WHAT slaves are we men in office!—Don't you won­der, Filbert, how I get through all my business?

Oh! it's your larning does it, Mr. Medley, that's certain.

Why, to be sure, Filbert, your men of parts are the fellows after all;—but come, did you deliver the dres­ses, bows and arrows, last night, to the lasses who are to shoot for the heifer and ribbands, according to the forest charter.

Yes.

And did you tell 'em to meet me in good time, this afternoon, in the gladeway, near the old Oak?

To be sure I did—and gave 'em a kiss all round into the bargain, that they might not forget it.

That was done like a man, Filbert!—Now take these to Goodman Fairlop's, the Woodman,—

—and tell him I shall be down with them before the girls have untied their night-caps.

I will.—

—Efecks, Master Medley, you think, mayhap, I don't know who has a fancy to who, in that corner of the forest?

Come, jog away—jog away—I've no time now to crack jokes with you, Master Filbert.—

—Like other great men—I, Matt Medley, am obliged, for the good of the state, to hold many offices.—I am Deputy Ranger of the Purlieu!—Keeper of the waifs and strays!—Fac-totum to his Worship Sir Walter!—and Mender of Morals in the absence of our Vicar!—I think I've employment enough cut out for the present day.—Let me see—I'm to find out who this little stranger is at the Woodside, which I can't learn for my life from that hussey Dolly.—I'm to make love to her for my brother Bob, if she's good for any thing—and if not, I must prevent Sir Walter making himself the hamlet's talk about her.—I've to keep peace through the day—if I can—between Sir Walter and his rantipole cousin Dinah—then to act as umpire at the archery—and at night—receive a smile from Dolly as a recom­pence for all my toils.

Medley! why, Matt Medley! where are you, I say?

Yes, yes, just as I thought, the old Buck's noddle can't rest for dreaming of this little fawn at the Wood­side!

Good morrow, Medley!—how are you, Matt? al­ways chanting with the first cock—eh, you rogue?

I love to be cheerful, and stirring betimes—but how comes your Worship abroad so soon?

I could not sleep, Matt, for the rheumatism—and so forth.

And I doubt whether your disorder will let you rest, now you're up—and so forth.

But did you think of what I was saying to you last night, Matt?

I'm going about it the first thing this morning! I have a good excuse for the enquiry, as my brother's des­perately in love with this pretty stranger.

What, Bob of the mill?—A great fool! why it will be the ruin of the poor fellow?—But how do you know it?—have you evidence of the fact?

He told me himself—so I'm going to look into it.

Ay do—that's quite right: a silly numpskull!—but you know, Matt, there can be no harm just in my having a little sort of a curiosity about her—and so forth?

Oh! none at all, sir.—Nor of my satisfying that cu­riosity according to my mind—and so forth.

Well then go—that's a good lad.

I will, your Worship.

That's right—now go about it directly Matt, while I finish my morning's walk.

SCENE II.

So much for the first portion of the day!—and now, my girls, let us partake of the homely meal that Provi­dence sets before us.

No, father—that Providence bestows, and I set before you!

You are a good girl, Doll—but tho' his Worship's clerk, Mr. Medley, does flatter your comeliness—mind, [Page 6] child, and never think of setting yourself before Provi­dence.

There, sir—there's your breakfast ready for you—I had the pleasure of toasting your brown bread—

And I of rubbing the nutmeg over it.

Honest husbands to you both, for your kindness.—But now, Miss Emily, for the rest of your story, which you promised us a month ago.—Your aunt I remember well—and a fine straight woman she was in my younger days.

Ay, father—you'll pity poor Emily indeed, when you hear it;—she told it me last night; and I did nothing but sob and cry till day-light.

I believe I told you, that my widow'd mother was a tenant to old Mr. Wilford, in a small farm near the park—

Yes, child, you did.

At her decease I was taken, when very young, to be a companion to their noice, Miss Wilford, and shared with her, while she lived, an education—far beyond what my rank in life could entitle me to.

I don't know that.

Well—and so.—

Being the constant observer of her brother's increasing worth, my esteem for him insensibly grew with it; till at length I listen'd, too fondly, to his professions of re­gard—which, probably, I ought to have discouraged!

I don't know how that should have been: but that's all over, child.

Lord! father, does not love always beget love, as I've heard my poor dear mother tell you a hundred, and a hundred times to that?

And so thou hast, Dolly—but go on my dear.

In short, a mutual vow of inviolable affection was the consequence of this attachment.

Well, and that was right.

His Uncle, one moonlight evening—surprised us walking together on the terrace!—The next morning—to the astonishment of every one, he hurried my Wilford off to the continent, without his being able to bid me a last adieu!—and, by the most cruel vow, de­clared, he would disinherit him if ever he beheld me more!

Barbarous creature!

Hold your tongue a little—pray, Dolly!

He enclosed me, a bill of a hundred pounds, the legacy bequeathed me by his Lady's will—and inform'd me, that I had his permission to remain at Wilford Lodge till I could otherwise accommodate myself—which I did the same day at my aunt's, in the adjoining parish.

I honor your spirit!

After three years absence on his travels—during which time he has written to me in terms of unalter­ed affection, I learnt, that Wilford was on his return to England.—To prevent, therefore, the fatal effects to him of even a supposed renewal of our attachment—I resolved—unknown to any one, to retire in search of an asylum, which, from my aunt's description of you, I flattered myself I might find—and, Heaven knows, have sound under your generous protection!

A'n't this very cruel, and heart-breaking, father?

It is a little against the grain, to be sure—but let's make the best we can of it.

And so the dear, constant-hearted man is soon expect­ed back again?

He is indeed, Dolly—

Well, child—the best way now, is to reconcile your­self to a more humble lot:—you will not fare so well, it's true—but you may be as safe under my lowly roof, as in the proudest dwelling!

Oh, the feelings of my heart!—

I'm glad on't—they'll spare you the trouble of say­ing, what I neither deserve, nor desire to hear.—But come, girls, I'll now take a step into the Hop-ground, while you finish dressing the garland pole; and in the evening we'll all dance round it, and forget our sorrows.

SCENE III.

I've another bit of pink upon my best cap, that will do for the top to a T.—I'll run and fetch it.

Ah, my Wilford!—had fate but fashioned thee for these humble scenes of life, I might then perhaps have aspired to thy love without presumption.

Here it is!—but hold—this was given me at our last [Page 11] fair by Medley—and I should not like to part with it, tho' he is an audacious creature!—But I'll pin it so high, that nobody can reach it.—There!—

Well, this must be the smartest Pole in the parish, to be sure!

And bless me, what kissing there'll be under it!

Heighday, little Miss Nimble-tongue!—who ask'd for your piping?

Dear sister! I thought I should always say, and do, every thing after you.

Indeed!—but come, Miss—here, take your basket—

—and pack off to school.—Marry come up—I think we can find you something else to mind, or I wonder!

Oh! she'll be a good girl, Dolly, I'll answer for her.

