art's blood drop by drop, the
specific sum, uttering, at the same time, a most lugubrious history of
his own poverty, and assuring the poor wretch he is fleecing, that if he
(the miser) gives way to his good nature, he must ultimately become the
victim of his own benevolence. In no case, however, do they ever put
more in the purse or stocking than is just then wanted, and sometimes
they will be short a guinea or ten shillings, which they borrow from
a neighbor, or remit to the unfortunate dupe in the course of the day.
This they do in order to enhance the obligation, and give a distinct
proof of their poverty. Let not, therefore, the gentlemen of the
Minories, nor our P------s and our M------s nearer home, imagine for
a moment that they engross the spirit of rapacity and extortion to
themselves. To the credit of the class, however, to which they belong,
such persons are not so numerous as formerly, and to the still greater
honor of the peasantry be it said, the devil himself is not hated with
half the detestation which is borne them. In order that the reader may
understand our motive for introducing such a description as that we have
now given, it will be necessary for us to request him to accompany a
stout, well-set young man, named Bartle Flanagan, along a green ditch,
which, planted with osiers, leads to a small meadow belonging to
Fardorougha Donovan. In this meadow, his son Connor is now making hay,
and on seeing Flanagan approach, he rests upon the top of his rake, and
exclaims in a soliloquy:--

"God help you and yours, Bartle! If it was in my power, I take God
to witness, I'd make up wid a willin' heart for all the hardship and
misfortune my father brought upon you all."

He then resumed his labor, in order that the meeting between him and
Bartle might take place with less embarrassment, for he saw at once that
the former was about to speak to him.

"Isn't the weather too hot, Connor, to work bareheaded? I think you
ought to keep on your hat."

"Bartle, how are you?--off or on, it's the same thing; hat or no hat,
it's broilin' weather, the Lord be praised! What news, Bartle?"

"Not much, Connor, but what you know--a family that was strugglin', but
honest, brought to dissolation. We're broken up; my father and mother's
both livin' in a cabin they tuck from Billy Nuthy; Mary and Alick's gone
to sarvice, and myself's just on my way to hire wid the last man I ought
to go to--your father, that is, supposin' we c