It is surprising how closely the low rustic extortioner and the city usurer upon a larger scale resemble each other in the expression of their sentiments, in their habits of business, their plausibility, natural tact, and especially, in that hardness of heart and utter want of all human pity and sympathy, upon which the success of their black arts of usury and extortion essentially depends.  With extortion in all its forms Skinadre, for instance, was familiar.  From those who were poor but honest, he got a bill such as he exacted from Hacket, because he knew that, cost what it might to them, he was safe in their integrity.  If dishonest, he still got a bill and relied upon the law and its cruel list of harassing and fraudulent expenses for security.  From others he got property of all descriptions; from some, butter, yarn, a piece of frieze, a pig, a cow, or a heifer.  In fact, nothing that possessed value came wrong to him, so that it is impossible to describe adequately the web of mischief which this blood-sucking old spider contrived to spread around him, especially for those whom he knew to be too poor to avail themselves of a remedy against his villany.

“Molly Cassidy, how are you?” he said, addressing a poor looking woman who carried a parcel of some description rolled up under her cloak; “how are all the family, achora?”

“Glory be to God for it, they can scarcely be worse;” replied the woman, in that spirit of simple piety and veneration for the Deity, which in all their misery characterizes the Irish people; “but sure we’re only sufferin’ like others, an’ indeed not so bad as many; there’s Mick Kelly has lost his fine boy Lanty; and his other son, young Mick, isn’t expected to live, an’ all wid this sickness, that was brought on them, as it is everywhere, wid bad feedin’.”

“They’re miserable times, Molly, at least I find them so; for I dunna how it happens, but every one’s disappointment falls upon me, till they have me a’most out of house an’ home—­throth it ’ud be no wondher I’d get hard-hearted some day wid the way I’m thrated an’ robbed by every one; aye, indeed, bekase I’m good-natured, they play upon me.”

The poor creature gave a faint smile, for she knew the man’s character thoroughly.

“I have a dish of butther here, Darby,” she said, “an’ I want meal instead of it.”

“Butther, Molly; why thin, Molly, sure it isn’t to me you’re bringing butther—­me that has so much of it lyin’ on my hands here already.  Sure, any way, it’s down to dirt since the wars is over—­butther is; if it was anything else but butther, Molly:  but—­it’s of no use; I’ve too much of it.”

“The sorra other thing I have, thin, Mr. Skinadre; but sure you had betther look at it, an’ you’ll find it’s what butther ought to be, firm, claine, and sweet.”

“I can’t take it, achora; there’s no market for it now.”

“Here, as we’re distressed, take it for sixpence a pound, and that’s the lowest price—­God knows, if we wern’t as we are, it isn’t for that you’d get it.”