And so she ought—mind and finish your task in your sampler before you come home, Miss.

Well—so I will, if you don't s [...]ub a-body.

SCENE IV.

So!—so!—why these girls are not up yet!—by their lying in bed thus—they fancy themselves married already!

Good morrow, brother Matt.

Good morrow again, Bob—if it's not too late—well, do you continue in the same mind?

Yes—I love her dearly.

Come, then, I'll try what's to be done for you.

Don't expect me to talk much at first—for when I see her, I know I shall be as dumb as my breast-wheel in a hard frost.

Leave it to me, and never you mind it—Halloo! halloo!—why house! are you all dead, or fast asleep?

As I hope to live, there's my spark, and his brother Bob the miller, your intended lover.

How can you be so absurd, Dolly?

Pray, Gentlemen—or rather middling kind of men—what may be your business here so early this morning?

"Now mind, brother—for I can't speak a word.

"First of all, Dolly—I came to enquire, whether you have received the bows and arrows, and how you like your dresses?

"Why, so-so!

"Then, Mrs. So-So—the rest of my business hap­pens not to be with you—but with your pretty com­panion there.

"With me, sir?

"Oh! I see he's in his airs this morning—but I'll match him.

"Faith, Bob, she's a nice grist!

"A pure white sample, an't she brother?"

Come, we'll to the point at once.—May I crave your name, fair one?

If it can be of any service to you to know it—'tis Emily.

Emily!—a pretty name enough for the top of a love letter—an't it, Bob?

I have no patience at his impudence, and neglect of me!

Why then, Miss Emily—the long and short of the [Page 15] matter is this:—my brother Bob here, as stirring a lad as any on the stream, has soused over head and ears, for you, into the mill-pond of affection—

Ridiculous!—

And thinks he shall prefer the pretty clapper of a wife—to the clack of his mill—

Impudent fellow!

And unless you take compassion on him, he is deter­mined—what are you determined upon Bob?—

—oh! he's resolved to knock down his hopper, and let the stream of life run waste with him the remainder of his days!

Lamentable indeed!

But that an't all?

Why, what the deuce would a reasonable woman have more?

I would save you and your brother the trouble of any further explanation, by assuring you, that I can never listen to his addresses, tho' I feel myself honor'd by his esteem!

Lord, Miss!—but his love—

And lord, sir!—don't be so meddling—it is enough for you to explain your own love!

Ah, Dolly!—how sew are there able to reveal to others this mystery of the mind!

Ha!—ha!—ha!—

What is it you giggle at so—Ma'am Dolly?

At you, and your foolish brother!

Oh! you do?

Yes, to be sure I do!—I can't help it for my life.

Then, since my brother is to be fobbed off by your companion in this pretty manner—I'll enquire a little into what's what? and who's who?—

Oh! pray do, Mr. Jack in office!

Yes, Ma'am—and know how Miss Proud-Airs came here?—whether she gets an honest livelihood?—and where's the place of her last legal settlement, Ma'am!

Pitiful spight!—But I can save you all this trouble. She's a thirteenth cousin by the side of my mother's half­brother:—she came on a visit to us from foreign parts—has been better brought up than either you, or I, sir—and being, at this time, a little in adversity—why—my father has taken compassion upon her.—

Taken compassion upon her?

Yes, sir.

And, like an old fool—keeps her, I suppose?

Well—and suppose he does.

What?—after the fashion of the great folks above!

For my part, I don't see that such an action is a dis­grace to any one, gentle, or simple.

You don't, upon your little wicked soul?

No.—And so, till you learn to behave yourself a little more like a man, I don't wish to see your spiteful face again.

Here's a pretty skit for you!—Have I been fifteen months at a Latin school?—two years hackney-writer to an attorney on Tower-hill—more than three years jus­tice clerk to Sir Walter?—and to be outwitted, after all, "by this old stub-fox, and his young cubs?—Surely, Master Solomon—by your leave, there's now and then something new under the sun!—Old Fairlop, the Woodman, to take a flashy young hussey into keeping!—and his daughter,—in whom I placed every hope of future comfort—to encourage and laugh at it?—I'll go instantly to Sir Walter to prevent his fall­ing into the trap that may be laid for him, however—and as to Dolly—"

SCENE V.

Upon my conscience—but you true lovers are restless creatures!—We will only have been landed six days from the continent, and here are we again launch­ed upon a more slippery element, in chace of your run-away mistress.

Ah! my friend O'Donnel—but what a treasure are we in pursuit of?

Well, but I wish you to be after giving me a more particular description of this same treasure—for which, I think, we will encounter a small number of difficulties.

Oh! she will repay all my anxieties!

Yes, faith! and what's to become of mine into the bargain?—but—I see your's is a dashing kind of love—which my friendship is eager enough to follow;—so order it upon any service you please, in search of your goddess.

My dear O'Donnel—I cannot thank you as you de­serve. [Page 20] —My intelligence informs me, that Emily has, unaccountably, sought a retreat on the confines of this extensive forest.—We must, therefore, vigilantly explore it, taking different directions.—The guide told you where we should meet?

Not he indeed!—but what occasion for a rendez­vous, when we are only going upon a foraging party!

He directed our servants to the Rein Deer, near the samed Oak:—there, at least, we may have tidings of each other's success.—Here let us part!

And see who starts the first doe on the forest.—But hark ye, Wilford!—how shall I be sure of her, so as not, by one of my consounded country mistakes, to take her for one of the little wild fawns of the chace?

If you have no eyes,—hear her but speak, and the mild melody of her accents will instantly convince you!

SCENE VI.

Did you ever hear such a persecuting clapper as cou­sin Di's?

A little out of tune now and then, to be sure, your worship: but how did this storm break out?

Only, forsooth, because I good humour'dly laugh'd at her a little, for sashing herself off like a young girl, and telling her, she would make a better patroness of beef­eaters, than female archers!—However, I'll see none of her prudish nonsense there—I'll ride ten miles first another way.

That's a pity; for it will be a fine sight.

What signifies your finery, and foolery, Matt?—if a man can't be comfortable, and take a quiet peep at a pretty girl—and so forth.—But when am I to see this little stray wood-nymph, Matt?

We can't too soon enquire into the merits of the case;—you'll find her no better than I told you.—We may take out orders of removal for her directly.

But not without positive evidence of the fact.

Let me beg your worship to be a little upon your guard—if Miss Di gets hold of it—she'll prattle about it merrily, I warrant you.

Yes, let her alone for that:—she's squeamish enough about other people—but as to her fantastical self—you'll find her always upon the ogle—and fancying every man she sees—in love with her—and so forth.

Suppose, some time or other, we were to humour this fancy of her's:—I don't think, your worship, it would be of any disservice to her!

My dear Matt, give me your hand!—prithee don't forget it!—Let me get her but once fairly on the hip, and then at all events I shall secure a good peace, with the enemy I never can conquer!

SCENE VII.

