ACT I.

CONCEITED fop!

Impertinent savage!

Gentlemen—

'Pon my honour I shall pink you.

And by my fist I'll thump you.

But, my dear rival lovers, my town fop, and my country beau; silly to quarrel about me; for when one gets thump'd, and t'other pink'd as you call it, probably I may have neither of you.

Didn't you confess, my little Spanish guitar tickled your heart?

And, my sweet, didn't you own that my great French horn roused your soul?

Yes; but 'pon my reputation, gents, I have not yet determined whether I ever was rous­ed or tickled.

Mary!

My mistress! Coming, madam.

Frill!

My master! Yes, Sir.

You Muns! Why Muns!

My Master! zounds! Sir—I'm here—I'm there.—Mary, don't stay with that fellow.—Coming, Sir.

I can't bear to leave 'em together.—Coming, Sir.

Mary, see where's Miss Adelaide.

Yes, Ma'am.

My riding hat and switch cane.

Here, Muns! you loitering curs'd va­gabond—what are you at? Call, call, call!—Desire Yemon to get the horses ready.

Ay, Count, since my master, the lord of this house, has been so unlucky as to lose his estate, and you and your friends in Paris have [Page 3] been lucky enough to win it, now I am your steward; and as they sent you over here to Ire­land, to collect the rents, to pay his Lordship's bonds to them, I'll go now about and make the tenants pay them into your hands, on condition you marry my daughter Rachel here.

I will.

You will not.

But all de clown of tenant, when I did go to gather in de l'argent, did throw de mud and stone at my head, spoil my curl, knock o' my hair out of my buckle; ma foi, call me Jack Frog. Now, Mademoiselle, am I like dat Jacky de Frog?

Ha, ha, ha!

Fools! They never saw their landlord, Lord Esmond, since he was a boy. No, he spent his time and money flying over Italy and Germany, like a wild goose, till he's got him­self now coop'd up in a prison at Paris! Ha, ha, ha! Come, Count, I hope to bring all the te­nants to reason—but that sneering rascal Jack Connor—Daughter, I insist you'll never speak to him.

Not I, Sir—till you go out.

Here, you Muns! (calling.)

Frill.

A servant without from one Mr. Nu­gent, from Paris.

Nugent! One of our club—I come. Monsieur, excuse moi pour un moment.

Sir, the horses are ready.

Rachel, as 'tis late, we sha'n't be home [Page 4] to night—the Count and I'll take a bed where we can—some of the tenants—

This is charming!

Dear papa, sure you won't sleep out all night!

Business.—You Muns.

Sir.

You'll let me know if Jack Connor meets my daughter, whilst I am away. There's a retaining fee, you dog.

I will, Sir.

Muns, run and tell Jack Connor to come here to me as soon as my fa­ther's out of sight. There's something to drink our health by the way.

I will, Miss.

Now you'll be on the watch; I may depend on you.

You may, Sir.

You won't fail?

I won't.

Mind, don't stir out.

Not a leg.

You'll run now to Jack Connor?

Every foot.

My dear Jack Connor, I love him more than ever for his fidelity to my Lord; and surely the man of honour and integrity can ne­ver prove a faithless lover.

Ah, you sly one! you come down here to the country on a visit to me, yet prefer birds and groves to all we can invent to amuse you.—Now is n't it love?

My dear Rachel, I'd make you my confidante, but you're such a giddy creature.

I! Me? Ha, ha, ha! What would I give that you had a lover!

I had.

O precious! Who is he?

Let these tears tell you my lover is no more.

Dear me!

'Tis now ten years since I saw my Nugent at Montpellier.

Ten years! You constant soul!

I was scarce fifteen: his fortune was doubtful; my father forbid our intercourse—my Nugent was seized by ruffians (I could never find the cause), and carried up to Paris; but have since been assured, by my father, of his death.

Lord! had I known, I should not have revived a painful idea.—Come, I must keep up your spirits. My father won't be home all night, and I've sent for my dear Jack Connor, to sup with us. Come, now, I wish I dare be angry with my father, for joining this sharping Count against his own master, Lord Esmond: no won­der, for his mother, the old lady, not to rest in her grave. Adelaide, as sure as I live, I heard the ghost sing last night in the Belvedere room—the sweetest voice!

