d, 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