Upon my conscience—but this is likely to turn out a very clever expedition of mine!—A pretty account I'll be able to give poor Wilford! I marched out in search of his rivulet goddess—and the devil a human creature have I clapped my eyes on—except two huge bucks at a tilting-match under an oak!—But hold—what have we here? something nimbly scudding along—and this is her track!—

Oh la! what fine gentleman can this be?

How are you, my little innocent?

Very well, I thank you sir—

—Pray, if I may be so bold, do you belong to our forest?

No, my little dear—I'm a roving buck from foreign parts! "what would you say to such a one for a hus­band?

"Oh! dear sir—you are very good—but I must not think of one 'till my eldest sister's married.

"No—who tells you that?

"My father—he says my waxen baby is a better play-thing than a husband, after all!

"But you don't believe him?

"I don't know, sir."

Where do you live?—and what may be your little name?

I live hard by, and my name is Polly Fairlop. I'm going to school—but I think I'm too old for that, however!

Indeed! and so you are, my dear!

Bravo, my little warbler!—Tho' you are not tall enough, d'ye see—for a husband—I dare be bound you're cunning enough to tell me—whether you have amongst you, such a thing as a stray young lady, almost as handsome as your own sweet self?

As true as any thing this must be Miss Emily's sweet­heart, that I've heard e'm talk, and cry so much about.—

—A stray young lady?—what sort of one, sir?

Faith, an odd sort enough!—one that run away from her lover, for fear of being married to the man of her heart!

Oh, dear sir!—we have no such girls in our parts, I can assure you.—But here comes Mr. Bob, the Miller; perhaps he can inform you better—and so good bye, sir—for I ought to have been at school full half an hour ago!

Well done, little Whirligig!—

Good day to you, friend Bob.

Why, how the dickens did he know my name to be Bob?—

—The fame to you, sir.

Faith, honest miller—you will confer an obligation upon me, by telling me whereabouts I am.

By your question, sir, I should guess you a bit of a stranger in this forest!

Indeed and you've hit it.—What's more, I came upon a strange bit of business—and, to tell you the ho­nest truth, I need not walk much further to be tired, as well as hungry.

Lord love you! say no more—the traveller that has lost his way, shall never want a welcome at my mill, so long as I am able to grind a grist in it.—

Upon my conscience, but this honest fellow would soon make a man forget that he was out of his own country! What a fine thing is generosity! but what's it good for without a little gratitude?—

But what might bring you into these out-of-the-way parts, if I may be so bold?—and how did you know my name was Bob?

Because I take you to be the son of your father—whose name I guess was Robert!

Efecks! that's no bad guess for a stranger, however!—But now, sir, for your business—

Faith, I came only to enquire after a stray dappled fawn, the owner of which would recover it at any pains, or price.

Oh! if that's all, set your heart at ease.—When you have refreshed yourself, I'll take you to my brother Matt, who is all in all with Sir Walter—and looks after the waifs and strays—so if any body can give you intelli­gence, he's the man.—Besides, there's to be fine doings this afternoon round here—so you may as well tarry, and see the pastimes of the place!

With all my soul!—Then, miller, I may peep at some of your Woodland nymphs—You have a few pret­ty ones skipping through these gladeways, I suppose?

Oh, a mort!—I'll shew you one among 'em shall make your mouth water—if you're ever so nice.

Why don't you pick out one amongst 'em for a wife, Bob?

Because I can't choose the sample I like.

A little shy—ch! Bob—of the antlers that flourish so thick around you?

No—no—I understand your joke, sir—but I've no fears of that kind, I promise you.

WHY should the report of a stranger's arrival on the forest, so much alarm me?—But may he not, by this time, have removed me as far from his memory, as his per­son?—Oh, no!—my Wilford is still the same—and, ill-fated as we are—my heart must dwell upon his fidelity with emotions of delight!—

Yes, yes—there she is upon the layer, as I expected!

Why, she warbles as innocently as a little Robin, Matt!

Oh! she can warble fast enough, if that's all—why, I dare say she'll turn out, upon examination, to be one of the little hurdy-gurdy girls that grind music about the streets of London!

But are you sure that my tenant, Fairlop—like a sly old fox—has pick'd up this pretty chicken for him­self?—have you evidence of the fact?

To be sure, your Worship.—I've his daughter Dolly's own confession of the whole.

Well—I'll frighten her a little—but I cannot find in my conscience to hurt her—for every moment I per­ceive in her fresh beauties—and so forth.

Justice you know, sir, should be blind on these occa­sions.

What signifies that, Matt—when one can see such charms with half an eye!—But what can she be reading?

No good, I'll answer sor't—

As I live, here's Sir Walter!—We must make a cur­tesy to him.

They observe us—what a pretty rogue!—Hark ye—young—blooming damsel?

Which of us, and please your Worship?

Not you, Ma'am Forward-step—Here, Miss Scape­grace, walk this way.

Don't, Matt.—I won't suffer you to be so harsh with her.—How came you, child, into the limits of this forest?

Good heav'n, how shall I support my self!

Why, pluck up a good spirit, and never mind it!

As this may turn out a nice point at sessions,—you should ask her,—where she was born?—and then, how she got her bread from her youth up?—that's the prac­tice according to law!

But not exactly, Matt, according to my nature.

Indeed, first of all she should be sworn!

Well, you may swear her—but I cannot be severe with her, without positive evidence of the fact!

Take off your glove—

What can this mean?

I'm sure I don't know—but I'll run and fetch my father.

Come—come, pretty one—the law requires you should be sworn.

Pray, sir, inform me—against what rule of society have I offended, that my humble character should be thus scrupulously enquired into?

You hear his Worship's commands, and that's suffi­cient.

I fear, sir, I know not the extent of so solemn an obligation!

No?—not an oath?—oh fie!

No, indeed, sir!—I intreat you would have the good­ness to expound it to me.

Why, child—an oath—is—as one may say—a sacred—kind of a—taking of a—

Lord, sir! I'd be above explaining it to her! besides, here comes the old offender.

Sirrah! how dare you!—how durst you!—You may retire, child, for the present.

Mercy on us!—what? and please your Worship!

We are come in the king's name, to demand, Master Fairlop—who, and what, that little coaxing Minx is?

Where she comes from?—and how you came by her?

And please you—all I know—your Honor shall know—

Now for it!

I [...]ound this poor Emily, a friendless creature, that the world had turn'd it back upon—and so, your Ho­nor—I took her in—

And keep her in the face of the whole forest?

Why, your betters could have done no more?—an't you asham'd of yourself, Master Fairlop?

No, indeed, your Worship.

No?

Why should a poor man be asham'd of an act that the great are so proud of?

There's impudence for you!

Why, what will the world say of you?

So long, your Honor, as I can lie down with a quiet conscience, and rise to work under a good landlord, I heed not the world, and all its malice!

What! have you no regard for your own precious soul—and so forth?

When my poor trunk is sell'd, and the knots hewn off, I hope that some sound plank will be found here—

—as well as in finer sticks, with a smoother bark!

Why, don't you know whose tenant you are?