Very strange! I've now sat up pur­posely three nights, but I've neither seen nor heard this wonder.

Oh, but my dear, the poor dead lady is certainly disturb'd by the misfortunes of her son, Lord Esmond:—it must be she, for the ap­parition is dress'd exactly like her picture that hangs in the room where it walks.

All fancy.—Ah! if the dead were suffer'd to revisit us, I should be comforted by my Nugent.

Come, we must have no more thoughts of dead lovers:—you shall hear my living lover rattle, court, and sing at our little party; we'll be so jolly.—Come along.

Then the Count will meet me?

Yes, my Lord.

You call'd me Nugent?

I did, my Lord.

Very well; take the horses back to the inn. Well, Trap, I've been your pri­soner ten years, and your suffering me to come here from Paris is a stretch of good nature.—Yonder's my house: here am I in the centre of my own estate, and, thanks to fortune, not master of one foot of land.

Night's coming on, and not a roof here will shelter us. In view of your house I can't get a mug of beer.

Country people leaving off work: I'll see if I can't get a drop amongst 'em.—But, my Lord, don't run away, for if I hav'n't you to bring back with me to jail, I shall get hang'd.—Hollo! neighbours.

Somewhere here stood

the cottage of poor old Connor—a good house; he thrives; I'm glad on't. His son Jack was my little play-fellow,

Ah, merry be your hearts.—Good-night, neighbours.—All going to their comfortable homes; whilst I—this bachelor's life is plaguy stupid—I will marry my little Rachel.

Hollo! Friend, d'ye know where I can get a bed?

I've two or three spare beds in my house here.

One will do for me.

Then one you shall have, on one condition tho'—that you drink one jug of ale with me after supper.

Supper, and a jug of ale! Your terms are rather severe to a hungry, thirsty, weary, traveller.

Thirsty! Oh!

Phelim.

You shall have a traveller's wel­come to the house of Jack Connor.

'Tis he! the companion of my youth.

I'll fill for you, Sir—Come—

The good-natur'd boy ripen'd into the benevolent man.

My first toast, always a bumper: Here's freedom to my landlord, Lord Esmond.

Pray where is my Lord now?

In prison, near ten years; and I fear for life.

What's the matter?

I beg your pardon, Sir; but when I toast my friend in distress, I mix my drink with water.

Affectionate fellow!

But I've heard say, my Lord is rather a dissipated worthless sort of character.

What's that?

You're welcome to what my house affords; but sup by yourself, for I'll never sit at one board with him who could slander the man I esteem and ho­nour.

Her father out? and sent for me? My kind Rachel! If I'had but Father Frank, now—he might—Muns, how go on the Count's affairs?

A mystery there.—But

I'll get to the bottom on't.

Now I'm prim'd for love or war: if Frill dare but look crooked, or Mary but frown—oh! how I'll bang him, and touzle her.

As I find all here have lost every remembrance of my person, I'll venture up to the castle, and see the Count, in my character of Nugent.

Phelim, let this gentleman want for nothing till I come home. Your hand, Sir; I was angry, but you're a stranger; perhaps in necessity—and my doors shall never be shut against the weary traveller.

You are an honest fellow, that I'll be sworn for.

I suspect here's something going for­ward against my master.—Here comes Muns and Mary.—See—kiss—oh the traitress!

True. Ha, ha, ha! But, Mary my dear, how could you listen to such a cur as Frill?

I'm a cur! Oh you puppy.

Frill is a creature—but really since this ghost has appeared, the house is so frightful that any company is acceptable.

That for the ghost! To night we are to have a jolly little party—Hush, my dear,

—Jack Connor's coming to Miss Rachel, I'm with you, and cook is preparing a nice bit of supper for us all, tol, lol!

A supper! delightful!

Old master don't come home to night, and we'll be so merry, tol, lol.

Charming! then I'll go superintend supper.

And I'll make Tooten the black, my pupil, prepare his horn.—Oh, how sweetly we play'd on the water yesterday!—They may talk of fine views, and vistos, and beauties of nature; but 'tis to hear the divine echos of my horn, that brings the gentlefolks all the way from Cork, and even Dublin, down here to the lake of Killarney. But now for supper.

