Mr. O'Shea lay in his bed at the Bagni di Lucca. It was late in the afternoon, and he had not yet risen, being one of those who deem, to travesty the poet,—

In other words, he was ineffably bored and wearied, sick of the place, the people, and himself, and only wearing over the time as one might do the stated term of an imprisonment His agent—Mr. Mahony, the celebrated Mr. Miles Mahony, who was agent for all the Irish gentlemen of Mr. O'Shea's politics, and who has either estates very much encumbered, or no estates at all—had written him that letter, which might be stereotyped in every agent's office, and sent off indiscriminately by post, at due intervals, to any of the clients, for there was the same bead-roll of mishaps and calamities Ireland has been suffering under for centuries. Take any traveller or guide-book experience of the land, and it is a record of rain that never ceased. The Deluge was a passing April shower compared to the national climate. Ask any proprietor, however, more especially if a farmer, and he would tell you, “We're ruined, entirely ruined, with the drought,”—perhaps he 'd have called it “druth.” “If the rain doesn't fall before twenty-four hours, there will be no potatoes, no grass, no straw, the wheat won't fill, the cattle will be destroyed,” and so on; just as if the whole population was not soaked through like a wet sponge, and the earth a sludge of mud and swamp, to which Holland seems a sand-bank in comparison! Then came the runaway tenants, only varied by those who couldn't be induced to “run” on any terms. There was the usual “agrarian outrage,” with the increased police force quartered on the barony in consequence, and perhaps a threat of a special commission, with more expense besides. There was the extract of the judge's charge, saying that he never remembered so “heavy a calendar,” the whole winding up with an urgent appeal to send over ten or twenty pounds to repair the chapel or the priest's house, or contribute to some local object, “at your indifference to which there is very great discontent at this moment.”

A pleasant postcript also mentioned that a dissolution of Parliament was daily expected, and that it would be well you 'd “come home and look after the borough, where the Tories were working night and day to increase their influence.”

“Bad luck to them for Tories!” muttered he, as he threw the crumpled document from him. “I 'd have been well off to-day if it was n't for them. There's no telling the money the contested elections cost me, while, to make out that I was a patriot, I could n't take a place, but had to go on voting and voting out of the purity of my motives. It was an evil hour when I took to politics at all. Joe! Joe!” cried he, aloud, following up the appeal with a shrill whistle.

“Tear and ages, sure the house isn't on fire!” said a man, rushing into the room with an air and manner that little indicated the respect due from a servant to his master; “not to say,” added he, “that it's not dacent or becomin' to whistle after me, as if I was a tarrier or a bull-dog.”

“Hold your prate, will you?” said Mr. O'Shea.

“Why would I? 'Tis humiliated I am before all in the place.”

“Will you hold your prate?” muttered his master, in a deeper tone, while, stretching forth his hand, he seemed in search of any missile to hurl at his mutinous follower.

“If I do, then, it's undher protest, mind that I put it on record that I 'm only yieldin' to the 'vis magiory.'”

“What o'clock is it?” yawned out O'Shea.

“It wants a trifle of four o'clock.”

“And the day,—what's it like?”

“Blazin' hot—hotter than yesterday—'hotter than New Orleens,' Mr. Quackinbosh says.”

“D—n Mr. Quackinbosh, and New Orleens too!” growled out O'Shea.

“With all my heart. He's always laughing at what he calls my Irish, as if it was n't better than his English.”

“Any strangers arrived?”

“Devil a one. Ould Pagnini says he 'll be ruined entirely; there never was such a set, he says, in the house before,—nothing called for but the reg'lar meals, and no wine but the drink of the country, that is n't wine at all.”

“He's an insolent scoundrel!”

“He is not. He is the dacentest man I seen since I come to Italy.”

“Will you hold your prate, or do you want me to kick you downstairs?”

“I do not!” said he, with a stern doggedness that was almost comic.

“Did you order breakfast?”

“I did, when I heard you screech out. 'There he is,' said ould Pan; 'I wish he 'd be in the same hurry to call for his bill.'”

“Insolent rascal! Did you blacken his eye?”

“I did not”

“What did you do, then?”

“I did nothing.”

“What did you say? You're ready enough with a bad tongue when it's not called for,—what did you say?”

“I said people called for their bills when they were lavin' a house, and too lucky you 'll be, says I, if he pays it when he calls for it.”

This seemed too much for Mr. O'Shea's endurance, for he sprang out of bed and hurled a heavy old olive-wood inkstand at his follower. Joe, apparently habituated to such projectiles, speedily ducked his head, and the missile struck the frame of an old looking-glass, and carried away a much-ornamented but very frail chandelier at its side.

“There's more of it,” said Joe. “Damage to furniture in settin'-room, forty-six pauls and a half.” With this sage reflection, he pushed the fragments aside with his foot, and then, turning to the door, he took from the hands of a waiter the tray containing his master's breakfast, arranging it deliberately before him with the most unbroken tranquillity of demeanor.

