The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 32, February 6, 1841

In that fertile district of the county Wexford, the barony of Forth, distinguished for its comfortable cottages and general good husbandry, lived Dennis Costigan, a rich farmer. His farm was large, well stocked, and in high condition; his dwelling-house was furnished as a farmer’s house should be, and it was as cleanly and neat as it was commodious. His wife was tidy, notable, and good-tempered, and his three children were such as would please a father—well-formed in person and virtuous in mind. Then, should not our friend Dennis Costigan have been a happy man? He would have been so perhaps —for there is ever to be a stumbling block in our road to happiness— but that the first object that glared upon his eyes in each morning’s sun was the white low cottage of his next neighbour Miles Kavanagh. Yet that cottage was not an ugly feature in the landscape. It was small and low, but as white as the whitest lime could make it; it was neatly thatched too, and its small casements were never broken or patched. A few honeysuckles and roses crept up its walls, and it was surrounded by a hedge of hazels and sallows, that lent it an air of comfort and seclusion. Its owner, at least, thought it a pretty spot, and that he was a happy man indeed to possess it and its two or three adjoining acres; and as he trimmed his hedges, and looked pleasantly on all around—the fruits of his industry and labour—he little thought that any one could look upon his cot and farm with other eyes than those of admiration; and least of all that he, or aught of his, was the source of care or annoyance to his wealthier neighbour. And why did wealthy Dennis Costigan glance lowringly on this humble tenement? Was it that, like his betters, he thought a poor man’s dwelling always an unsightly object? and that, like many a grasping spirit, all land convenient to his own was misappropriated if not in his possession? It was not so. Dennis Costigan envied no man his possessions. He was a right specimen of a farmer, independent, upright, honest, and industrious, contented with what providence had given him, and willing to help a neighbour with purse and hand if required. And if he did grumble a little, and turn away his eyes quickly as if in pain, from the cottage we have mentioned, many another father with hopeful sons would do the same, for it contained a gem that would grace the proudest castle in Ireland—beautiful, charming, innocent Kate Kavanagh, but who had no fortune.