There! the lovers sha'n't be overlook'd by us, ha! ha! ha! Here Tooten and I'll sit and take our pleasure—while they mingle lips, we'll jingle glasses.—Oh how I love to see good cheer going forward!

So, here's rare doings in the old gen­tleman's absence; master and I bubbled by such clowns as Muns and Jack Connor—oh revenge!

Who is here?

Oh choice luck! Here comes the old codger home unexpectedly.—Such a hobble as I'll bring 'em into. Ha! ha! ha!

Oh my bones! Who's that I see there? What, are they all gone to bed? Well I'll go too, and not disturb any body.

What, Sir, go to bed without your sup­per? the nice supper that Miss Rachel has pre­pared for you?

Hey! what is all this?

The table laid for your supper, Sir.

Why who knew I was coming home?

Miss Rachel, Sir.

Eh! then she knows I had a fall from my horse?

The devil a word of it.

Oh yes, Sir, Mary told her that.

Mary! who told Mary?

Oh, Sir—she saw you, Sir, as she was taking a walk.

She took a devil of a long walk then; for I fell six miles off.

That was a great fall indeed, Sir.

Eh?

Walk—yes, Sir—ride—Sir—Mary was riding too—the evening being fine, Miss Rachel gave her leave to go see her brother.

Mary?

Yes, Sir; Muns rode before her.

After my orders to stay at home on the watch! Before Mary? Then I suppose the rascal took my chesnut pad?

Don't say I told you—but I fancy he did—they wou'd not wish you to know it, Sir—they'll all deny it to you.

Mary!—he—indeed I heard a woman squall.

Yes, Sir, she said she squall'd.

Then perhaps 'twas she sent the 'po­thecary to me.

It was, Sir.—One lie has drawn me into a dozen.

A busy slut! He was a farrier—call'd himself a surgeon, tho' he was a farrier; for the fellow out with a steam, up with my leg, and swore he'd bleed me in the fetlock.—Where's your ma­ster?

Lord, Sir, didn't he come home with you?

No, he said somebody from France was to meet him at an inn three miles off, he, he!—But I'm glad my daughter had so much thought as to provide a morsel for me.—Oh what happiness, after all one's crosses abroad, to come to one's own home, when one's children [Page 12] and servants are so attentive to render it agreed­able!—Muns!

Where's this cursed fellow, with his galloping my horses about the country? Frill, shall I trouble you to help me on with my gown, and then I can come and sit down to my supper in comfort.

Yes, Sir.—Oh what a rare hobble I shall bring them into, ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

And there now is my old papa, trotting from cottage to barn, like a cunning little excise­man, with his green book under his arm, and his pen stuck in his wig.

Ha, ha, ha!

But why won't Miss Adelaide give us her company?

You must.

My dear, suffer me to go to rest, if I can rest.—The death of nay Nugent, the mis­fortunes of Lord Esmond—tho' I never saw him—It may seem an affectation of sensibility—I can't account for it, but I feel something inexpressibly horrid hanging over me, ever since you show'd me the old lady's clothes.

Sure!

Not a night I don't dream I'm rum­maging her clothes-press in the haunted room, as you call it.

Well, my dear, if you will retire, suffer Jack to see you across the gallery.

Ay, Miss, under my guard, show me the ghost that dare affront you.

There, Miss.—Let's see, I must bring another bottle; for your lover is a good fellow, and a good fellow deserves a good bottle.

I wish Jack Connor wou'd make haste.

Ha, ha, ha! My little dad, if he knew what we were at here now.

Yes, my poor father's fast asleep by this, in some peaceful cottage. Ha, ha, ha! I did not care if he had a taste of this turkey; I know the old lad likes a bit o' the merry-thought.—How long my dearee stays!—Is that you?—

Eh! you've been giving her a kiss, I suppose—come, whilst its hot; sit down, you foolish fellow.

Ah!

What's the matter with you?

Sir, I—I—I thought it was the ghost.

Why, did you invite the ghost to sup­per?

If Jack returns we're undone.

Lord, Sir, who expected you?