Dear heart! what a question?

Ay, answer him that—

To be sure, I am your Honor's tenant for the Hop­ground—the six acre croft—and the little woodland plot, where I was born—and I always strove hard not to be behind hand with my rent.

Then mark me—I'll let it all over your head to-mor­row, if you don't discard that bewitching little baggage directly!

That's rather hard!—I've lived under your Wor­ship three-and-fifty years!—but if it must be so—I'll be content.—I hope your Honor will get a better tenant!

What! you will be obstinate?

What a sturdy old pollard this is, Matt?

Why, he'll corrupt the morals of the whole hamlet, his poor daughter Dolly and all!

But still, Medley—as to the little warbler herself—I do not find, yet, that we have evidence of the fact.

You know, your Worship, Burn says—

Pooh—pooh—what signifies what Burn says. I question if ever he met with so ticklish a case in the whole course of his life.

A strange gentleman!—glad to speak with me?

Here, Bob!—your brother Matt wants me to play the very deuce with the pretty little stranger at the woodside!

No sure, your Honor!

Your Worship, to be sure, must act as you please.

If I should commit her—you, as constable, Bob, must take the poor rogue to the house of correction.

I could not do it, your Honor, for the world!—Lord love her little heart, what has she done?

True, Robert!—that's what I want to know—at all events, I'll do nothing further in it, 'till I've re-ex­amined her closely—and so forth!

I don't see, indeed, that there can be any harm in re­considering the case.

No, none in the world—besides we should hear all the circumstances, pro and con—and so forth.

Ay do—your Honor—why, brother Matt, you wa'n't used to be a hard-hearted fellow—particularly to the poor girls.

No, God forbid I ever should be—'though this is a terrible example, Bob, for poor Dolly.

SCENE IX.

Where can this cruel monster of mine be?—I did not intend to let him see that I lov'd him this half year—but if I don't—he may still play poor Emily some ill-natur'd trick.—Oh! here he is!—As her Ladyship, Miss Dina, kindly takes our part—I'll be upon the high ropes a little now, as well as he.

Well, Ma'am Dolly—what may your business be with me? for I'm rather in haste—

Lud—what a hurry some folks are in all of a sudden!—if you must know, sir—I sent for you to tell you, that you, and Sir Walter, are going to Old Nick as fast as you can gallop!

Indeed?—why then, perhaps, you would not dislike to take a canter along with us!

You may joke and jeer, Mr. Matt—but how can you find in your heart to collogue and plot against so inno­cent a creature?

I collogue?—I scorn your words!

"I should not wonder to find, when I get home, that she had drown'd herself in the brook at the back of our orchard!

"No—no—your young father is too tender hearted to suffer that.—

"Pray what do you mean, sir?

"Only that, instead of—drowning—you'll have a little nursing at home sooner than you look'd for.

What, could you learn nothing better in London, Mr. Medley, than to slander a poor innocent girl, be­cause she refused your brother Bob!—poor spite!

Why, if you come to that, didn't you tell me with your own mouth, that—

That what?—

That your father had taken—a fancy to her!—and did'n't he acknowledge it before his Worship himself?

Mercy upon us!—what is this wicked world come to—I?—

"Yes you did—told me flat and plain, that your fa­ther was fool enough to—to keep her.

"Keep her?—and so he does.

"Well—there now!

"Keeps her—poor man, like another daughter."

What?—don't she—now mind me, Dolly—are you sure—and certain—that—

What?

That—Emily does not—now and then—by chance—tie your father's—night-cap under his chin?

I wonder you a'n't asham'd of yourself, to look me in the face, after such a speech?

Faith, there may be some confounded mistake in this affair, after all!—

—why, Dolly, I only—

My father may be poor, sir—but ask the whole ham­let whether they ever found him dishonest!

No, Dolly!—but such a bewitching little rogue, you know—might have done you no good—that was all my fear, I can assure you now Dolly!

I thought you more of a man—she's as innocent—

Are you in earnest?

Earnest!

Poor thing!—if that's the case—I have been sadly to blame—But I'm glad we stopped proceedings—no—the law must not take its course—to trample down innoc­ence and humanity!

My dear Matt—do you say so?

To be sure I do—

Then heav'n will bless—and I will kiss you for it!

Methinks, Dolly, I like your blessing the best, at present!—but did you give it me for yourself, or your friend?

Oh!—half one, and half t'other.

Then let me have a whole one on your own ac­count—

—and now, to make my happiness complete, give me your hand—and say, you're mine for ever!

Lord! you do tease a body so, Matt!

Come—come—

Well then, there—

—but you must get my father's consent.

To be sure—and then all's settled and done. I'll go and set Sir Walter right—and come to you both before we meet at the archery.—But who the deuce is this pretty water-wagtail—come, surely you may tell me now!

I can't, indeed—but you shall know all about it in good time.

SCENE X.

Matt Medley promis'd to be with me an hour ago!—I want to know how he has manag'd it—that I may see her out of the reach of my prying cousin!—Hold—hold—suppose, after all—she should prove an honest, good girl!—what's to be done then?—Why, it will only be my care—as it is my duty, to protect her inno­cence.—But if she turns out the little wanton bag­gage Medley suspects—it will be charity to take her out of the way myself, and thus prevent old Fairlop's ruin!—Gads me! here she is, just at the nick.—I must be cautious with her at first, 'till I learn how her pulse beats—and so forth.

I hope you'll pardon me, sir, this bold intrusion—

Make no apology, my little dear! I am happy to see you—I'll do all I can to serve you, depend on't.

Regardless of my own fate—I come not, sir, to ask indulgence for myself—but most humbly to solicit you in behalf of an amiable man!

Ay! who can that be, child?

One, sir, who through life has enjoyed the cheering warmth of your benevolence—and is therefore less able, in old age, to bear up against the severity of your dis­pleasure!

What, old Fairlop the woodman, you mean?

Yes, sir.

A pretty amiable fellow, to be sure, child! but come—they say you're very partial to him—now confess the truth, and I don't know what may be done.

Oh, sir! I do indeed regard him—beyond what even gratitude can express!

That's strange!—but what could you see, child, in such an old delving blockhead?

Every thing that can render man worthy of esteem. I fear, sir, that I have been the cause of his present dis­tress:—restore him but to your protecting favour, and dispose of me, and my sufferings, in what manner you please!

Gad!—that's a significant hint I don't dislike, how­ever.

Well, child—I'll consider of it—I won't detain you here any longer now—for fear of some inquisitive eye observing us;—so if you'll fix a time with my clerk, Medley, where I may see you again presently, I'll tell you a little more of my mind—and so forth—

—"Dispose of me as you please?"—pretty foul!—how innocently complying!—Yes, yes—the case now is clear enough!—but what puzzles me is, how that liquorish-tooth'd old woodman could come by her.—Well, she's fair game now, Matt—or I wonder.—Let me see—how shall I dispose of her?—I'm too much enraptured to plan the scheme myself—Matt shall find out some sly corner, where the little rogue may live as happy as the day's long!—and then how snug shall I be with so pretty a companion, to read to me thro' a cold winter's night—and so forth!

