There sat Mr.Macartney in his rocking-chair.

He was just lighting a short pipe, but he paused in the operation to acknowledge what he evidently believed to be my look of admiration with a nod and a wink.

I read on.) Times were cruel bad out there for a poor boy that lived by his industry, but thank GOD he'd been spared the worst pangs of starvation (I glanced round the pop-shop, but, as Micky himself would have said, No matther!); and didn't it lighten his heart to hear of his dear mother sitting content and comfortable at her own coffee-stall.

It was murderously hot in these parts, and New York--bad luck to it--was a mighty different place from the dear old Ballywhack where he was born.
Would they ever see old Ireland again?
(Here a big blot betrayed how much Mr.Macartney had been moved by his own eloquence.) The rest of the letter was rich with phrases both of piety and affection.

How much of the whole composition was conscious humbug, and whether any of it was genuine feeling, I have as little idea now as I had then.