and hollow, and his long narrow temples sallow and emaciated. Now, this man did not lead an unhappy life, nor did the malady he laboured under seem to be productive of either pain or terror to him, although one might be apt to imagine otherwise. On the contrary, he and the fairies maintained the most friendly intimacy, and their dialogues--which I fear were woefully one-sided ones--must have been a source of great pleasure to him, for they were conducted with much mirth and laughter, on his part at least. “Well, Frank, when did you see the fairies?” “Whist! there’s two dozen of them in the shop (the weaving shop) this minute. There’s a little ould fellow sittin’ on the top of the sleys, an’ all to be rocked while I’m weavin’. The sorrow’s in them, but they’re the greatest little skamers alive, so they are. See, there’s another of them at my dressin’[1] noggin. Go out o’ that, you _shingawn_; or, bad cess to me if you don’t, but I’ll lave you a mark. Ha! out, you thief you!” “Frank, aren’t you afear’d o’ them?” “Is it me? Arra, what ’ud I be afear’d o’ them for? Sure they have no power over me.” “And why haven’t they, Frank?” “Becaise I was baptized against them.” “What do you mean by that?” “Why, the priest that christened me was tould by my father to put in the prayer against the fairies--an’ a priest can’t refuse it when he’s axed--an’ he did so. Begorra, it’s well for me that he did--(let the tallow alone, you little glutton--see, there’s a weeny thief o’ them aitin’ my tallow)--becaise, you see, it was their intention to make me king o’ the fairies.” “Is it possible?” “Devil a lie in it. Sure you may ax them, an’ they’ll tell you.” “What size are they, Frank?” “Oh, little wee fellows, with green coats an’ the purtiest little shoes ever you seen. There’s two o’ them--both ould acquaintances o’ mine--runnin’ along the yarn beam. That ould fellow with the bob wig is called Jim Jam, an’ the other chap with the three-cocked hat is called Nickey Nick. Nickey plays the pipes. Nickey, give us a tune, or I’ll malivogue you--come now, ‘Lough Erne Shore.’ Whist, now--listen!” The poor fellow, though weaving as fast as he could all the time, yet bestowed every possible mark of attention to the music, and seemed to enjoy it as much as if it had been real. But who can tell whether that which we look upon as a privation may not after all be a fountain of increased happiness, greater perhaps than any which we ourselves enjoy? I forget who the poet is who says, Mysterious are thy laws; The vision’s finer than the view; Her landscape Nature never drew So fair as fancy draws.