Indeed I should not have been home to night, but for the tumble.

What tumble, Sir?

Sure you—oh true, I wa'n't to know she let Muns gallop my horses about the road.

Well, ha, ha! I forgive you and him, since it has procured me so good a supper. Ha, ha!

Forgive us! Then, Sir, you know all?

Yes, yes, I'm not angry—call the fellow.

O precious! Then, Sir, you'll let him sup with us?

Sup! what your servant?

True, Sir, I am his mistress, and he loves me dearly.

Who, Muns?

Muns!

If your Muns dare to sit down at a ta­ble with me, I'll knock the scoundrel to the devil.

Now, Tooten, don't look towards the lovers—here we'll sit, play, and take our glasses.

Now up with Black Sloven.

Hey!

How d'ye like that, my lad o' wax?

What's that?

Eh!

If I could prevent Jack Connor from coming in.

Here's two bottles for the jolly dog.

Ha, ha, ha! Go give it to the jolly dog yourself.

Ah!

Curse your squalling! I believe it was you that frighten'd my horse.

Me!

Where the devil did you pick up such an apothecary?

I pick up an apothecary! Sir, I'd have you to know—

He was a farrier

and, Sirrah, the next time you take the road—

I take the road!

So you must go on the pad!

I go on the pad! Oh Lord!

You scoundrel! cantering about.—Where's the pillion?

Mary, fetch my master the pillow.

So, Sirrah, she's in love with you?

Yes, Sir—eh Mary? ha, ha, ha!

And you must sit down and sup with me?

Eh! well—thank ye, Sir.

Fine! Hadn't you better ask the black-a-moor? (Ironically)

Tooten, sit down, boy.

Get along, you infernal impudent son of a—

Oh Lord, he's mad!

Where's my saddle, you villain?

His saddle! Going to ride this tim night—yes, the devil's got into him.

I'll beat him out of you, you damn'd rogue.

The ghost has bit him—Oh.

A knave!

This old mansion has so many windings, I thought I should never have found my way back again.—Come, sit down, my dear.—Zounds!

Stop the fellow—thieves—

I wonder if Miss Rachel's gone to bed.—Jack Connor must have slipped out when he heard master scolding us—Yes, I hear him lock­ing the great gate.—Near one o'clock—I wish I was in my own room—I dread crossing that dis­mal gallery: if I meet any thing I should die, I'm so frighten'd. O Lord, what's that?

Tis I, my dear.—D'ye think master saw Jack Connor?

I hope not; but I can't conceive how he got off.

No matter, as he wa'n't seen we're safe.—But here's a strange gentleman, I saw him just now at Jack Connor's—knock'd at the postern, and ask'd for a bed, as he's benighted, and—

The deuce! Were you mad, to let a stranger in at this time of night? He may be a white boy.

Looke, Mary, I let him in out of good nature—let those that are ill natured turn him out.

Why 'twould be cruel indeed; only master's so cross.—Stop—I've a thought—the finest opportunity!—Let's put him to sleep in [Page 17] the haunted room; as he don't know on't he won't be afraid, and if the ghost walks he'll cer­tainly speak to it, and then—

Why yes, if it is our dead lady, she may tell him what disturbs her, then may be she'll vanish, and trouble the house no more—I like it hugely.

Where have you left the gentleman?

In the lodge. Come—

You need n't run away from a body.

Ah! how loving these women are, when they stand in need of our protection. Hem! (swaggers) Eh! bless me! tol, lol, lol.

This is the room, Sir.

Yes, Sir, this is the room, Sir.

I'm very much obliged to you.

The bed's in the alcove, Sir.

Well, Mary, put on the sheets, and air it well for the gentleman.

Can't you?

Psha!

Sir, the bed is very well air'd.

Yes, Sir, it has been laid in, not above—eight years ago.

Go—(to Mary, who with much hesitation and terror goes into the alcove)

The gentleman of the house is gone to rest?

Yes, Sir, the gentleman of the house rested in prison these ten years—

Indeed! Poor gentleman.

Ay, Sir, he's a lord; the cards and dice have left him a very poor gentleman—but my master, his steward, is now quietly snoring.

