MR. O'Shea's man was not one to put his light under a bushel; so, when he received at the post-office a very portentous-looking letter, heavily sealed, and marked “On Her Majesty's Service,” he duly stopped the two or three English loungers he saw about to show them the document, on pretence of asking if any demand for postage could be made; if it had not been wrongfully detained; if they thought it had been opened and read; and so on,—all these inquiries having for their object to inform the general public that the Member for Inch was in close relation and correspondence with Downing Street.

In sooth, the letter had as significant an external as any gentleman in pursuit of a place might have desired. In color, texture, and fashion there was nothing wanting to its authenticity, and it might, without any disparagement to its outside, have named Mr. O'Shea a Governor of the Bahamas, or a Mahogany Commissioner at Ruatan. It was, in fact, a document that, left negligently in the way, might have made a dun appeasable, and a creditor patient. There were few men it might not in some degree have imposed on, but of that few the O'Shea himself was one. He knew well—too well—that it foretold neither place nor employment; that it was the shell of a very small kernel; nothing more, in short, than a note from an old friend and schoolfellow, then acting as the Private Secretary of a Cabinet Minister,—one who, indeed, kept his friend O'Shea fully informed as to everything that fell vacant, but, unhappily, accompanied the intelligence with a catalogue of the applicants, usually something like the list of the Smiths in a Directory.

So little impatient was O'Shea for the contents, that he had half eaten his breakfast and looked through “Punch” before he broke the seal. The enclosure was from the hand of his friend Tom Radwell, but whose peculiar drollery it was to correspond in the form of a mock despatch. The note, therefore, though merely containing gossip, was written with all attention to margin and calligraphy, and even in places affected the solemn style of the Office. It was headed “Secret and Confidential,” and opened thus:—

“Sir,—By your despatch of the 18th ult, containing four enclosures,—three protested bills, and your stepmother's I O for 18L. 5s.,—I am induced to believe that no material change has occurred in the situation of your affairs,—a circumstance the more to be deplored, inasmuch as her Majesty's Government cannot at this moment, with that due regard imposed on them for the public service, undertake either to reconsider your claims, or by an extraordinary exercise of the powers vested in them by the Act of Teddy the Tiler, chap. 4, secs. 9 and 10, appoint you in the way and manner you propose. So much, my dear Gorman, old Rivers declared to me this morning, confidentially adding, I wish that Irish party would understand that, when we could buy them altogether in a basket, as in O'Connell's day, the arrangement was satisfactory; but to have to purchase them separately—each potato by himself—is a terrible loss of time, and leads to no end of higgling. Why can't you agree amongst yourselves,—make your bargain, and then divide the spoils quietly? It is the way your forefathers understood the law of commonage, and nobody ever grumbled that his neighbor had a cow or a pig too many! The English of all this is, they don't want you just now, and they won't have you, for you 're an article that never kept well, and, even when bonded, your loss by leakage is considerable.

“Every Irishman I ever met makes the same mistake of offering himself for sale when the commodity is not wanted. If you see muffs and boas in Regent Street in July, ain't they always ticketed 'a great sacrifice'? Can't you read the lesson? But so it is with you. You fancy you 'll induce people to travel a bad road by putting up a turnpike.

“I 'm sorry to say all this to you, but I see plainly politics will not do any longer as a pursuit. It is not only that all appointments are so scrutinized nowadays, but that every man's name in a division is weighed and considered in a fashion that renders a mere majority of less moment than the fact of how it was composed. If I cannot manage something for you in the West Indies, you must try Cheltenham.

“Rivers has just sent for me.

“'What of your friend O'Shea? Did n't you tell me he was in the north of Italy?'

“'Yes,' said I; 'he's getting up the Italian question. He has accumulated a mass of facts which will astonish the House next session.'

“'Confound his facts!' muttered he. 'Here has been Lord Sommerville with me, about some young ward of his. I don't well understand what he wants, or what he wishes me to do; but the drift is, to find some one—a gentleman, of course—who would take charge of the boy for a short time; he is a marquis, with large expectations, and one day or other will be a man of mark.'

