“'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--”