ed with
writing materials, books, pamphlets, prints, and drawings; his great
arm-chair was the very ideal of lounging luxury, and in the soft carpet
his slippered feet were almost hidden. Through the window at his right
hand, an alley in the beech-wood opened a view of mountain scenery, it
would have been difficult to equal in any country of Europe. In a
word, it was a very charming little chamber, and might have excited the
covetousness of those whose minds must minister to their maintenance,
and who rarely pursue their toilsome task, save debarred from every
sound and sight that might foster imagination. How almost invariably
is this the case! Who has not seen, a hundred times over, some perfect
little room, every detail of whose economy seemed devised to sweeten the
labour of the mind, teeming with its many appliances for enjoyment, yet
encouraging thought more certainly than ministering to luxury--with its
cabinet pictures, its carvings, its antique armour, suggestive in turn
of some passage in history, or some page in fiction;--who has not seen
these devoted to the half hour lounge over a newspaper, or the tiresome
examination of house expenditure with the steward, while he, whose
mental flights were soaring midway 'twixt earth and heaven, looked
out from some gloomy and cobwebbed pane upon a forest of chimneys,
surrounded by all the evils of poverty, and tortured by the daily
conflict with necessity.

Here sat Sir Marmaduke, a great volume like a ledger open before him, in
which, from time to time, he employed himself in making short memoranda.
Directly in front of him stood, in an attitude of respectful attention,
a man of about five-and-forty years of age, who, although dressed in an
humble garb, had yet a look of something above the common; his features
were homely, but intelligent, and though a quick sharp glance shot from
his grey eye when he spoke, yet in his soft, smooth voice the words came
forth with a measured calm, that served to indicate a patient and gentle
disposition. His frame betokened strength, while his face was pale and
colourless, and without the other indications of active health in his
gait and walk, would have implied a delicacy of constitution. This
was Sam Wylie the sub-agent--one whose history may be told in a few
words:--His father had been a butler in the O'Donoghue house, where he
died, leaving his son, a mere child, as a legacy to his master. The boy,
however, did not turn out well;