“Was it?  No; but ax yourself is it.  Isn’t the Almighty in his wrath, this moment proclaimin’ it through the heavens and the airth?  Look about you, and say what is it you see that does not foretel famine—­famine—­famine!  Doesn’t the dark wet day, an’ the rain, rain, rain, foretel it?  Doesn’t the rotten’ crops, the unhealthy air, an’ the green damp foretel it?  Doesn’t the sky without a sun, the heavy clouds, an’ the angry fire of the West, foretel it?  Isn’t the airth a page of prophecy, an’ the sky a page of prophecy, where every man may read of famine, pestilence, an’ death?  The airth is softened for the grave, an’ in the black clouds of heaven you may see the death-hearses movin’ slowly along—­funeral afther funeral—­funeral afther funeral—­an’ nothing to folly them but lamentation an’ wo, by the widow an’ orphan—­the fatherless, the motherless, an’ the childless—­wo an’ lamentation—­lamentation an’ wo.”

Donnel Dhu, like every prophecy man of his kind—­a character in Ireland, by the way, that has nearly, if not altogether, disappeared—­was provided with a set of prophetic declamations suited to particular occasions and circumstances, and these he recited in a voice of high and monotonous recitative, that caused them to fall with a very impressive effect upon the minds and feeling of his audience.  In addition to this, the very nature of his subject rendered a figurative style and suitable language necessary, a circumstance which, aided by a natural flow of words, and a felicitious illustration of imagery—­for which, indeed, all prophecy-men were remarkable—­had something peculiarly fascinating and persuasive to the class of persons he was in the habit of addressing.  The gifts of these men, besides, were exercised with such singular delight, that the constant repetition of their oracular exhibitions by degrees created an involuntary impression on themselves, that ultimately rose to a kind of wild and turbid enthusiasm, partaking at once of imposture and fanaticism.  Many of them were, therefore, nearly as much the dupes of the delusions that proceeded from their own heated imaginations as the ignorant people who looked upon them as oracles; for we know that nothing at all events so much generates imposture as credulity.

“Indeed, Donnel,” replied Sullivan, “what you say is unfortunately too thrue.  Everything we can look upon appears to have the mark of God’s displeasure on it; but if we have death and sickness now, what’ll become of us this time twelve months, when we’ll feel this failure most?”

“I have said it,” replied the prophet; “an’ if my tongue doesn’t tell truth, the tongue that never tells a lie will.”

“And what tongue is that?” asked his companion.

“The tongue of the death-bell will tell it day afther day to every parish in the land.  However, we know that death’s before us, an’ the grave, afther all, is our only consolation.”