Then I shall return him thanks in the morning.

Oh, Sir, you may as well not thank him, Sir.

Oh then 'tis entirely to you I'm obliged?

Yes, Sir.

As I was left by the man of the house, when you saw me, but for your humanity, I must have lain in the fields all night—Here.

As I did'n't buy my humanity, I never will sell it.

There, Sir, the bed's ready—Lord!—so frighten'd!—thought I should never get done.

Hush! hush!

Sir, we'll leave you a light, Sir, and you may leave it burning—that he may see the ghost.

Wish you a good night, Sir.

A good night's rest, Sir.—Oh what a clawing will be here by and by.

For the first time indeed, since my infancy, I shall sleep under my own roof.—Since I find this Count not here, I shall, if possible, get out early and meet him at the inn where I appointed. [Page 19] The dead of night seems very awful in these antique mansions.—This room was, I think, my dear mother's—yes, there's her picture—my fond parent—

Who's here? a lady!—Heav'ns, she's asleep!

Is it possible?—'tis my Adelaide!—Hold! to wake her—the sudden fright may—yes, this ring, her last pledge of affection when we parted—

This ring may afford her comfort, without discovering that 'tis I that have been here.

This seems a private door—and that lobby—yes—it leads to her chamber—she still only knows me for Nugent, and thinks me dead—the cause perhaps of her disordered mind.—To meet her here, my greatest blessing—so strange and unex­pected! May it lead to some greater happipess!

ACT II.

OH that wicked old master, to turn me off for only letting in that strange man!—a strange man he was, for none could tell how he got out this morning.—Master swears he was a thief, and threatens to prosecute me for an accomplice, if I ev'n ask for my wages—and then I've left my sweet Mary-gold all to Frill.—Here have I tramp'd two miles, as hungry—and not a shilling in my pocket.—Now here's a house of entertainment—yet I'm afraid ev'n to sit down on the bench, lest I should be ask'd to pay for it.—I'm so hungry—House!

Oh! what an effect an empty pocket has upon a man's voice at the door of a public house!

What wou'd you be pleased to have?

Any thing, Sir.

What do you want?

Every thing, Ma'am.

Who are you?

A poor servant out of place.

We want a waiter, husband.

Did your master give you a cha­racter?

No, Sir, he had none for himself.

What can you do?

Sir, I don't know what to do.

What are you capable of?

Oh, Sir—I can play a duet upon the horn.

I want no horn.

No, that you don't, husband.

You understand horses?

Yes, Sir, and cookery.

I want one in my stable.

A horse?

Psha! my stable.

Yes, Sir, but I'm best in the kitchen—Ma'am, I'll do any thing for bread—only employ me—I'll be humble as a spaniel—secret as a fish—watchful as a cat—I'll sleep like a cock upon one leg, with the other ready to pop down to run on a message.

Come in, my lad, you're the very man for the Shoulder of Mutton.

That I am, Sir, either bak'd or roasted.

Only if Count Fripon inquires for Mr. Nugent, show him in.

Yes, Sir.

Luckily, in the time of my distress at Montpelier, I took the name of one of their confederates, who, from being stationed in a distant quarter, probably the Count has never seen. They, supposing me one of their rascally club, I may get at their secret schemes, and so be prepared to counteract them.

Fal, lal, lal! Ha, Monsieur Nugent, I [Page 22] never ave de honeur of seeing you, but know you are of our club in Paris; Sir, I am rejoice at your coming.

Thank ye, Count—I'm sent—de­puted by our friends, to see how you go on with my Lord's affairs.

Ah, malheureux! very bad—no money—been out now all last night, and got but abuse—no—dey will pay none but my Lord him­self—One Jack Connor will not let 'em.

Rascal!—my friendly school-fellow.

Monsieur Nugent—eh—I have de thought—has Monsieur Dowdle, de steward, ever see you?

I think not.

Bon! It vil do—since de tenant vil pay none but my Lor himself, I vil pass you on dem for Lor Esmond, and I warrant in tumble de money, ma foi, ha, ha!

Excellent! You'll say I'm his lord­ship, ha, ha! they pay me, and we return to Paris, and share it with our club, ha, ha! ad­mirable!