SCENE XI.

But where's your innocent companion—I long to at­tone for my offence—

She's gone up to Sir Walter's—for what purpose I know no more than you:—but here she returns.

Cheer up your little heart! nobody will harm you!—I'm a whimsical fellow—and take the wrong end of a matter now and then, as well as other folks—but I think I would go as many miles on foot to serve one in distress, as any man upon the forest.

There!—didn't I tell you that Matt was honest in grain?

Oh, sir—but I dread the effects of Sir Walter's re­sentment!—

Never you sear—leave him to me.

He directed me to consult you about a further inter­view with him to-day.

What can his Worship want with her again?

Some business, I fancy, that I only can settle pro­perly between them!—but come, I've news for you!—Have you heard of the strange gentleman just come on the forest?

We have, and wish mightily to see him; don't we, Emily?

We do, indeed—and mine is more than common cu­riosity.

My brother Bob first scrap'd acquaintance with him;—efaith! here they come together in search of me—you may now satisfy your curiosity, while I examine him.

Let us retire awhile—

—for I feel an agita­tion I cannot describe!

This is the strange gentleman I told you of, brother!

Good day to you, sir.—

Sir, I'm your servant.

I am told you wanted to speak with me.

To be sure and I do.—The short and the long of the business is,—I have lost a little run-away damsel, and you, my dear, must be after finding her for me.

That's coming to the point, indeed!

Who knows but 'tis Miss Emily he's hunting for?

That we shall soon see.—

—We have choice of waifs and strays on this forest.—Now here—

—here's a pair of pretty out-lying deer!—will either of these suit you?

There—now you may see—is that any thing like him?

Oh, no!—

"That's her!—that's the beauty I told you of!

"Upon my conscience, but you've a pretty choice, miller!—if I was hunting only for myself, I should seek no prettier game, than that little blue-eyed doe to the left—Oh, she's a sweet creature!"

Here, lasses, you must help this honest gentleman to find his sweet-heart.

I hope, sir, she's worth looking for!

For my part, I hope it won't turn out a wild-goose chace!

You all seem to think it a very good joke—but, as a stranger among you, let me hope for your good wishes at least—

You have mine, sir—from a sympathising heart.

And I wish that you may recover your wandering mistress, with all my soul!

Well, but this is an odd kind of story, Captain!—Come, as we are by ourselves, what sort of a damsel have you lost?

Now, faith—that's the very thing I came to learn of yourself.—But I'm sorry the dear blue-eyed girl has left us so soon, without leave.

What the devil!—don't you know your own mistress?

Palliluh!—but that's a good joke! Why, my dear, she's no mistress of mine!

Not your's?

Not at all—I'll tell you, as a secret!—it's my friend's!

Oh! your friend's is it?—

To be sure and it is!

What an opportunity for treating Miss Di with a specimen of my cousin Tipperary's courtship—unless her shape should marr the joke.—

—Well but, Captain, let's know a few of the marks and colours—is she fair or brown, fat or lean?—

Why, that, upon my conscience, I forgot to ask; but, as near as I can guess, by my friend's taste, she must be a clever, plumpish kind of creature—just about neither one thing, nor t'other, d'ye see!

Come then, Captain, to keep you no longer in su [...] ­pense, your friend's lass is lodged not far off.

But are you in earnest?

To be sure I am. Now, what will you say if I take you to her directly?

Oh, but will you now, my dear fellow? Give me your hand—and after that, I'll give you an opportunity of doing myself a little favour, if you please?—

What's that, Captain—'Twas lucky that I told Miss Di this morning, she would be run away with—

Only to tell me where I may find that little blue-ey'd sawn—as a recompense for my own pains!

And why not hamper Sir Walter with him a little at the same time, and so rescue poor Emily—who may be the lass he's in search of, after all!

But what are you proseing so much about to your­self, little fellow?

Why, I'm thinking, that this may be a service of some danger, as well as honor.

So much the better.

You can talk big—and fight a little, upon occasion?

Is it a laugh, sir, you are after putting upon a sol­dier?—

Who me?—don't look so fierce, Captain!—not I upon my word!—

I'd have you learn, sir—that, when necessary, I can fight a great deal—and say nothing at all about it!—

Why, that's better still—then give me your hand, my dear friend—and now mind what I say to you.

Well, proceed—

You see that great house.

Very well—

That's Sir Walter Waring's, where she's to be found.

The devil she is now!

Our forest air has not disagreed with her; you'll find her as plump as a partridge.—How Sir Walter came by her—that you must learn—but he has always been a devil of a fellow, from his youth, for fighting, and wenching!

Oh, be easy!—let me see whether he won't give her up to me?—and a fighting fellow too!—

You'll be able to speak to her now, as he is riding in the Park. Ask for the young lady—you can't mistake her—as she is the only one in the house.—

To be sure, and I won't beat up the old buck's quar­ters!—I perceive you've a little intrigue and frolic in this desart forest, as well as in Ireland's own self?

And why not?—

SCENE XII.

I hope the archery will go off well—or my sweet cousin will never let me hear the last of it—never hear the last of it!—He has been endeavouring to turn it in­to ridicule all thro' the hamlet, this morning.—What woman of spirit, but myself, would endure the mortify­ing control that I do?—But I'll match him one day or other, when he least expects it.—Where the deuce can this girl be?—

—Bridget!—Bridget!

Did you call, your Ladyship?

Call?—to be sure I did call!—and have call'd for you this half hour!—Is my archery dress ready?—quite ready? for let me tell you—

Yes, your Ladyship; and I think your Ladyship will look more handsomer in it, than ever I see you in all my born days—

There!—there!—now you are going to crack the drum of my ear with your eternal talking.

You may go about your business—may go about your business.—

—what, the deuce, is there in talking—that people are so excessively fond of it—excessively fond of it? for my part!—

—Well!—what's the matter?—what's the mat­ter now? how often have I told you—

There's a gentleman in the Hall—wishes to speak with your Ladyship:—he says he came from Mr. Med­ley.—

Wants to speak with me, child?—wants to speak with me? What kind—what sort of a gentleman?—Is the girl dumb?—why dont you answer?—why don't you—

Oh! a comely, genteel person as you could wish to see, my Lady—but he talks a little like a foreigner.

C [...]me from Medley?—Then I find there was some­thing in his hint to me this morning, about a new ad­mirer.—

—Shew him in immediately;—how, like a stupid statue, the girl stands!—

—I like foreigners—and ev'ry thing that's foreign!—He must have heard of my situation—and, in the true spirit of foreign gallantry, wishes to release me from this hideous captivity?—there's no resisting one's fate!—but I fear he has caught me in a horrid dishabille—horrid dishabille—

Faith, and I believe, Arthur—you have blundered into a small mistake here!

Sir, you do me honour by this visit.—But you seem a little surprised—you need not be alarm'd, for Sir Walter—

Oh, Madam! never fear me—I'm not to be alarmed by all the Sir sighting Walters on the forest.