“I tried the dignity tone, but old Rivers interrupted me quickly,—

“'Yes, yes, of course. Mere companionship, nothing more. Sound O'Shea upon it, and let me hear.'

“Here, then, my dear Gorman, is the 'opening' you so long have looked for; and if you cannot turn such a position to good profit, who can? Nor are you the man I take you for, if you 're not married into the family before this day twelvemonth! There is no time to be lost, so telegraph back at once. A simple 'Yes' will do, if you accept, which I sincerely hope you will. All the minor arrangements you may safely trust to me.”

When Mr. O'Shea had read thus far, he arose, and, walking with head erect and well thrown-out chest towards the looking-glass, he desired to “take stock” of his appearance, and to all semblance was not displeased at the result. He was autumnalizing, it is true; tints were mellowing, colors more sombre; but, on the whole, there was nothing in the landscape, viewed at due distance and with suitable light, to indicate much ravage from Time. Your hard-featured men, like mountains in scenery, preserve the same appearance unchanged by years. It is your genial fellow, with mobile features, that suffers so terribly from age. The plough of Time leaves deep furrows in the arable soil of such faces. As in those frescos which depend altogether on color, the devastations of years are awfully felt; when black degenerates into gray, mellow browns grow a muddy yellow, and the bright touches that “accentuated” expression are little else than unmeaning blotches! If the Member for Inch had not travelled far upon the dreary road, I am bound in truth to own that he had begun the journey. A light, faint silvering showed on his whiskers, like the first touch of snow on an Alpine fern in October. The lines that indicated a ready aptitude for fun had deepened, and grown more marked at the angles at the mouth,—a sad sign of one whose wit was less genial and more biting than of yore. Then—worst of all—he had entered upon the pompous lustre wherein men feel an exaggerated self-importance, imagine that their opinions are formed, and their character matured. Nothing is so trying as that quarantine period, and both men and women make more egregious fools of themselves in it than in all the wild heydey of early youth. Mr. O'Shea, however, was an Irishman, and, in virtue of the fact, he had a light, jaunty, semi-careless way with him, which is a sort of electroplate youth, and looks like the real article, though it won't prove so lasting.

“I must have a look into the Peerage,” said he, as he turned to the bulky volume that records the alliances and the ages of the “upper ten thousand “:—

“'Lady Maria Augusta Sofronia Montserrat, born '—oh, by the powers, that won't do!—'born 1804.' Oh, come, after all, it's not so bad; 'died in '46.—Charlotte Rose Leopoldine, died in infancy.—Henrietta Louisa, born 1815; married in 1835 to Lord Julius de Raby; again married to Prince Beerstenshoften von Hahnsmarkt, and widowed same year, 1846.' I'll put a mark against her. And there's one more, 'Juliana de Vere, youngest daughter, born '26 '—that's the time of day!—born '26, and no more said. The paragraph has yet to be filled with, 'Married to the O'Shea, Member of Parliament for Inchabogue, High Sheriff of Tipperary, and head of the ancient copt known as O'Meadhlin Shamdoodhlin Naboklish O'Shea'—I wonder if they 'd put it in—'formerly Kings of Tulloch Reardhin and Bare-ma-bookle, and all the countries west of the Galtee Mountains.' If pedigree would do it, O'Shea may call himself first favorite! And now, Miss Leslie,” continued he, aloud, “you have no time to lose; make your bidding quickly, or the O'Shea will be knocked down to another purchaser. As Eugene Aram says, 'I 'm equal to either fortune.'”

“Well,” said Joe, entering the room, and approaching his master confidentially, “is it a place?”

“Nothing of the kind; a friendly letter from a member of the Cabinet,” replied he, carelessly.

“Devil take them! It isn't friendship we want; it's something to live on.”

“You are a low-minded, mercenary creature,” said O'Shea, oratorically. “Is our happiness in this life, our self-respect, our real worth, dependent upon the accident of our station, or upon the place we occupy in the affections of men,—what we possess of their sympathy and love? I look around me, and what do I see?”