Dat is it, ha, ha, ha! But hold—if dey even believe you are he, how will dey tink how you got out of prison in Paris?—Ah! ah! dat is to be consider.

What do you think of my making my valet pass for my jailor, whom I'll say I prevail'd upon for a bribe to accompany me on this ramble, to see my estate?

Ay, I'll have him.

Ha, ha, ha! d'ye hear him?

Diable! dat is he!

Why, to tell you the truth, I had adopted this very scheme of yours, and already [Page 23] tutor'd my valet to play his part of my jailor.—Now Trap will help me without knowing.

Oh den dis is your valet?—ha, ha, ha! admirable! ha, ha, ha!

Now only observe how he'll keep up his character.

Oh you're there—I'm glad I've found you.

Well, Trap—I call him Trap—

I thought you'd run away from me; but you frighten me so no more, as back you come to prison directly.

Ha, ha, ha! bravo! Oh he does it capitally!

Now I'll give you a specimen how I can act the lord.

But my honest jailor, indulge me in this little frolic—I paid you well for it.

Bravo, my Lor; now jailor.

Yes, but what's your pay if I get hang'd for letting you out?

Ah, ah, ah! dat is capital. Ha, ha!

But I am now going to my castle.

But first, my Lord, you'll come back to my castle!

Oh charmante! ha, ha, ha! to my castle—Oh dat is admirable—ha, ha!

Yes, damme, what do you laugh at? If I had you peeping through the bars of my castle, then you might grin like a baboon.

Yes, but as dere is nobody by, you may now as well drop the jailor.

But I won't drop the jailor.—Nobody by?—Damme, do you want to rescue my prisoner, eh?

Begar, if I vas not told you was valet, you almost make me tremble.

Valet! what do you mean?

Oh I warrant he is de careful diligent; I wish such to ave de care of my clothes.

Your clothes! ha, ha, ha! I'd desire only one suit and your body in it, I warrant I'd take care of it.

You will drink my health?

Why, as for your health that's no business of mine, but I'll drink your wine.—My Lord, I'll have an eye upon you—can he drop from this window?—No, no.

Ha, ha, ha!

Well, don't you think we are safe in our jailor? Ha, ha!

Ay, I hope you'll play de Lor half so vel, and we touch de cash. Ha, ha!

Do you call, Gentlemen?

Ventre bleu! more acting! diable! You Muns, vat bring you here!

Master turn'd me off for letting in, and giving a bed in the haunted room, to a half-starv'd poor devil, that—

Oh! how d'ye do, Sir? La, Sir, did you see master, coming away?

Den you were at de house, eh?

Last night, to look for you.

Oh!—vel, my Lor Esmond, ven you return to your castle as yourself—

Immediately.

This my Lord Esmond! huzza! my fortune's made!

Hey! What have you got lazy already, sirrah?

Eh! fellow! who do you talk to? My Lord, had'n't we best quit? No accommoda­tion for your lordship in these paltry inns.

Hey, fellow, you must dispatch all your servants and horses round the country, dat all my Lord's vassals and domesticks may show their duty and respect in his welcome home.

And since you did entertain me, to show my gratitude, I open your house.

Well said, honest Muns; and for your disinterested generosity in receiving me last night, you may change places with your old master.

Make me steward! Oh, my Lord, I shall grow mad with joy!—Clear the way there for his lordship.

The stranger one! I shou'd have stay'd to entertain him but for his reflections on my Lord—and the call of love.

Yes, and here has been old Tough, the grazier, making such a riot about a lamb, he insists has been taken out of his field.

Psha! the fool! never mind him—if my darling will but come, and Father Frank will but marry us—Oh! here comes his reverence.

Well, Jack Connor, what is this business?

The first is, that your reverence will breakfast with me.

Well, that's a business of no harm, if it be a good breakfast.

The next, that you marry me to my dear Rachel, who designs to slip out to me this morning.

I will have it.

Now here's that litigious block­head, old Tough, the grazier, come wrangling about—

So, Jack Connor, now that Father Frank is here, I'll make my complaint, if you don't restore my lamb.

She's not yours—you know my shepherd saw you t'other night sneak into my field, and brand two of my sheep with your own name.

