Manifold are the ruinous phantasies which lead unhappy mortals to pandemonium.  This one has a fancy for the turf, another patronizes the last imported choryphee.  The turf is generally a settler—­the stage is also a safe road to a safe settlement, and between a race-horse and a danseuse, we would not give a sixpence for choice.  Now, as far as horse-flesh went, my grandfather was innocent; a pirouette or pas seul, barring an Irish jig, he never witnessed in his life—­but he had discovered as good a method for settling a private gentleman.  He had an inveterate fancy for electioneering.  The man who would reform state abuses, deserves well of his country; there is a great deal of patriotism in Ireland; in fact, it is, like linen, a staple article generally, but still the best pay-master is safe to win; and hence, my poor grandfather generally lost the race.

My father looked very suspiciously at the letters—­one had his own armorial bearings displayed in red wax—­and the formal direction was at a glance detected to be that of his aunt Catharine—­Catharine’s missives were never agreeable—­she had a rent charge on the property for a couple of thousands; and, like Moses and Son, her system was “quick returns,” and the interest was consequently expected to the day.  For a few seconds my father hesitated, but he manfully broke the seal—­muttering, audibly, “What can the old rattle-trap write about?  Her interest-money is not due for another fortnight.”  He threw his eyes hastily over the contents—­his color heightened—­and my aunt Catharine’s epistle was flung, and most unceremoniously, upon the ground—­the hope that accompanied the act, being the reverse of a benediction.

“Is there anything wrong, dear James?” inquired my mother, in her usual quiet and timid tone.

“Wrong!” thundered my father; “Frank will read this spiritual production to you.  Every line breathes a deep anxiety on old Kitty’s part for my soul’s welfare, earthly considerations being non-important.  Read, Frank, and if you will not devoutly wish that the doting fool was at the dev—­”

“Stop, my dear James.”

“Well-read, Frank, and say, when you hear the contents, whether you would be particularly sorry to learn that the old lady had, as sailors say, her hands well greased, and a fast hold upon the moon?  Read, d——­n it, man! there’s no trouble in deciphering my aunt Catharine’s penmanship.  Hers is not what Tony Lumpkin complained of—­a cursed cramp hand; all clear and unmistakable—­the t’s accurately stroked across, and the i’s dotted to a nicety.  Go on—­read, man, read.”

I obeyed the order, and thus ran the missive, my honored father adding a running commentary at every important passage; shall place them in italics—­

“‘MY DEAR NEPHEW,’”

“Oh, ——­ her affection!”

“’If, by a merciful dispensation, I shall be permitted to have a few spiritual minded friends to-morrow, at four o’clock, at dinner—­’”