“Well, well, Finigan, as regards this letter, I must say I feel a good deal disappointed.”

“Why so, Mr. Hycy?”

“Why, because I did not think there was any other man in the country who could have written it.”

“Eh? how is that now?”

“Faith, it’s very simple; the letter is written with surprising ability—­the language is beautiful—­and the style, like the land of Canaan, flowing with milk and honey.  It is certainly a most uncommon production.”

“Now, seriously, do you think so?  At all events, Mr. Hycy, it was written by a friend of yours—­that’s a clear case.”

“I think so; but what strikes me is its surprising ability; no wonder the writer should say that he is not unknown to fame—­he could not possibly remain in obscurity.”

“Mr. Hycy, your health—­I remember when you were wid me you certainly were facile princeps for a ripe judgment, even in your rudiments; so then, you are of opinion that the epistle in question has janius?  I think myself it is no everyday production; not I believe such as the thistle-browser Heffernan, or Misther Demosthenes M’Gosther could achieve—­the one wid his mile and a half, and the other wid his three townlands of reputation.  No, sir, to the divil I pitch them both; they could never indite such a document.  Your health, Mr. Hycy—­propino tibi, I say; and you are right, ille ego—­it’s a a fact; I am the man, sir—­I acknowledge the charge.”

This admission having been made, we need scarcely add that an explanation was at at once given by Finigan of the motive which had induced him to write the letter.

“On laving the kemp,” said he, “and getting into the open air—­sub diu, Mr. Hycy—­I felt a general liquidation of my whole bodily strength, with a strong disposition to make short excursions to the right or to the left rather than hold my way straight a-head, with, I must confess, an equal tendency to deposit my body on my mother earth and enact the soporiferous.  On passing Gerald Cavanagh’s kiln, where the Hogans kennel, I entered, and was greeted wid such a chorus of sternutation as you might expect from a pigsty in midsummer, and made me envy the unlicked young savages who indulged in it.  At the period spoken of neither you nor they had come in from the kemp.  Even this is but a dim recollection, and I remember nothing more until I overheard your voice and theirs in dialogue as you were about to depart.  After you went, I heard the dialogue which I hinted at in the letter, between Teddy Phats and them; and knowing my position and the misbegotten satyrs by whom I was surrounded, I patiently waited until they were asleep, when I quietly took my departure.”

Burke could not help inferring from Finigan’s manner, that he had overheard a greater portion of their conversation on the occasion alluded to than he seemed disposed to acknowledge.

“Now, Finigan,” he said, “I feel disposed to place every confidence in you.  Will you answer candidly the question I am about to propose to you?  Did you hear Bryan M’Mahon’s name mentioned?”