it I’ve between my fingers—­look at it—­’how wet it is wid the poor craythur’s tears; but there’s no blood here—­no, no—­nothing but tears.  Oh, here—­see here—­a page as big as the rest, bat wid nothing on it.  Ay, I know that—­that’s an empty farm that nobody dare take, or woe be to them.  But here—­I seen him “—­here he shuddered strongly—­“I seen him!  His father and mother were both standing undher him—­that was the worst of all.  It’s in this page.  He was only one-and-twenty, and the eyes he had; but how did it happen, that although they hanged him, every one loved him?  I seen his father and the poor mother looking up to the gallows where he stood, and then she fainted, and she then got sick, and poor ould Brian has nobody now but himself; and all that’s on this page.”  Here poor Raymond shed tears, so completely was he overpowered by the force of his own imaginings.  He again proceeded—­“And the poor white-headed son.  What wouldn’t the poor mother give to have his white head to look at? but he will never waken—­he will never waken more.  What’s the name o’ this book?” he inquired of Mr. Lucre.

“My excellent and most intelligent friend,” replied that gentleman, in atone of meekness and humility that would have shamed an apostle; “my most interesting friend, the name of that book in the Bible.”

“The Bible! oh yes; but am I doin’ it right?” he inquired; “am I puttin’ the explanation to it as I ought?  Sure they all oxplain it, and it’s only fair that Raymond should show his larnin’ as well as any of them.  Let us see, then—­murdher and bloodshed, hangin’ and starvin’, huntin’, purshuin, whippin’, cowld and nakedness, hunger and sickness, death and then madness, and then death agin, and then damnation!  Did I explain it?”

“Perfectly, my friend—­nothing can do better.”

“Well, then, think of it; but these aren’t my explanations—­but I know who puts them to that bad book!  Don’t they take all I said out of it?  They do; and, sure, don’t you see the poor people’s blood, and tears, and everything upon it; sure all I said is in it.  Here,” he exclaimed, shuddering, “take it away, or may be it’ll make me as wicked as the rest of you.  But, after all, maybe it’s not the fault of the book, but of the people.”  It would indeed be difficult to find a more frightful comment upon the crimes and atrocities which have been perpetrated in this divided country, in the name, and under the character of religion, than that which issued, with a kind of methodical incoherency, from the lips of Raymond-na-hattha.  When he had concluded, Mr. Lucre, having first wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead, politely asked him if there was anything he could do for him.

“Oh, ay,” said he; “but first bring me a lump of good mate, and a quart of portlier.”

“You shall have it, my excellent friend.  John, ring the bell.  You are a very interesting person, Mr.—­Mr.—­

“Raymond-na-hattha, sir.”