it is the way of women always to side
with the second-born. There's what's her name in the Bible, by whose
wiles the old blind man was induced to give to his second son the
blessing which was the birthright of the other. I wish I had been in his
place! I should not have been so easily deceived! no disguise would ever
have caused me to mistake an impostor for my first-born. Though I must
say for this boy that he is nothing like Jacob; he is neither smooth nor
sleek, and, though my second-born, is already taller and larger than his
brother.'

'Just so,' said my mother; 'his brother would make a far better Jacob
than he.'

'I will hear nothing against my first-born,' said my father, 'even in the
way of insinuation: he is my joy and pride; the very image of myself in
my youthful days, long before I fought Big Ben; though perhaps not quite
so tall or strong built. As for the other, God bless the child! I love
him, I'm sure; but I must be blind not to see the difference between him
and his brother. Why, he has neither my hair nor my eyes; and then his
countenance! why, 'tis absolutely swarthy, God forgive me! I had almost
said like that of a gypsy, but I have nothing to say against that; the
boy is not to be blamed for the colour of his face, nor for his hair and
eyes; but, then, his ways and manners!--I confess I do not like them, and
that they give me no little uneasiness--I know that he kept very strange
company when he was in Ireland; people of evil report, of whom terrible
things were said--horse-witches and the like. I questioned him once or
twice upon the matter, and even threatened him, but it was of no use; he
put on a look as if he did not understand me, a regular Irish look, just
such a one as those rascals assume when they wish to appear all innocence
and simplicity, and they full of malice and deceit all the time. I don't
like them; they are no friends to old England, or its old king, God bless
him! They are not good subjects, and never were; always in league with
foreign enemies. When I was in the Coldstream, long before the
Revolution, I used to hear enough about the Irish brigades kept by the
French kings, to be a thorn in the side of the English whenever
opportunity served. Old Sergeant Meredith once told me that in the time
of the Pretender there were always, in London alone, a dozen of fellows
connected with these brigades, with the view of seducing the king's
soldiers from their allegiance, an