“Did n't you say it was chocolate I'd have instead of coffee?” said O'Shea, angrily.

“I did not; they grumble enough about sending up anything, and I was n't goin' to provoke them,” said Joe, calmly.

“No letters, I suppose, but this?”

“Sorra one.”

“What's going on below?” asked he, in a more lively tone, as though dismissing an unpleasant theme. “Any one come,—anything doing?”

“Nothing; they 're all off to that villa to spend the day, and not to be back till late at night.”

“Stupid fun, after all; the road is roasting, and the place, when you get there, not worth the trouble; but they 're so proud of visiting a baronet, that's the whole secret of it, those vulgar Morgans and that Yankee fellow.”

These mutterings he continued while he went on dressing, and though not intended to be addressed to Joe, he was in no wise disconcerted when that free-and-easy individual replied to them.

“'Your master 's not coming with us, I believe,' said Mrs. Morgan to me. 'I'm sure, however, there must have been a mistake. It 's so strange that he got no invitation.'

“'But he did, ma'am,' says I; 'he got a card like the rest.'”

“Well done, Joe; a lie never choked you. Go on,” cried O'Shea, laughing.

“'But you see, ma'am,' says I, 'my master never goes anywhere in that kind of promiscuous way. He expects to be called on and trated with “differince,” as becomes a member of Parliament—'

“'For Ireland?' says she.

“'Yes, ma'am,' says I. 'We haven't as many goats there as in other parts I 'm tould of, nor the females don't ride straddle legs, with men's hats on thim.'”

“You didn't say that?” burst in O'Shea, with a mock severity.

“I did, and more,—a great deal more. What business was it of hers that you were not asked to the picnic? What had she to say to it? Why did she follow me down the street the other morning, and stay watching all the time I was in at the banker's, and though, when I came out, I made believe I was stuffin' the bank-notes into my pocket, I saw by the impudent laugh on her face that she knew I got nothing?”

“By the way, you never told me what Twist and Trover said.”

“I did.”

“Well, what was it? Tell it again,” said O'Shea, angrily.

“Mr. Trover said, 'Of course, whatever your master wants, just step in there and show it to Mr. Twist;' and Mr. Twist said, 'Are you here again,' says he, 'after the warnin' I gave you? Go back and tell your master 't is takin' up his two last bills he ought to be, instead of passin' more.'

“' Mr. Trover, sir,' says I, 'sent me in.'

“'Well, Mr. Twist sent you out again,' says he, 'and there's your answer.'

“'Short and sweet,' says I, goin' out, and pretending to be putting up the notes as I went.”

“Did you go down to the other fellow's,—Macapes?”

“I did; but as he seen me coming out of the other place, he only ballyragged me, and said, 'We only discount for them as has letters of credit on us.'

“'Well,' says I, 'but who knows that they 're not coming in the post now?'

“'We 'll wait till we see them,' says he.

“'By my conscience,' says I, 'I hope you 'll not eat your breakfast till they come.' And so I walked away. Oh dear! is n't it a suspicious world?”

“It's a rascally world!” broke out O'Shea, with bitterness.

“It is!” assented Joe, with a positive energy there was no gainsaying.

“Is Mr. Layton gone with the rest this morning?”

“He is, and the Marquis. They 're a-horseback on two ponies not worth fifty shilling apiece.”

“And that counter-jumper, Mosely, I'll wager he too thinks himself first favorite for the heiress.”

“Well, then, in the name of all that's lucky, why don't you thry your own chance?” said Joe, coaxingly.

“Is n't it because I did try that they have left me out of this invitation? Is n't it because they saw I was like to be the winning horse that they scratched me out of the race? Is n't it just because Gorman O'Shea was the man to carry off the prize that they would n't let me enter the lists?”

“There 's only two more as rich as her in all England,” chimed in Joe, “and one of them will never marry any but the Emperor of Roosia.”

“She has money enough!” muttered O'Shea. “And neither father nor mother, brother, sister, kith or kin,” continued Joe, in a tone of exultation that seemed to say he knew of no such good luck in life as to stand alone and friendless in the world.

“Those Heathcotes are related to her.”

“No more than they are to you. I have it all from Miss Smithers, the maid. 'We 're as free as air, Mr. Rouse,' says she; 'wherever we have a “conceit,” we can follow it' That's plain talking, anyhow.”

“Would you marry Smithers, Joe?” said his master, with a roguish twinkle in his eye.

“Maybe, if I knew for what; though, by my conscience, she's no beauty!”

“I meant, of course, for a good consideration.”

“Not on a bill, though,—money down,—hard money.”

“And how much of it?” asked O'Shea, with a knowing look.

“The price of that place at Einsale.”

“The 'Trout and Triangle,' Joe?” laughed out his master. “Are you still yearning after being an innkeeper in your native town?”