Well, Bridget was quite right—he is a fine, bold man, indeed—and sure enough—

You've some agreeable female, I presume—as a com­panion about your person, Madam?

Not a soul, sir—I'm confined here, as you see, by my solitary self—

Then there can be no mistake!—This must be the little fellow's Partridge;—and a plump Partridge she is, sure enough!

Pray what may be the commands, sir, with which you have to honour me?—You know, sir, that—

To be sure, and are you not the dear creature, I have travelled so many weary miles to look after?—

That's a question—you, sir, can best resolve—it would ill become me to—

O! it's her own self I perceive—though she's grown old enough for the lad's mother-in-law, at least—but that's his business, and not mine.—

—Oh, Miss!—we were afraid we had lost you for ever!

Too long have I been lost indeed, sir!—Oh! the te­dious moments that—

Three short years seem to have made a little altera­tion in you, Miss—for the better—

Better, sir?—I thought, for the last twelve months, my poor heart would have been broken!—my grief of heart—

Well, then—under all your sorrows, and concerns, Miss—it's a pleasant thing to see you look so jolly!

Jolly, sir?—my sighs and tears, at one time, had near­ly worn me into a consumption!

Now, a cousin-german of mine, in the county of Sligo—by bottleing up her tears too much in a hurry,—fell, poor soul, into a devil of a dropsy!

You've heard—you've heard, no doubt, sir, of my deplorable fate?

To be sure—and the old baronet's tricks into the bargain [...] but how came you with him at all, my dear Miss?

It was my cruel destiny—perhaps you've not heard how—I'll tell you the whole, sir—I'll tell you—

Oh, you may spare yourself all that trouble: little mit­timus the justice's clerk told me every syllable.—If these are her "mild melody accents!" what a comical car must poor Wilford have for music?—

—But come, madam—thank your stars that your faithful ad­mirer is arriv'd—that old square toes, our uncle, is gone to take a peep at the other world!—and that you may now—if you please—be made a happy creature for your life to come.

Dear sir—you only flatter a woman's weak cre­dulity—weak credulity!—But to whom do I owe [Page 61] the honour of so agreeable a visit—this agreeable visit?—for I blush to own—

My name, Miss, is Arthur O'Donnel, Esq.—I have the honour to command a company in Dillon's brigade—would lay down my life for my friend—and am ar­riv'd, with your leave, to take your sweet self to liberty, and the man you must love, and adore!

But, surely, sir, you are rather too impatient—too impatient;—besides, you know, sir, it requires time—

Time!—oh, have as little to do with that old rap as you can help.

La! Ma'am, Sir Walter's getting off his horse at the keeper's lodge, and will be within, in a [...]ew minutes.

How unfortunate!—but the wretch is always in the way—always in the way!—Dear sir, I must beg the favour of you to retire!—I am afraid that—

Oh, never fear me, madam!—Let him come with his fighting face, and we'll see who has the best pretensions to you.

But I'm alarmed beyond measure for the conse­quence. [Page 62] —I intreat you to leave me for the present—leave me for the present!—and hereafter, you know—

Well, but if I file off—and suffer the enemy to re­possess the garrison.—will you guarantee me another speedy interview—and hold yourself in readiness for a quick march at a moment's notice?

That requires a little consideration—but I'll talk with Medley on the subject—and from him expect to hear, when and where you may see me again: but may I rely on your honourable protection?—honourable pro­tection—for a poor—helpless virgin—that—

SCENE XV.

So far, I fancy, this little noddle of mine has suc­ceeded pretty well!—Miss Di, I should hope is by this time, smitten with my cousin Tipperary—for I mistake my man, if, in this first visit, he made himself understood to be courting for any one—but himself!—Now must I contrive a few whimsical appointments—like so many cross bills in chancery—but with this dif­ference—that mine are not intended to create—but to prevent mischief.

Well, my friend—did you meet with her as I inform­ed you?

To be sure, and I did—for which I heartily thank you, my dear fellow.

You found her well, I hope?

Yes, hearty enough—considering the poor creature has almost fretted herself into a consumption!

Alter'd a little, no doubt?

Indeed, and you may say that—why, she's so plaguily alter'd, that she does not look like the same creature.—

But how should you know that captain? I thought you had never seen her before.

But haven't I seen her lover paint her to me a thou­sand times over?—though I now perceive, that he al­ways took a very flatt'ring likeness.

"You did not stay long with her?

"And you may thank the old buck of a baronet for that.—Oh, there had like to have been the devil of a kick up about his discovering me with her!—but I made a prudent retreat—and Emily is to plan with yourself, when, and where I am to see her this afternoon!

"Very anxious, I suppose, to return with you?

"No faith—to tell you the truth, I thought that she put but a cool remembrance upon the worth of poor Wilford!"

His Worship wants you, brother, directly.

And I his Worship—and I fancy on the same busi­ness.

Robert!—you're an honest fellow—and I'm not a little indebted to you, my dear.

None in the least, sir.

You wish'd, Captain, to learn something further about the little nymph with the blue sparklers?

To be sure and I did;—and you'll assist me;—upon my conscience, but it's a pleasant thing, to be able to do a good turn now and then by one another—an't it, Bob?

Ay, that it is, for certain.

Well then, go with my brother down to the Ball­fac'd Stag—call for a bottle of wine, and by the time you're sat down to it—I'll be with you, and give you the clue you want.

My dear little fellow, how friendly will that be?—Come along, Bob; we'll soon draw the cork, boy, and drink to the lass we like best on the forest!

WHICH way can I shape my further course with any prospect of success?—I have met with no one except a savage train of hunters, and they made but a sport of my distress!—Yon track seems the most beaten, and may lead me to our appointed rendezvous:—I'll explore my way thither, in expectation of some tidings from my friend's pursuit;—but my heart at this moment mis­gives me, and tells me, that Emily is estranged from it for ever!

Hilliho!—hilliho!—ho!

That must be his welcome voice! halloa! boy; halloa!—

—my dear friend! how rejoiced am I to see you!

And you may thank the luck of it, Wilford, that I shou'd make a blunder upon you so soon!

Well—what success?

Faith, as to the success—d'ye see—why—I can't very well tell.

Have you seen, or heard any thing of my Emily?

To be sure, I have seen her—and for the matter of that, have heard a little about her into the bargain!

Say, then—where? and how is she?

Oh, she's not far off—and, let me tell you, one of the plumpest, and sleekest does on the forest.—

Spoke she not of me with passionate anxiety?

Not a great deal of that—though she talk'd pretty freely too!—but the poor creature, Wilford, has lost all the "mild melody accents" that you told me so much about.

Pooh!—is this a time for jesting?

The devil a jest!—however you'll soon see her, and judge for yourself:—besides, you'll have to learn some­thing about her, and an old fighting Sir Walter, where she's just gone on a comical kind of visit—which I can hardly make head, or tail of!

