"Is it possible that none of yez can know me? Don't yez see it's
myself; and that's some one else?"

"Before I can proceed any further in this lovely story," interrupted
the pretender, "I call on yez to contribute your charitable donations
to help me to go on."

"Have you no sowl to be saved, you mocker of heaven?" cried Moran, Put
completely beside himself by this last injury--"Would you rob the poor
as well as desave the world? O, was ever such wickedness known?"

"I leave it to yourselves, my friends," said the pretender, "to give
to the real dark man, that you all know so well, and save me from that
schemer," and with that he collected some pennies and half-pence. While
he was doing so, Moran started his Mary of Egypt, but the indignant
crowd seizing his stick were about to belabour him, when they fell back
bewildered anew by his close resemblance to himself. The pretender now
called to them to "just give him a grip of that villain, and he'd soon
let him know who the imposhterer was!" They led him over to Moran, but
instead of closing with him he thrust a few shillings into his hand,
and turning to the crowd explained to them he was indeed but an actor,
and that he had just gained a wager, and so departed amid much
enthusiasm, to eat the supper he had won.

In April 1846 word was sent to the priest that Michael Moran was
dying. He found him at 15 (now 14 1/2) Patrick Street, on a straw bed,
in
a room full of ragged ballad-singers come to cheer his last moments.
After his death the ballad-singers, with many fiddles and the like,