“I am just that,” replied Joe, solemnly. “'T is what I 'd rather be than Lord Mayor of Dublin!”

“Well, it is an honorable ambition, no doubt of it. Nothing can be more reasonable, besides, than a man's desire to fill that station in life which, to his boyish ideas, seemed high and enviable.” This speech Mr. O'Shea delivered in a tone by which he occasionally turned to rehearse oratorical effects, and which, by some strange sympathy, always appeared to please his follower. “Yes, Joe,” continued he, “as the poet says, 'The child is father of the man.'”

“You mane the man is father of the child,” broke in Joe.

“I do not, booby; I meant what I have said, and what Wordsworth said before me.”

“The more fool he, then. It's nobody's father he 'd be. Arrah! that's the way you always spoil a fine sintiment with something out of a poet. Poets and play-actors never helped a man out of a ditch!”

“Will you marry this Smithers, if that be her name?” said O'Shea, angrily.

“For the place—”

“I mean as much.”

“I would, if I was treated—'raysonable,'” said he, pausing for a moment in search of the precise word he wanted.

Mr. O'Shea sighed heavily; his exchequer contained nothing but promises; and none knew better than his follower what such pledges were worth.

“It would be the making of you, Joe,” said he, after a brief silence, “if I was to marry this heiress.”

“Indeed, it might be,” responded the other.

“It would be the grand event of your life, that's what it would be. What could I not do for you? You might be land-steward; you might be under-agent, bailiff, driver,—eh?”

“Yes,” said Joe, closing his eyes, as if he desired to relish the vision undisturbed by external distractions.

“I have always treated you as a sort of friend, Joe,—you know that.”

“I do, sir. I do, indeed.”

“And I mean to prove myself your friend too. It is not the man who has stuck faithfully by me that I 'd desert. Where's my dressing-gown?”

“She was torn under the arm, and I gave her to be mended; put this round you,” said he, draping a much-befrogged pelisse over his master's shoulders.

“These are not my slippers, you stupid ass!”

“They are the ould ones. Don't you remember shying one of the others, yesterday, at the organ-boy, and it fell in the river and was lost?”

Mr. O'Shea's brow darkened as he sat down to his meal. “Tell Pan,” said he, “to send me up some broth and a chop about seven. I must keep the house to-day, and be indisposed. And do you go over to Lucca, and raise me a few Naps on my 'rose-amethyst' ring. Three will do; five would be better, though.”

Joe sighed. It was a mission he had so often been charged with and never came well out of, since his master would invariably insist on hearing every step of the negotiation, and as unfailingly revenged upon his envoy all the impertinences to which the treaty gave rise.

“Don't come back with any insolent balderdash about the stone being false, or having a flaw in it. Holditch values it at two hundred and thirty pounds; and, if it wasn't a family ring, I'd have taken the money. And, mind you, don't be talking about whose it is,—it 's a gentleman waiting for his letters—”

“Sure I know,” burst in Joe; “his remittances, that ought to be here every day.”

“Just so; and that merely requires a few Naps—”

“To pay his cigars—”

“There's no need of more explanation. Away with you; and tell Bruno I 'll want a saddle-horse to-morrow, to be here at the door by two o'clock.”

Joe took his departure, and Mr. O'Shea was left to his own meditations.

It may seem a small cause for depression of spirits, but, in truth, it was always a day of deep humiliation to Mr. O'Shea when his necessities compelled him to separate himself from that cherished relic, his great-grandmother's ring. It had been reserved in his family, as a sort of charm, for generations; his grand-uncle Luke had married on the strength of it; his own father had flashed it in the eyes of Bath and Cheltenham, for many a winter, with great success; and he himself had so significantly pointed out incorrect items in his hotel bills, with the forefinger that bore it, that landlords had never pressed for payment, but gone away heart-full of the man who owned such splendor.

It would be a curious subject to inquire how many men have owed their distinction or success in life to some small adjunct, some adventitious appendage of this kind; a horse, a picture, a rare bronze, a statue, a curious manuscript, a fragment of old armor, have made their owners famous, when they have had the craft to merge their identity in the more absorbing interest of the wondrous treasure. And thus the man that owns the winner of the Derby, a great cup carved by Cellini, or a chef-d'oeuvre of Claude or Turner, may repose upon the fame of his possession, identified as he is with so much greatness. Oh! ye possessors of show places, handsome wives, rare gardens, or costly gems, in what borrowed bravery do ye meet the world! Not that in this happy category Mr. O'Shea had his niche; no, he was only the owner of a ring—a rose-amethyst ring—whose purity was perhaps not more above suspicion than his own. And yet it had done him marvellous service on more than one occasion. It had astonished the bathers at St. Leonard, and dazzled the dinner company at Tunbridge Wells; Harrogate had winked under it, and Malvern gazed at it with awe; and society, so to say, was divided into those who knew the man from the ring, and those who knew the ring from the man.