"Visit to an old fighting Sir Walter?"—What can all this mean?—oh! sly with me instantly to relieve my impatience.

And that I will, my friend—but I've a little impa­tience of my own to fly with first.—Had you ever the honor of a téte-à-téte, Wilford, with a pretty blooming a hop-ground?

Indeed, I take this very unfriendly, O'Donnel!

What! that I won't give up the chance of my own little wild doe, to go immediately after your's, which I've got safe enough in the toils for you?

Direct me but the way—

Well, then, if you are in such haste—you see that lit­tle crooked gladeway straight before you.—It leads to the village near which she lodges.—Enquire for the sign of the Stag, with the bald—white countenance—halt [Page 70] there—and in half an hour I'll be with you, and conduct you, myself, to your rivulet Emily.

But may I depend upon you?

Oh! as sure as fate!—

—Poor fellow!—what a devil of a job will it be, if, after all this trouble, he should find his Emily so altered—that his own eyes and ears can't put a remembrance upon her! Give Arthur O'Donnel the girl neither quite so plump, nor so fond of changing.—To be sure, and I'm not going to meet a little creature just after my own heart! and, oh! will I not love her, as long as the frailty of my nature will permit?—Ay, that I will, by the—but be easy, Ar­thur,—let me swear by something that will not disgrace her!—

SCENE XV.

Come, strike—strike, lads and lasses!—you've done a fair morning's work—and now all hands to the kiln to dinner!

I have luckily nick'd the time, I find!—but where's my cousin Tipperary?—Unless I trap this wild bird first, my whole plan will be destroy'd.

Well, my dear!—

Ecod, I sear it's not so well.

Why? what's the matter, little sellow?

Only your friend's damsel about to be moved off—that's all!

What is't you mean? Is it game you're making?

Sir Walter—hearing, I suppose, of your search after her, has, some how or other, prevailed upon her to be secretly convey'd to one of his tenants on the other side of the forest—and fix d this time and place, to meet her for that purpose—

And after all her fine speeches and promises to me?—But where's my little grig?—she won't slip thro' my fingers after this manner, I hope.

No—no—you're safe enough there—I was oblig'd, you know, to put off her coming for fear of a discovery:—But see, yonder appears one of the party—and the other, no doubt, will soon follow.

And Arthur O'Donnel will soon make another amongst them.

Suppose, then, we conceal ourselves hereabouts, and observe their motions?

With all my soul!

But see!—what a deuced black cloud there is coming up with the wind!

Well—and what of that?

Why, an't you afraid, Captain, that it will pepper your fine jacket for you?

Oh! not at all—a soldier's jacket is not made for sun­shine—and mine, I know, won't turn its back to a fly­ing shower.

If that's the case—step you behind that pile of hop­poles, while I get on the snug side of this tree.

Do so, little fellow,—saith and I have hid myself in many a worse ambuscade before now.

Here he comes!—and the storm close at his skirts!

I don't much like the looks of the weather.—But here am I, snugly arrived first!

To be sure, my old Cockatoo, and you are not!

The sun seems to put rather a black face upon it!—but the hop-pickers are all out of the way—surely I can find a little shelter for her!—What a lucky opportunity to settle matters with the pretty rogue?

And with me at the same time, if you please.

Didn't I hear somebody?—No!—'twas only a rust­ling among the vines!—Who knows, but the little bash­ful hussey may be half concealed amongst them? I'll take a peep—and so forth.

There's an abominable old gander for you!

Hush!—hush! for the hen bird's now on wing!

How indiscreet to consent to this interview!

Indeed, Miss, and you may say that.

He's a man of honor, no doubt—But, bless me, how the sky lowers!—what shall I do, if I'm caught in a tem­pest?

Indeed, Miss, and you deserve a good sopping for your pains!

I thought I heard a footstep this way!

Your own, my dear—for you tread none of the light­est!

Faith they've got a souser!

So much the better.—To be sure, and I won't wing the old cock-bird, for crossing upon my own sport!

And now, Matt, must you avoid an untimely explana­tion.

What a mighty pretty joke is love in a shower!

Upon my soul—Madam!—I—can't say—that—that I expected the honor of this ducking—to—to meet you here!—

Nor I—sir—the pleasure of catching my death, for the—the—felicity of seeing you here!—Provoking wretch!—

—You may think, sir—

Oh, palliluh!—I did not hope for the honor of ex­pecting you here—nor I the pleasure of seeing you there—

—when you had both contrived the whole farce beforehand—except the happiness of seeing my own self—any where!

This is very extraordinary behaviour in you, sir!

And have I caught you out, Cousin Prudery, at last?

What is it you mean, sir?—I came—

To learn to pick hops according to the articles of war!—but you've got a good sopping for't—and so forth.

There's an honest fellow in the world, Madam, who has reason to expect better usage at your hands.

Excellent!—What say you to that, Coz?—Tho' she has flushed my pretty game—I can match her—for now I shall be able to silence her clapper—by positive evi­dence of the fact!

To you, sir, I hope I shall find time to explain my­self; and as to my cousin Wiseacre—

Oh, Madam, the thing is bad enough without any further explanation.

And pray, sir, who may you be—that come in this impudent, blustering manner, to poach after a part of my family?

Part of your family?—That's a good joke, my old boy!—

—but I'll soon settle that.—As you're such a dev'lish fighting fellow—d'ye see—why, you may be pleas'd to give me a little account your own self— [Page 78] for daring to presume, to seduce the mistress of my friend.

I seduce!—I—a fighting fellow!

Come, come—make no more words about it:—you'll meet me, my old buck, without further ceremony, on this very spot, to-morrow morning, at sun-set—that I may not be compell'd to post you—upon ev'ry pole in your own hop-ground.

Damme, if I think this fellow's any thing but a bully after all!—I'll try him, however—

—Look ye, Captain Bounceabout!—I have served three cam­paigns, in our county militia, with some credit!—and, let me tell you, sir—I am no more afraid than you, or any other man—of sire! sword!—and so forth!

So much the better, my dear.

SCENE XVI.

What would I give, to know how they've settled their matters?—but we shall have it piping hot when Miss Di comes on the forest, I'll warrant it!—Now to mus­ter my female troop.

Here they come, brother Matt—and a pretty shew they make, sure enough!—

Well, my sprightly lasses!—now fall in—and we'll soon march off to the Oak—and see who's to win the pretty prize heifer.

"But I say, Mr. Medley!"—"Now, dear Mr. Medley!" &c. &c. &c.

Halloah!—why, if you keep up this clatter, I tell you again, that all the game will break the bbounds of the forest!—

"Ay, but Mr. Medley—suppose I say, Mr. Medley, &c. &c.

"Now pray talk a little gently, sweet ones!

"An't they very gay, and pretty?

"Yes, very smart indeed!

"They were done, spick and span new, at London!

"Ay—but what's the signification of the gold wri­ting, Mr. Bob?

"Oh! that's our Vicar's doings—it's Arabac, I believe—but ask my brother Matt—he can tell you all about it.—

"So I will.—Mr. Medley, what does this here mean?

