"That's all very true, sir," replied Darby; "but would ye like to be burnt after the breath was out o' ye?"
"I could have neither liking nor disliking," answered I; "for I should be an insensible mass of matter."
"But mightn't yir ghost, sir, like to see ye were comfortably provided for? I mane yir honor's dead body that's alive an' in good health now, an' long may it continue so!"
"Oh! never mind," said I; "neither you nor I, Darby, know much about those things; so go on with your story."
"Thank ye, sir!" said Darby, and resumed. "I was sayin', sir, as how we went to wet our clay together at the 'Three Jolly Pigeons.' Yir honor knows the 'Three Jolly Pigeons,' facing the ould hawthorn o' Goldsmith, in the village of Auburn hard by here, eh? Sure, an' I've heer'd as much as how they want to take the merits of the whole place to themselves over in England somewhere, as if it couldn't spake plainly for itself that it was bred and born here in ould Ireland ages ago! Isn't the 'Desarted Village' a butiful histhory, masther? Lame Kelly, the poet, says, it bates the world for makin' the heart soft. It's myself that never passes the spot without a tear in my eye, like a widow's pig, as the sayin' is. There's the ruins of the dacent church on the hill all in butiful repair to this hour, and the parson's house, and the schoolmaster Tom Allen's, and the common, and the pond, width the geese upon it still, as if it was only yistherday, an' the ould hawthorn—bad look to their taste that built a stone wall round about it like a jail! What did the blessed tree ever do that it should be put in pound in that manner o' way?"
Gentle shade of Goldsmith! amongst the many tributes to thy immortal genius, receive kindly the simple but honest homage of poor Darby. He may not be able to appreciate thee in all thy varied splendour of moral and intellectual worth; but he has a heart full of benevolence like thine own, and, although a poor Irish serf, has feeling and fancy enough to reverence the spots thou hast consecrated by the thousand-spelled wand of thy muse!
"Darby," said I, "I promised you something on your return (though you did not come back as soon as I expected); there's a guinea for you."
"Augh, thin, may the light of Heaven break yir last sleep!" said Darby; "but isn't it too much, masther?"
"You are welcome to it," said I; "go on with your story."