Mick laid a couple of newspapers, and as many letters, on the
table--but before we proceed to open either, we will favor the reader
with another peep into our family history.

Manifold are the ruinous phantasies which lead unhappy mortals to
pandemonium. This one has a fancy for the turf, another patronizes the
last imported _choryphée_. The turf is generally a settler--the stage
is also a safe road to a safe settlement, and between a race-horse and
a _danseuse_, we would not give a sixpence for choice. Now, as far as
horse-flesh went, my grandfather was innocent; a _pirouette_ or _pas
seul_, barring an Irish jig, he never witnessed in his life--but he
had discovered as good a method for settling a private gentleman. He
had an inveterate fancy for electioneering. The man who would reform
state abuses, deserves well of his country; there is a great deal of
patriotism in Ireland; in fact, it is, like linen, a staple article
generally, but still the best pay-master is safe to win; and hence, my
poor grandfather generally lost the race.

My father looked very suspiciously at the letters--one had his own
armorial bearings displayed in red wax--and the formal direction was
at a glance detected to be that of his aunt Catharine--Catharine's
missives were never agreeable--she had a rent charge on the property
for a couple of thousands; and, like Moses and Son, her system was
"quick returns," and the interest was consequently expected to the
day. For a few seconds my father hesitated, but he manfully broke the
seal--muttering, audibly, "What can the old rattle-trap write about?
Her interest-money is not due for another fortnight." He threw his
eyes hastily over the contents--his color heightened--and my aunt
Catharine's epistle was flung, and most unceremoniously, upon the
ground--the hope that accompanied the act, being the reverse of a