"That there, my love?

"Yes, that—

"Why, as to Archery, it means—that—if—but, per­haps, you'd like a free translation best?

"Dear! I don't care!

"Why then the plain meaning is that,—the middle's your mark!—Now for it, girls!—come, Kitty Maple, stand you to the right.—

—You ought to shoot well, hussey—for your father was always a dead hand at pulling the long bow—

"I wonder you an't asham'd of your wicked self!"

Here, Betsy Blewit—stand by the side of her—very well.—S [...]cky Wheatsheaf, and Jenny Whitethorn, you are next—now let the rest drop in—two and two.—But where the deuce are the little woodside nymphs?

I'll go and fetch 'em, brother.

Do, Bob!—tell 'em they'll be too late, if they don't put their best foot first.

Somebody, I see, thinks there'll be no sport, if some folks an't here!

Smartly said, Kitty!—I don't know how they may shoot an arrow—but you must take care, or some folks will hit as far with their sparklers, as the best of you!—Now strike up, pipers!—

SCENE XIX.

Dear, dear!—what can I do?—We shall certainly be too late!—and you will not go?—

—How can you be so unkind?

Come! come! my pretty ones—they are all march­ed to the ground—with music and streamers!—and by [Page 84] this time her Ladyship, Miss Dinah, is there!—Matt sent me to look for you!—But where's Miss Emily?

There she sits under that tree—and won't budge an inch, for all I can say to her!

I beg you to excuse me, Dolly!—let me go back—say I am unwell!—

Now, pray you, Miss Emily, come along with us—the sight will be worth nothing without you!

Well, since you will have it so—proceed—

SCENE XX.

Are they all here?—are they all ready?—"I'm so flurried, and confused!

"What's the matter, Ma'am?

"Would you think it?—My blundering Cousin has discover'd me in the hop-ground!

"Why, that was a little awkward, to be sure—but I can manage it, Ma'am—by swearing, that I sent you there on purpose to meet him!

"My dear Medley—can you, indeed—can you, indeed?—but then if he—

"Oh! never trouble yourself about it—to be sure I can—and with a pretty safe conscience, I fancy!

"As to the Captain—I can easily set him right my­self—but I wonder he's not here.—

—You've pick'd a tolerable set—tole­rable set!—Hold up your head, girl—hold up your head!"

All ready—quite ready, Madam.—Where the deuce can my little hussies be?

As they are already—you may sound the charge, and let the archery commence; though I don't know—

That's her Ladyship, Sir Walter's cousin, sitting alone!

Oh, you're come at last!—but you've lost your turns—so stay here, Dolly, till I call you—for I must attend the targets.—

Pretty well, Kitty—but levell'd a little too high!—Better, much better, Betsey Blewitt—just within the [Page 87] third circle!—very well, indeed!—

—Oh, bad, very bad!—

—Excel­lent!—Well done, Jenny!—within three inches of the bull's eye!—Let me see who'll beat that?

Who's nearest, Medley?—who's nearest?—who's nearest?

Oh, Madam, Jenny Hawthorn! hollow!—

Now for it, Dolly—Now, Dolly!

Don't rattle and talk so fast, Medley—you confuse 'em—you confuse 'em—besides, if they—

Oh, worst of all, Dolly!—No heifer for you, Doll—but you think a good husband prize enough for one day, I suppose?

Of all conscience, Matt—I'm content!

Where is the perfidious Emily?

Oh, there she sits—

—just as unconcerned—as if nothing had happen'd at all!

Why add mockery to my distress?

Oh, the Captain's here!—I'll pretend not to observe him.

Don't be alarm'd, there's a dear.

But here's a creature, Wilford—here's one—

—after my own choice.

She's won it—she's won it!

Can it be possible?

Oh! very possible! keep a little back.—

—It's only a small flutteration at seeing me—'twill soon be over—see how she revives, at the sound of my own voice!

Oh, my Emily!

And do I live again to behold my faithful Wilford?

Oh, oh! the pretty lost lamb's own'd at last!—the plot will unravel fast—I must to Sir Walter, and by a full consession, secure a free pardon.

What is the matter?—what is the cause of this con­fusion?—Pray, sir—how have I deserved this usage? am I so alter'd that you don't recollect me—don't recollect me? Surely, Captain—

Faith and troth—for the matter of that—tho' you have forgot yourself—I know you well enough, Miss Emily, and all your pranks!

Miss Emily?—all my pranks? What can he mean? what can he mean?—You well know, sir, my name is Dinah; and that I am the nearest relation of Sir Walter Waring—tho' you are all conspiring against my honor? but justice, I hope—

Upon my conscience, I begin to fancy we are all as mad as wild geese! Harkee, Wilford, is it you, or me, that this bewitching rogue has beplundered out of our senses?

It is I, my friend, who have lost mine in love, and ad­miration!

But where is the rustic guardian of my Emily?

Here—

—My kind, disinterested protector!

Lackaday! what is all this?

Oh, father!—Miss Emily's sweetheart's found, and this is he!

I wish I could express the obligations I owe to you.

Pooh! pooh! why do you give the gentleman all this trouble? May I be free enough to speak a word of my mind?

By all means!

Then, set you, sir, as much store by this treasure thro' life—

—as I have done but for three short months—and, trust a plain man, we shall all be sufficiently rewarded!

Generous woodman! Emily, you must prevail upon your adopted sister, to attend you to Wilford Lodge.

What say you, my dear friend, Dolly?

Oh! that's impossible, Ma'am—she may soon have a house full of children of her own to take care of!

How is all this?

The audacious wretch coax'd me into a kind of pro­mise this morning;—and I can't find in my heart to be worse than my word.

Why then, give Dolly the little prize-cow, for a bride's portion—I think, Wilford, you'll not be after making a bull of that now.

Come along, come along! and see how I administer justice among 'em.—I arrest you all in my own name!—and so forth.

Pray, sir, what may be your charge against us?—

—It's a bailable offence, I trust?

Yes, if you put in your appearance at my house, where, with your consent, we'll have a merry night on't—and so forth.

But perhaps, Miss Emily—

Won't resist my authority, when she knows I've a chaplain at hand, who can soon bind her over to good behaviour for life.

Upon my conscience, Sir Walter, but you may com­mand Arthur O'Donnel, esquire.—Give me your hand, my old buck—it's a pleasanter thing to draw a cork, than a sword, with an honest fellow, at any time.—But hark ye, little Mittimus, there'll be no need for that Snap-dragon—Miss Consumption there, to be one of the party!

But, my best of friends, with your permission,—we'll transplant you to a larger farm, where you may acquire the means of extending your benevolence.

With thanks for your kindness, sir,—as my Land­lord's ill-will is blown over, I'll live, and die by my na­tive woodside! But, before you rob me and Dolly of our pretty companion, and depart—stop at our cottage by the way—and, if you can break bread with a lowly man—you shall have his blessing into the bargain.