“Sorra bit of me knows,” broke in Joe.

Unmindful of the interruption, O'Shea continued: “I see the high places occupied by the crafty, the subtle, and the scheming.”

“I wish we had one of them,” muttered Joe.

“I see that humble merit shivers at the door, while insolent pretension struts proudly in.”

“Ay, and more power to him, if he's able,” grumbled out the other.

“I see more,” said O'Shea, raising his voice, and extending his arm at full length,—“I see a whole nation,—eight millions of men,—great, glorious, and gifted,—men whose genius has shed a lustre over the dull swamp of their oppressors' nature, but who one day, rising from her ashes—”

“Ah! by my conscience, I knew it was comin'; and I said to myself, 'Here's the phaynix!'”

“Rising from her ashes like the Megatherion of Thebes. Where are you now, Master Joe?” said he, with an insolent triumph in his look.

“I 'd just as soon have the phaynix,” said Joe, doggedly. “Go on.”

“How can I go on? How could any man? Demosthenes himself would stand confused in presence of such vulgar interruptions. It is in such temperaments as yours men of genius meet their worst repulses. You are at once the ferÆ naturÆ of humanity, and the pestilential atmosphere that poisons—that poisons—”

“Oh! there you are 'pounded '! Poisons what?”

“Poisons the pellucid rills which should fertilize the soul of man! I'm never pounded. O'Connell himself had to confess that he never saw my equal in graceful imagery and figurative embellishment. 'Listening to O'Shea,' says he, 'is like watching a juggler with eight balls flying round and about him. You may think it impossible he 'll be in time, but never one of them will he fail to catch.' That's what I call oratory. Why is it, I ask, that, when I rise in the house, you 'd hear a pin drop?”

“Maybe they steal out on their tiptoes,” said Joe, innocently.

“No, sir, they stand hushed, eager, anxious, as were the Greeks of old to catch the words of Ulysses. I only wish you saw old P——— working away with his pencil while I 'm speaking.”

“Making a picture of you, maybe!”

“You are as insolent as you are ignorant,—one of those who, in the unregenerate brutality of their coarse nature, repel the attempts of all who would advocate the popular cause. I have said so over and over again. If you would constitute yourself the friend of the people, take care to know nothing of them; neither associate with them, nor mix in their society: as Tommy Moore said of Ireland, 'It's a beautiful country to live out of.'”

“And he was a patriot!” said Joe, contemptuously.

“There are no patriots among those who soar above the miserable limits of a nationality. Genius has no concern with geographies. To think for the million you must forget the man.”

“Say that again. I like the sound of that,” cried Joe, admiringly.

“If anything could illustrate the hopelessness of your class and condition in life,” continued O'Shea, “it is yourself. There you are, daily, hourly associating with one whose sentiments you hear, whose opinions you learn, whose judgments you record; one eagerly sought after in society, revered in private, honored in the Senate; and what have you derived from these unparalleled advantages? What can you say has been the benefit from these relations?”

“It's hard to say,” muttered Joe, “except, maybe, it's made me a philosopher.”

“A philosopher!—you a philosopher!”

“Ay; isn't it philosophy to live without wages, and work without pay? 'Tis from yourself I heerd that the finest thing of all is to despise money.”

“So it is,—so it would be, I mean, if society had not built up that flimsy card edifice it calls civilization. Put out my blue pelisse with the Astrachan collar, and my braided vest; I shall want to go over to the Villa this morning. But, first of all, take this to the telegraph-office: 'The O'Shea accepts.'”

“Tear and ages! what is it we've got?” asked Joe, eagerly.

“'The O'Shea accepts,'—four words if they charge for the 'O.' Let me know the cost at once.”

“But why don't you tell me where we're going? Is it Jamaica or Jerusalem?”

“Call your philosophy to your aid, and be anxious for nothing,” said O'Shea, pompously. “Away, lose no more time.”

