the little man in blue and silver.

among the loungers who loitered at the door of the "cock and anchor," as the day wore on, there appeared a personage whom it behoves us to describe. this was a small man, with a very red face and little grey eyes—he wore a cloth coat of sky blue, with here and there a piece of silver lace laid upon it without much regard to symmetry; for the scissors had evidently displaced far the greater part of the original decorations, whose primitive distribution might be traced by the greater freshness of the otherwise faded cloth which they had covered, as well as by some stray threads, which stood like stubbles here and there to mark the ravages of the sickle. one hand was buried in the deep flap pocket of a waistcoat of the same hue and material, and bearing also, in like manner, the evidences of a very decided retrenchment in the article of silver lace. these symptoms of economy, however, in no degree abated the evident admiration with which the wearer every now and then stole a glance on what remained of its pristine splendours—a glance which descended not ungraciously upon a leg in whose fascinations its owner reposed an implicit faith. his right hand held a tobacco-pipe, which, although its contents were not ignited, he carried with a luxurious nonchalance ever and anon to the corner of his mouth, where it afforded him sundry imaginary puffs—a cheap and fanciful luxury, in which my irish readers need not be told their humbler countrymen, for lack of better, are wont to indulge. he leaned against one of the stout wooden pillars on which the front of the building was reared, and interlarded his economical pantomime of pipe-smoking with familiar and easy conversation with certain of the outdoor servants of the inn—a familiarity which argued not any sense of superiority proportionate to the pretension of his attire.

"and so," said the little man, turning with an aristocratic ease towards a stout fellow in a jerkin, with bluff visage and folded arms, who stood beside him, and addressing him in a most melodious brogue—"and so, for sartain, you have but five single gintlemen in the house—mind, i say single gintlemen—for, divil carry me if ever i take up with a family again—it doesn't answer—it don't shoot me—i was never made for a family, nor a family for me—i can't stand their b——y regularity; and—" with a sigh of profound sentiment, and lowering his voice, he added—"and, the maid-sarvants—no, devil a taste—they don't answer—they don't shoot. my disposition, tom, is tindher—tindher to imbecility—i never see a petticoat but it flutters my heart—the short and the long of it is, i'm always falling in love—and sometimes the passion is not retaliated by the object, and more times it is—but, in both cases, i'm aiqually the victim—for my intintions is always honourable, and of course nothin' comes of it. my life was fairly frettin' away in a dhrame of passion among the housemaids—i felt myself witherin' away like a flower in autumn—i was losing my relish for everything, from bacon and table-dhrink upwards—dangers were thickening round me—i had but one way to execrate myself—i gave notice—i departed, and here i am."

having wound up the sentence, the speaker leaned forward and spat passionately on the ground—a pause ensued, which was at length broken by the same speaker.

"only two out of the five," said he, reflectively, "only two unprovided with sarvants."

"and neither of 'em," rejoined tom, a blunt english groom, "very likely to want one. the one is a lawyer, with a hack as lean as himself, and more holes, i warrant, than half-pence in his breeches pocket. he's out a-looking for lodgings, i take it."

"he's not exactly what i want," rejoined the little man. "what's th'other like?"

"a gentleman, every inch, or i'm no judge," replied the groom. "he came last night, and as likely a bit of horseflesh under him as ever my two hands wisped down. he chucked me a crown-piece this morning, as if it had been no more nor a cockle shell—he did."

"by gorra, he'll do!" exclaimed the little man energetically. "it's a bargain—i'm his man."

"ay, but you mayn't answer, brother; he mayn't take you," observed tom.

"wait a bit—jist wait a bit, till he sees me," replied he of the blue coat.

"ay, wait a bit," persevered the groom, coolly—"wait a bit, and when he does see you, it strikes me wery possible he mayn't like your cut."

"not like my cut!" exclaimed the little man, as soon as he had recovered breath; for the bare supposition of such an occurrence involved in his opinion so utter and astounding a contradiction of all the laws by which human antipathies and affections are supposed to be regulated, that he felt for a moment as if his whole previous existence had been a dream and an illusion. "not like my cut!"

"no," rejoined the groom, with perfect imperturbability.

the little man deigned no other reply than that conveyed in a glance of the most inexpressible contempt, which, having wandered over the person and accoutrements of the unconscious tom, at length settled upon his own lower extremities, where it gradually softened into a gaze of melancholy complacency, while he muttered, with a pitying smile, "not like my cut—not like it!" and then, turning majestically towards the groom, he observed, with laconic dignity,—

"i humbly consave the gintleman has an eye in his head."

this rebuke had hardly been administered when the subject of their conference in person passed from the inn into the street.

"there he goes," observed tom.

"and here i go after him," added the candidate for a place; and in a moment he was following o'connor with rapid steps through the narrow streets of the town, southward. it occurred to him, as he hurried after his intended master, that it might not be amiss to defer his interview until they were out of the streets, and in some more quiet place; nor in all probability would he have disturbed himself at all to follow the young gentleman, were it not that even in the transient glimpse which he had had of the person and features of o'connor, the little man thought, and by no means incorrectly, that he recognized the form of one whom he had often seen before.

"that's mr. o'connor, as sure as my name's larry toole," muttered the little man, half out of breath with his exertions—"an' it's himself'll be proud to get me. i wondher what he's afther now. i'll soon see, at any rate."

thus communing within himself, larry alternately walked and trotted to keep the chase in view. he might very easily have come up with the object of his pursuit, for on reaching st. patrick's cathedral, o'connor paused, and for some minutes contemplated the old building. larry, however, did not care to commence his intended negotiation in the street; he purposed giving him rope enough, having, in truth, no peculiar object in following him at that precise moment, beyond the gratification of an idle curiosity; he therefore hung back until o'connor was again in motion, when he once more renewed his pursuit.

o'connor had soon passed the smoky precincts of the town, and was now walking at a slackened pace among the green fields and the trees, all clothed in the rich melancholy hues of early autumn. the evening sun was already throwing its mellow tint on all the landscape, and the lengthening shadows told how far the day was spent. in the transition from the bustle of a town to the lonely quiet of the country at eventide, and especially at that season of the year when decay begins to sadden the beauties of nature, there is something at once soothing and unutterably melancholy. leaving behind the glare, and dust, and hubbub of the town, who has not felt in his inmost heart the still appeal of nature? the saddened beauty of sear autumn, enhanced by the rich and subdued light of gorgeous sunset—the filmy mist—the stretching shadows—the serene quiet, broken only by rural sounds, more soothing even than silence—all these, contrasted with the sounds and sights of the close, restless city, speak tenderly and solemnly to the heart of man of the beauty of creation, of the goodness of god, and, along with these, of the mournful condition of all nature—change, decay, and death. such thoughts and feelings, stealing in succession upon the heart, touch, one by one, the springs of all our sublimest sympathies, and fill the mind with the beautiful sense of brotherhood, under god, with all nature. under the not unpleasing influence of such suggestions, o'connor slackened his pace to a slow irregular walk, which sorely tried the patience of honest larry toole.

"after all," exclaimed that worthy, "it's nothin' more nor less than an evening walk he's takin', god bless the mark! what business have i followin' him? unless—see—sure enough he's takin' the short cut to the manor. by gorra, this is worth mindin'—i must not folly him, however—i don't want to meet the family—so here i'll plant myself until sich times as he's comin' back again."

so saying, larry toole clambered to the top of the grassy embankment which fenced the road, and seating himself between a pair of aged hawthorn-trees, he watched young o'connor as he followed the wanderings of a wild bridle-road until he was at length fairly hidden from view by the intervening trees and brushwood.