After he had left him, the old fellow gave a bitter and derisive look after him.
"There you go," said he, "and well I knew you, although you didn't think so.

Weren't you pointed out to me the night o' the divil's bonfire, that your mother, they say, got up for you; and didn't I see you since spakin' to that skamin' blaggard, Caterine Collins, my niece, that takes many a penny out o' my hands; and didn't I know that you couldn't be talkin' to her about anything that was good.

Troth, you're not your mother's son or you'll be comin' to me as well as her.

Bad luck to her! she was near gettin' me into the stocks when I sowld her the dose of oak bark for the sarvants, to draw in their stomachs and shorten their feedin'.

My faith, ould Lindsay 'ud have put me in them only for bringin' shame upon his wife."* * Some of our readers may imagine that in the enumeration of the cures which old Sol professed to effect we have drawn too largely upon their credulity, whereas there is scarcely one of them that, is not practised, or attempted, in remote and uneducated parts of Ireland, almost down to the present day.