Manifold are the ruinous phantasies which lead unhappy mortals to pandemonium. This one has a fancy for the turf, another patronizes the last imported _choryphée_. 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--'" "_Temps militaire--they won't fail you, my old girl._"