If Joe had been the exponent of his feelings, as he left the room, he would probably have employed his favorite phrase, and confessed himself “humiliated.” He certainly did feel acutely the indignity that had been passed upon him. To live on a precarious diet and no pay was bad enough, but it was unendurable that his master should cease to consult with and confide in him. Amongst the shipwrecked sufferers on a raft, gradations of rank soon cease to be remembered, and of all equalizers there is none like misery! Now, Mr. O'Shea and his man Joe had, so to say, passed years of life upon a raft. They had been storm-tossed and cast away for many a day. Indeed, to push the analogy further, they had more than once drawn lots who should be first devoured; that is to say, they had tossed up whose watch was to go first to the pawnbroker. Now, was it fair or reasonable, if his master discovered a sail in the distance, or a headland on the horizon, that he should conceal the consoling fact, and leave his fellow-sufferer to mourn on in misery? Joe was deeply wounded; he was insulted and outraged.

From the pain of his personal wrongs he was suddenly aroused by the telegraph clerk's demand for thirty francs.

“Thirty francs for four words?”

“You might send twenty for the same sum,” was the bland reply.

“Faix, and so we will,” said Joe. “Give me a pen and a sheet of paper.”

His first inspirations were so full of vengeance that he actually meditated a distinct refusal of whatever it was had been offered to his master, and his only doubt was how to convey the insolent negative in its most outrageous form. His second and wiser thoughts suggested a little diplomacy; and though both the consideration and the mode of effectuating it cost no small labor, we shall spare the reader's patience, and give him the result arrived at after nearly an hour's exertion, the message transmitted by Joe running thus:—

“Send the fullest particulars about the pay and the name of the place we 're going to.

“O'Shea.”

“I don't think there will be many secrets after I see the answer to that; and see it I will, if I tear it open!” said Joe, sturdily, as he held his way back to the inn.

A rather warm discussion ensued on the subject of his long absence, O'Shea remarking that for all the use Joe proved himself he might as well be without a servant, and Joe rejoining that, for the matter of pay and treatment, he might be pretty nearly as well off if he had no master; these polite passages being interchanged while the O'Shea was busily performing with two hair-brushes, and Joe equally industriously lacing his master's waistcoat, with an artistic skill that the valet of a corpulent gentleman alone attains to, as Joe said a hundred times.

“I wonder why I endure you,” said O'Shea, as he jauntily settled his hat on one side of his head, and carefully arranged the hair on the other.

“And you 'll wondher more, when I 'm gone, why I did n't go before,” was Joe's surly rejoinder.

“How did you come by that striped cravat, sir?” asked O'Shea, angrily, as he caught sight of Joe in front.

“I took it out of the drawer.”

“It's mine, then!”

“It was wonst I did n't suppose you 'd wear it after what the widow woman said of you up at the Villa,—that Mrs. Morris. 'Here 's the O'Shea,' says she, 'masquerading as a zebra;' as much as to say it was another baste you was in reality.”

“She never dared to be so insolent”

“She did; I heard it myself.”

“I don't believe you; I never do believe one word you say.”

“That's exactly what I hear whenever I say you 're a man of fine fortune and good estate; they all cry out, 'What a lying rascal he is!'”

O'Shea made a spring towards the poker, and Joe as rapidly took up a position behind the dressing-glass.

“Hush!” cried O'Shea, “there's some one at the door.”

And a loud summons at the same time confirmed the words. With a ready instinct Joe speedily recovered himself, and hastened to open it.

“Is your master at home?” asked a voice.

“Oh, Heathcote, is it you?” exclaimed O'Shea; “Just step into the next room, and I 'll be with you in a second or two. Joe, show Captain Heathcote into the drawing-room.”

“I wondher what's the matter with him?” said Joe, confidentially, as he came back. “I never see any one look so low.”

“So much the better,” said O'Shea, merrily; “it's a sign he's coming to pay money. When a man is about to put you off with a promise, he lounges in with an easy, devil-may-care look that seems to say, 'It's all one, old fellow, whether you have an I O or the ready tin.'”

“There's a deal of truth in that,” said Joe, approvingly, and with a look that showed how pleasurable it was to him to hear such words of wisdom.