After Edward and Dick had gone, Andy commenced operations, according to orders. He brought a large tub upstairs containing rough ice, which excited Andy's wonder, for he never had known till now that ice was preserved for and applied to such a use, for an ice-house did not happen to be attached to any establishment in which he had served.

'Well, this is the quarest thing I ever heerd of,' said Andy. 'Musha! what outlandish inventions the quolity has among them. They're not contint with wine, but they must have ice along with it, and in a tub, too!—just like pigs !—throth, it's a dirty thrick, I think. Well, here goes!' said he; and Andy opened a bottle of champagne, and poured it into the tub with the ice. 'How it fizzes!' said Andy. Faix, it's almost as lively as the soda-wather, that bothered me long ago. Well, I know more about things now-sure it's wondherful how a man improves with practice!'-and another bottle of champagne was emptied into the tub as he spoke. Thus, with several such complacent comments upon his own proficiency, Andy poured half-a-dozen of champagne into the tub of ice, and remarked, when he had finished his work, that he thought it would be 'mighty cowld on their stomachs.'

Dick and Edward all this time were on their way to the relief of Tom Durfy, who, though he had cooled down from the boiling pitch to which the misadventure of the morning had raised him, was still simmering, with his elbows planted on the rickety table in Mr. Goggins's 'bower,' and his chin resting on his clenched hands. It was the very state of mind in which Tom was most dangerous.

At the other side of the table sat James Reddy, intently employed in writing; his pursed mouth and knitted brows bespoke a labouring state of thought, and the various crossings, interlinings, and blottings, gave additional evidence of the same, while now and then a rush at a line which was knocked off in a hurry, with slashing dashes of the pen, and fierce aftercrossings of t's, and determined dottings of i's, declared some thought suddenly seized, and executed with bitter triumph. 'You seem very happy in yourself in what you are writing,' said Tom. 'What is it? Is it another epithalamium ?' 'It is a caustic article against the successful men of the day,' said Reddy; 'they have no merit, sir-none. 'Tis

nothing but luck has placed them where they are, and they ought to be exposed.' He then threw down his pen as he spoke, and after a silence of some minutes, suddenly put this question to Tom :-

'What do you think of the world?'

'Faith, I think it so pleasant a place,' said Tom, 'that I'm confoundedly vexed at being kept out of it by being locked up here; and that cursed bailiff is so provokingly free-and-easy— coming in here every ten minutes, and making himself at home.' 'Why, as for that matter, it is his home, you must remember.'

'But while a gentleman is here for a period,' said Tom, 'this room ought to be considered his, and that fellow has no business here-and then his bows and scrapes, and talking about the feelings of a gentleman, and all that—'tis enough to make a dog beat his father. Curse him! I'd like to choke him.'

'Oh! that's merely his manner,' said James. 'Want of manners, you mean,' said Tom. Hang me, if he comes up to me with his rascally familiarity again, but I'll kick him down-stairs. '

'My dear fellow, you are excited,' said Reddy; 'don't let these sublunary trifles ruffle your temper-you see how I bear it-and to recall you to yourself, I will remind you of the question we started from, "What do you think of the world?" There's a general question—a broad question, upon which one may talk with temper, and soar above the petty grievances of life in the grand consideration of so ample a subject. You see me here, a prisoner like yourself, but I can talk of the world. Come, be a calm philosopher, like me! Answer, what do you think of the world?'

'I've told you already,' said Tom; 'it's a capital place, only for the bailiffs.'

'I can't agree with you,' said James. 'I think it one vast pool of stagnant wretchedness, where the malaria of injustice holds her scales suspended, to poison rising talent by giving an undue weight to existing prejudices.'

To this lucid and good-tempered piece of philosophy, Tom could only answer, 'You know I am no poet, and I cannot argue with you; but, 'pon my soul, I have known, and do know, some uncommon good fellows in the world.'

'You're wrong, you're wrong, my unsuspecting friend. 'Tis a bad world, and no place for susceptible minds. Jealousy pursues talent like its shadow-superiority only wins for you the hatred of inferior men. For instance, why am I here? The editor of my paper will not allow my articles always to appear;-prevents their insertion, lest the effect they would make would cause inquiry, and tend to my distinction; and the consequence is, that the paper I came to uphold in Dublin is deprived of my articles, and I don't get paid; while I see inferior men, without asking for it, loaded with favour; they are abroad in affluence, and I in captivity and poverty. But one comfort is, even in disgrace I can write, and they shall get a slashing.'

Thus spoke the calm philosopher, who gave Tom a lecture on patience.

Tom was no great conjurer, but at that moment, like Audrey, 'he thanked the gods he was not poetical.' If there be any one thing more than another to make an 'everyday man' content with his average lot, it is the exhibition of ambitious inferiority, striving for distinction it can never attain; just given sufficient perception to desire the glory of success without power to measure the strength that can achieve it; like some poor fly which beats its head against a pane of glass, seeing the sunshine beyond, but incapable of perceiving the subtle medium which intervenes-too delicate for its limited sense to comprehend, but too strong for its limited power to pass.

But though Tom felt satisfaction at that moment, he had too good feeling to wound the self-love of the vain creature before him; so, instead of speaking what he thought, viz. 'What business have you to attempt literature, you conceited fool?' he tried to wean him civilly from his folly by saying, 'Then come back to the country, James; if you find jealous rivals here, you know you were always admired there.'

'No, sir!' said James, 'even there my merit was unacknowledged.'

'No! no!' said Tom.

'Well, underrated at least. Even there, that Edward O'Connor, somehow or other, I never could tell why-I never saw his great talents-but somehow or other, people got it into their heads that he was clever.'

'I tell you what it is,' said Tom, earnestly, 'Ned-of-the-Hill has got into a better place than people's heads he has got into their hearts!'

'There it is!' exclaimed James, indignantly; 'you have caught up the cuckoo-cry-the heart! why, sir, what merit is there in writing about feelings which any common labourer can comprehend-there's no poetry in that; true poetry lies in a higher sphere, where you have difficulty in following the flight of the poet, and possibly may not be fortunate enough to understand him-that's poetry, sir.'

'I told you I am no poet,' said Tom; 'but all I know is, I have felt my heart warm to some of Edward's songs, and, by jingo! I have seen the women's eyes glisten, and their cheeks flush or grow pale, as they have heard them—and that's poetry enough for me.'

'Well, let Mister O'Connor enjoy his popularity, sir—if popularity it may be called, in a small country circle-let him enjoy it—I don't envy him his, though I think he was rather jealous about mine.’

'Ned jealous!' exclaimed Tom, in surprise.

'Yes, jealous; I never heard him say a kind word of any verses I ever wrote in my life; and I am certain he has most unkind feelings towards me.'

'I tell you what it is,' said Tom, 'getting up' a bit; 'I told you I don't understand poetry, but I do understand what's a d-d deal better thing, and that's fine, generous, manly feeling; and if there's a human being in the world incapable of wronging another in his mind or heart, or readier to help his fellow-man, it is Edward O'Connor-so say no more, James, if you please.'

Tom had scarcely uttered the last word, when the key was turned in the door.

'Here's that infernal bailiff again!' said Tom, whose irritability, increased by Reddy's paltry egotism and injustice, was at its boiling pitch once more. He planted himself firmly in his chair, and putting on his fiercest frown, was determined to confront Mister Goggins with an aspect that should astonish him.

The door opened and Mister Goggins made his appearance, presenting to the gentlemen in the room the hinder portion of his person, which made several indications of courtesy per

The door opened, and Mr. Goggins made his appearance.