. . .
Forgive! forget! lest harsher lips should say,
Like your turf fire, your rancour smoulders long,
And let Oblivion strew Time's ashes o'er your wrong.'
Alfred Austin.
At tea-time, and again after our simple dinner--for Bridget
Thunder's repertory is not large, and Benella's is quite unsuited to
the Knockcool markets--we wend our way to a certain house that
stands by itself on the road to Lisdara. It is only a whitewashed
cabin with green window trimmings, but it is a larger and more
comfortable one than we commonly see, and it is the perfection of
neatness within and without. The stone wall that encloses it is
whitewashed too, and the iron picket railing at the top is painted
bright green; the stones on the posts are green also, and there is
the prettiest possible garden, with nicely cut borders of box. In
fine, if ever there was a cheery place to look at, Sarsfield Cottage
is that one; and if ever there was a cheerless gentleman, it is Mr.
Jordan, who dwells there. Mrs. Wogan Odevaine commended him to us
as the man of all others with whom to discuss Irish questions, if we
wanted, for once in a way, to hear a thoroughly disaffected,
outraged, wrong-headed, and rancorous view of things.
"He is an encyclopaedia, and he is perfectly delightful on any topic
in the universe but the wrongs of Ireland," said she; "not entirely
sane and yet a good father, and a good neighbour, and a good talker.
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