Moran listening for a time in bewildered silence. After a while Moran
protested again with:

"Is it possible that none of yez can know me? Don't yez see it's
myself; and that's some one else?"

"Before I can proceed any further in this lovely story," interrupted
the pretender, "I call on yez to contribute your charitable donations
to help me to go on."

"Have you no sowl to be saved, you mocker of heaven?" cried Moran, Put
completely beside himself by this last injury--"Would you rob the poor
as well as desave the world? O, was ever such wickedness known?"

"I leave it to yourselves, my friends," said the pretender, "to give
to the real dark man, that you all know so well, and save me from that
schemer," and with that he collected some pennies and half-pence. While
he was doing so, Moran started his Mary of Egypt, but the indignant
crowd seizing his stick were about to belabour him, when they fell back
bewildered anew by his close resemblance to himself. The pretender now
called to them to "just give him a grip of that villain, and he'd soon
let him know who the imposhterer was!" They led him over to Moran, but
instead of closing with him he thrust a few shillings into his hand,
and turning to the crowd explained to them he was indeed but an actor,
and that he had just gained a wager, and so departed amid much
enthusiasm, to eat the supper he had won.

In April 1846 word was sent to the priest that Michael Moran was
dying. He found him at 15 (now 14 1/2) Patrick Street, on a straw bed,
in
a room full of ragged ballad-singers come to cheer his last moments.
After his death the ballad-singers, with many fiddles and the like,
came again and gave him a fine wake, each adding to the merriment
whatever he knew in the way of rann, tale, old saw, or quaint rhyme. He
had had his day, had said his prayers and made his confession, and why
should they not give him a hearty send-off? The funeral took place the
next day. A good party of his admirers and friends got into the hearse
with the coffin, for the day was wet and nasty. They had not gone far
when one of them burst out with "It's cruel cowld, isn't it?" "Garra',"
replied another, "we'll all be as stiff as the corpse when we get to
the berrin-ground." "Bad cess to him," said a third; "I wish he'd held
out another month until the weather got dacent." A man called Carroll
thereupon produced a half-pint of whiskey, and they all drank to the
soul of the departed. Unhappily, h