dicated in ould Ireland, to say that the Irish owes anything good
to the plundering villains--the Siol Loughlin.'

'They owe them half their traditions, Murtagh, and amongst others
Finn-ma-Coul and the burnt finger; and if ever I publish the Loughlin
songs, I'll tell the world so.'

'But, Shorsha, the world will never believe ye--to say nothing of the
Irish part of it.'

'Then the world, Murtagh--to say nothing of the Irish part of it--will be
a fool, even as I have often thought it; the grand thing, Murtagh, is to
be able to believe one's self, and respect one's self. How few whom the
world believes believe and respect themselves.'

'Och, Shorsha! shall I go on with the tale of Finn?'

'I'd rather you should not, Murtagh; I know about it already.'

'Then why did you bother me to tell it at first, Shorsha? Och, it was
doing my ownself good, and making me forget my own sorrowful state, when
ye interrupted me with your thaives of Danes! Och, Shorsha! let me tell
you how Finn, by means of sucking his thumb, and the witchcraft he
imbibed from it, contrived to pull off the arm of the ould wagabone,
Darmod David Odeen, whilst shaking hands with him--for Finn could do no
feat of strength without sucking his thumb, Shorsha, as Conan the Bald
told the son of Oisin in the song which I used to sing ye in the
Dungarvon times of old;' and here Murtagh repeated certain Irish words to
the following effect:

'"O little the foolish words I heed,
O Oisin's son, from thy lips which come;
No strength were in Finn for valorous deed,
Unless to the gristle he sucked his thumb."'

'Enough is as good as a feast, Murtagh; I am no longer in the cue for
Finn. I would rather hear your own history. Now, tell us, man, all that
has happened to ye since Dungarvon times of old?'

'Och, Shorsha, it would be merely bringing all my sorrows back upon me!'

'Well, if I know all your sorrows, perhaps I shall be able to find a help
for them. I owe you much, Murtagh; you taught me Irish, and I will do
all I can to help you.'

'Why, then, Shorsha, I'll tell ye my history. Here goes!'

CHAPTER XLV

MURTAGH'S TALE

'Well, Shorsha, about a year and a half after you left us--and a
sorrowful hour for us it was when ye left us, losing, as we did, your
funny stories of your snake--and the battles of your military--they sent
me to Paris and Salamanca, in order to make a saggart of me.'

'Pray excuse me,' said I, 'for int