they were married: of their further proceedings I frankly confess my ignorance.

THE FAIRY CIRCLE

 
"Don't be conthrairy
With an Irish fairy,
Or, I declare, he
Won't regard you much;
But be complaisant,
When that he's adjacent,
And he'll use you dacent,
If you merit such."
 

"Corney; avic?"

"Ma'm to you."

"What the mischief are you thinking so thremendious hard about?"

"Me thoughts is me own, anyway, Missis O'Carrol."

"Unless, may-be, you borrowed them from some one else; an' that's most likely, Mr. O'Carrol; for the niver an original idaya did I obsarve iminatin' from your own sinsabilities, sence here I've been."

"Exceptin' once."

"An' whin was that, may I ax?"

"Whin I tuk it into me foolish head to marry you."

"An' have you the owdashious vanity to suppose that nobody thought that before you?"

"Not to me knowledge, Mrs. O'C."

"The saints be good to us! There's a dale of ignorance in the world; but come now, tell me, what is it that makes you lave off your work, evry now an' thin, lookin', for all the world, as cute as a concaited gandher."

"Why, thin, Moll machree, I'll tell you; but you must promise not to make fun o' me, for it's your good that's iver foremost in me heart."

"The blessin's on your lovin' sowl! I know it is."

"Well, then, Moll, come an' sit near me, an' lave off polishin' up that owld copper kittle; for I want to spake mighty sarious to you. Haven't you noticed that big, slated house that's just builded up, fornenst our very nose?"

"Of coorse I have."

"Yes, but do you know who's livin' in it? Who, but young Phil Blake, that was as poor as a thranieen, an' as ragged as a mountain goat, in his ivry-day clothes, not more nor six months ago?"

"You don't say!"

"It's the mortial truth; didn't I see him awhile ago, struttin' up an' down the place, as proud as any other paycock, wid a blew coat on his back, covered over wid brass buttons, a'most as big as fryin' pans, enough to dazzle the eyes out of a Christian's head; an' he ordherin' the min about, as importint as you plaze. Phil Blake, of all fellows in the worrild, that niver had the ghost of a fippenny-bit to bless himself wid, to see him now, crammin' his fists into his breeches pockets, an jinkin' the goold an' the silver about, in the most aggravatin' way."

"But where did he get it all?"

"That's the chat – where? Guess, won't you?"

"I don't know, may-be some rich ould lady fell in love wid him."

"Is it wid Phil? Small chance of that, I'm thinkin'. Guess agin."

"May-be he had a lawshuit!"

"Be my sowkins, you're further in the mud than iver, Moll-shee. Lawshuits isn't the stuff goold mines is made of; if so, it's only the lawyers that's licensed to dig. I'll tell you. Last night, meself an' a few boys was takin' a jug of punch, at the "Cross Kays," whin one of them up and towld us all about it. Moll, as thrue as you're here, it was neither more nor less than a fairy-gift."

"No!"

"Gospel! He cotch one of the little schamers (saving their prisince, for I suppose there's a lot of thim listenin', if we knew where they were perched), an' so, he wouldn't let him go until he gave him hapes of money. Why, they say Phil's as rich as an archbishop!"

"But, Corney, darlin', don't you know that fairy money niver thrives? let us wish Blake good luck, and think no more about it."

"Pooh! Nonsense! He has luck enough; we had better wish ourselves a slice. Money's money, Moll; a fairy groat would pay for a pot of porther just as aisily as Father Fogarty's. It isn't that I'm over covetious, but I can't help envyin' Phil."

"An' you see what harm even the first beginnin' of such a feelin' does. All this blessed day, you've hardly done a stitch of work; instead of makin' the lapstone echo with the sound of your merry voice, you've been lookin' as disthracted as a sthray pig; why, you haven't even kissed the babby sence dinner. Go to work, Corney, while I get a cup of tay ready. Thank God, we've never wanted for a male's vittles yet, and have always a plinty in the house, agin we do."

"Yes, I know that; but haven't I to work for it, day afther day! No rest; nothing but slave, slave, slave, from year's end to year's end, while gintlefolks, like Phil, bad 'cess to him, can sthroll up an' down the sunny-side of the street, smoke as many pipes of tibbacky as they plaze; have roast beef ev'ry Sunday, an' wear top-boots. Murdher alive! It's a great thing to be one of the quality."

"Well, the mischief has got into you, I b'lieve. Corney, you niver tuk such a fit as this, afore."

"Niver mind, Moll, I know what I know; luck's like a fox; you have to hunt it hard before you ketch it; the divil a toe will it come to you. There's plinty of fairies about, an' who knows but there may be as lucky chaps as Phil Blake in the worrild."