Oh! that was a grievous sin, neigh­bour Tough.

Ah, Father Frank, I see which way your opinion goes where good eating is to be had; but I'll lay my case before my Lord's steward, that I will.

My love!

Well, here I've run to you. Oh! I'm so frighten'd.—Now if you have not brought Father Frank here to marry us.

Ha, ha, ha! guess'd it.—Ah, slyone!

But have you her father's consent?

I've her own, which is worth fifty fathers—eh, Rachel?

You have,

I will not marry you without her father's consent.

Here's the steward.

Lud, my father!

And yonder comes old Tough again, swearing he'll complain to him.

Will he? 'Gad I've a thought—Ha!

Father Frank, only step in; Rachel will make breakfast for you—suffer me to say a few words to her father, and I promise you he consents to our marriage.—Hush! step in.

Your hot cakes and your eggs are good, and that that's good is the delight of a churchman.

Jack, I am come again to demand your rent, to pay off my Lord's debts to the Count.

Well, you shall have it, if you'll oblige me.

Oblige you, that's doing all manner of rogueries to the wart and perplex me!

Well, my frolicks are all over—for as I lost every hope of your giving me Rachel—

You've no hope indeed—this evening I give her to the Count.

Well, I knew you would; so I struck up to the daughter of old Tough the grazier; unknown to him she has scamper'd off here to me, and is this moment in that room.

No! Well you're a devil of a—

I am—and how can I help it?

You can't.

We've Father Frank here ready to marry us, but he's afraid of your anger.

My anger! What is it to me who he marries?

Why yes, as 'twas all about my courting your daughter, he will not marry me to this girl without you are willing.

What! you knave, do you think I'll connive at your running away with any man's daughter! 'Gad, I might be served so myself.

And you shall—for by all the beard on your chin, if you don't call to Father Frank, to marry me to the girl within, —there,

as I lose her through you, I'll again tack about, and run away with Rachel in spite of your teeth. I tell you, you'll never be able to hold your daughter till I'm tied up.

Then I wish you were tied up.—Damn the fellow, he's as dangerous in the village as a fox.—Well, I consent; so call Father Frank.

Call a priest from his breakfast! are you mad?

Call the wench hither.

I will, thank ye—

But I think you'd as good not be present.

No?

No.—Old Tough will owe you a sad spite.

Well, I'm oblig'd to you.—Indeed her father is a wicked old rogue.

So he is, Sir; he's a wicked old rogue: why I told him so just now.

Did you? What! to his face?

To his face, as I talk to you this moment.—Says I, you old knave, I'll marry your daughter.

Do, —go in and do it; ha, ha, ha!

I will—I'll do it.

Ha, ha, ha! I like to see a crabbed old numskull bamboozled, ha, ha, ha!

So do I, ha, ha, ha!

I'll have her.

Eh! here he is.

Yes, he has miss'd her. Now only mind the fordid fellow's manner of talking of his family—all in the grazier's style.—Why, Sir, his wife he calls his ewe.

Then I suppose he'll call his daughter here within, his lamb, ha, ha!

Eh! why no; I think he'll scarce do that.

I'll bet you half-a-crown he does.

Done! He won't.

He will. Zounds, don't I know the fellow's mode of phrase? A mere savage!

Well, but do you call to the friar.

I will.—Here, Father Frank, marry the couple directly; go in and do it.

Oh! this will make a rare laugh against the old fellow, ha, ha, ha! Here he comes.—Father Frank, make haste and marry them.

He shall restore her.—Mr. Dowdle, do you authorise these doings?

What doings? ha, ha, ha!

What doings! Jack Connor to take away my lamb?

His lamb! ha, ha, ha! by the Lord I have won my half crown—I knew the grazier would come out, ha, ha! She's Jack Connor's lamb by this, ha, ha, ha!

His! For ten guineas she carries my name.

Ha, ha, ha! For twenty guineas, by this she carries Jack Connor's, ha, ha, ha!

Why, zounds! he's not tarring her over again!

Tarr'd, yes; and she'll be soon feather'd.

Feather'd!

Yes, when she's dress'd; 'tis all the fashion, you know.

