One day Neal sat cross-legged, as tailors usually sit, in the act of pressing a pair of breeches; his hands were placed, backs up, upon the handle of his goose, and his chin rested upon the back of his hands.  To judge from his sorrowful complexion one would suppose that he sat rather to be sketched as a picture of misery, or of heroism in distress, than for the industrious purpose of pressing the seams of a garment.  There was a great deal of New Burlington-street pathos in his countenance; his face, like the times, was rather out of joint; “the sun was just setting, and his golden beams fell, with a saddened splendor, athwart the tailor’s”——­the reader may fill up the picture.

In this position sat Neal, when Mr. O’Connor, the schoolmaster, whose inexpressibles he was turning for the third time, entered the workshop.  Mr. O’Connor, himself, was as finished a picture of misery as the tailor.  There was a patient, subdued kind of expression in his face, which indicated a very full-portion of calamity; his eye seemed charged with affliction of the first water; on each side of his nose might be traced two dry channels which, no doubt, were full enough while the tropical rains of his countenance lasted.  Altogether, to conclude from appearances, it was a dead match in affliction between him and the tailor; both seemed sad, fleshless, and unthriving.

“Misther O’Connor,” said the tailor, when the schoolmaster entered, “won’t you be pleased to sit down?”

Mr. O’Connor sat; and, after wiping his forehead, laid his hat upon the lap-board, put his half handkerchief in his pocket, and looked upon the tailor.  The tailor, in return, looked upon Mr. O’Connor; but neither of them spoke for some minutes.  Neal, in fact, appeared to be wrapped up in his own misery, and Mr. O’Connor in his; or, as we often have much gratuitous sympathy for the distresses of our friends, we question but the tailor was wrapped up in Mr. O’Connor’s misery, and Mr. O’Connor in the tailor’s.

Mr. O’Connor at length said—­“Neal, are my inexpressibles finished?”

“I am now pressin’ your inexpressibles,” replied Neal; “but, be my sowl, Mr. O’Connor, it’s not your inexpressibles I’m thinkin’ of.  I’m not the ninth part of what I was.  I’d hardly make paddin’ for a collar now.”

“Are you able to carry a staff still, Neal?”

“I’ve a light hazel one that’s handy,” said the tailor; “but where’s the use of carryin’ it, whin I can get no one to fight wid.  Sure I’m disgracing my relations by the life I’m leadin’.  I’ll go to my grave widout ever batin’ a man, or bein’ bate myself; that’s the vexation.  Divil the row ever I was able to kick up in my life; so that I’m fairly blue-mowlded for want of a batin’.  But if you have patience——­”

“Patience!” said Mr. O’Connor, with a shake of the head, that was perfectly disastrous even to look at; “patience, did you say, Neal?”

“Ay,” said Neal, “an’, be my sowl, if you deny that I said patience, I’ll break your head!”