At the conclusion of the above conversation, Corney silently resumed his work, endeavoring to add another piece to a wonderfully patched brogue, while Mary busied herself at the little bright turf-fire, boiling the water for tea– a few scanty grains of some apochryphal herb, representing that indispensable delicacy. She holds a rasher of exceedingly fat bacon on the end of a fork, which screws and twists itself about like some living thing enduring fierce agony, while a sleepy-looking puss, with her tail twisted comfortably around her paws like a muff, sits intently watching the operation, evidently wondering in her own mind what it can possibly be that spits so cat-like and so spitefully into the fire. The walls of the little room are comfortably whitewashed; only one broken pane of glass in the window, and that neatly mended with a piece of old newspaper; the dresser is as white as soap and sand applied by tidy hands can make it, while the few household utensils that adorn it, shine to the utmost extent of their capability. It's hardly necessary to say, that a good, cleanly, homely and sensible wife, was Mary O'Carrol; and our friend Corney was an ungrateful rascal to be dissatisfied with his condition. The mistake he made was this (and it is by no means confined to Corney), he contrasted his situation in life with the few who were better off than himself, instead of the many who were infinitely worse.

And now, dear, domestic, tidy Mary spreads her little cloth, coarse 'tis true, but scrupulously clean and ironed, every fold showing like a printed line; she opens a little cupboard and produces an enormous home-baked loaf, so close and dense that a dyspeptic individual would feel an oppression by merely looking at it, but which our toil-hungered friends can dispose of by the pound, without the assistance of tonics; then, the small, black teapot, having stood the conventional time, is carefully wiped, and placed on the table, and the whole frugal but comfortable meal arrayed with that appetizing neatness without which it becomes a mere matter of feeding and not of enjoyment.

"Now, Corney, dear," said Mary, "tay's ready."

"Faix, an' there's a pair of us," replied Corney, "I'm just about as hungry as a dragin."

And no gourmet, even after he had lashed his appetite with stimulants, which would otherwise have sneaked away from the laborious work it had to undergo, ever sat down with so keen a palate, or rose from table with so capital a sense of satisfaction as did Corney on this particular occasion.

"Well, Molly machree," he cried, "I don't know that I iver had a greater thrate nor that same rasher; if the fat of it wasn't, for all the worrild, like double-distilled marra, may I niver use another tooth; an' that tay! Gogs bleakey, Moll, if you haven't a recait for squeezin' the parliaminthary flaviour out of the herrib! regard the color of it!"

"An' afther three wathers," replied Mary, with pardonable vanity.

"Thrue for you, darlin'; why, the bread seems lighter, an' the butther sweeter, an' the crame thicker. I'll be judged by the cat – look at the baste; if she hasn't been thryin' to lick the last dhrop off of her hushkers, for as good as a quarther of an hour, an' it's stickin' there still, as tight as a carbuncle to a Christian's nose; an' may-be I ain't goin' to enjoy this," he continued, as drawing his chair close to the fire, out came his use-blackened pipe. He took just as much time in preparation, cutting his tobacco and rolling it about in his hand, as Mary did to clear away the tea-things, in order that nothing should interfere with that great source of comfort – his smoke. Having placed a small piece of lighted turf on top of his pipe he threw himself back in his chair. With eyes half closed, and an expression of the most profound gratification creeping over his features, he sent forth several voluminous whiffs – what he called "saysonin' his mouth;" but very soon, as though the sensation was too delicious to be hurried over, he subsided into a slow, dignified, and lazy smoke, saying, between puffs:

"Blessin's on the fellow that first invented 'baccy; it's mate an' dhrink to the poor man; I'd be on me oath, if I wouldn't rather lose me dinner nor me pipe, any day in the week."

"Where did 'baccy come from, Corney?" inquired Mary.

"Why, from 'Meriky; where else?" he replied, "that sint us the first pitaty. Long life to it, for both, say I!"

"What sort of a place is that, I wonder?"

"'Meriky, is it? They tell me it's mighty sizable, Moll, darlin'. I'm towld that you might rowl England through it, an' it would hardly make a dent in the ground; there's fresh water oceans inside of it that you might dround Ireland in, and save Father Matthew a wonderful sight of throuble; an' as for Scotchland, you might stick it in a corner of one of their forests, an' you'd niver be able to find it out, except, may-be, it might be by the smell of the whisky. If I had only a thrifle of money, I'd go an' seek me fortune there."

"Arrah, thin, what for Corney?"

"Oh! I don't know; I'm not aisy in me mind. If we were only as rich now as Phil Blake, how happy we might be!"

There was the cloud that shut out content from Corney's heart – far-sighted envy, that looks with longing eyes on distant objects, regardless of the comfort near. Most stupid envy, which relinquishes the good within its grasp to reach at something better unattainable, and only becomes conscious of its folly when time has swept away the substance and the shadow.

"It was the fairies that gave it to him," resumed Corney, as though communing with himself, while poor Mary, with a fond wife's prescience, mourned, as she foresaw that the indulgence of this new feeling would, most probably, change her hitherto industrious mate into an idle visionary.