Zounds! then he intends her for his own table.

Yes, certainly, she'll head his table, ha, ha, ha!

He's plaguy dainty.

Yes, he's a dainty fellow.

He's a thief.—I thought to have sent her to market to-morrow.

Father Frank, if the job's over, let the lamb come out here, and ask the old ram's blessing.

Father, your bles­sing.

Eh! zounds! if this should be the lamb!

Egad, and I believe you are the old ram, ha, ha, ha!

Father Frank, what the Devil's this you've been doing?

Fie, fie! this is unseemly.—I've been joining this pair in holy wedlock, as you desired me.

As you desired him, ha, ha, ha! Egad, 'tis my turn to laugh now.

Father-in-law, to keep the laugh from yourself, you'd best join in it.

Father, don't be angry, for upon the [Page 31] word of a bride, I had no notion of marriage,—but as you desired it, I complied, to show my obedience.

Oh, plague of your obedience.

Sir, father-in-law, here's the half-crown you won.

Ha, ha, ha! I'm so pleas'd. Jack, if you ev'n have my lamb, keep it, and let your lamb carve it for the wedding-day supper.

Ha, ha, ha! Yes, by this my young lady's a bride, and if poor Muns hadn't been turn'd away, I might have been a bride.—Miss Adelaide!

Bless me! will she sleep all day?

'Tis very late.

I ate! ha, ha, ha! now, Miss, hav'n't you been dreaming of your sweetheart?

Oh! Mary, the sweetest dream!

La, Miss, that's a vastly pretty ring: I never saw you wear it before.

Ring! Oh Hea­vens! is it possible?

I must put your room to rights.

This is the very ring I gave my Nu­gent [Page 32] at our last parting! If he should be still alive! Oh transport!

La, Miss, as sure as I live, there's a door none of us ever saw from your chamber to the haunted room. I went through a long passage that goes all the way; and there's my old lady's clothes-press open'd, and all in such a confusion!

Do you know of any stranger here last night?

None, Miss, but he I put to sleep in the haunted room.

Where is he?

Gone, Ma'am, but Lord knows where.

It must have been my Nugent; every circumstance confirms it; and this ghost must have been I that walk'd in my sleep. I shudder to think of the dangers I've escap'd; but my Nugent lives, and danger vanishes.

Ah, jade! Pray, Miss, did you know of my daughter's elopement?

Dear Sir, did you see the gentleman?

The Devil's in the women! I ask about my daughter, and a gentleman is slap'd in my teeth! Hussey, were you her confidant?

Pray, Sir, can you think where Muns is gone?

Get along, you jade, you and your Muns; the rascal, I suppose, is starving in a ditch by this—

Hey! what great man is this?

Hey! nobody to throw open the gates—for us!—Hey!

You! you scoundrel, how dare you show your saucy face here?

Come, we must have the rooms now in some order. This table—chairs—sopha—

We must have a total change here—by'r leave—

Hey! Turn out.

Stop—we shall soon see which of us is to turn out.

My beloved Adelaide!

My darling Mary!

'Tis my Nugent!

Nugent! Oh! she vil spoil all.

De lady is mistake;—dis, Mr. Dowdle, is your master.

Eh!

Miss, say with us, and you shall ave de much money.

And does Mr. Nugent come here an impostor? Lord Esmond has been already too much wrong'd—deprived of liberty and for­tune: and, though I never saw him, and once dearly loved you

, could I suppose you one of his unprincipled oppressors, I'd banish you for ever from my heart.

My Adelaide! what joy to prove your probity unshaken, as your innocence is spotless! I should scarce wish to recover my for­tune, but to render myself more worthy of your love.

He does act de Lord charmant; I must help him on.

Monsieur Dowdle, I have received lettres from my friends in Paris; to shew dere generosité, dey desire me to deliver him up his bonds—Dere, my Lor.

Now as we have no claim on his Lordship, I hope de tenants will now pay dere rents.

I am sure, Count, I am vastly oblig'd to you for this,

I'll die before they take my Lord again to a gaol.

So, Connor, you'll die for me, and not return to sup with me? ha, ha!

And was it you, my Lord, I affronted at my house?

My old friend, neither time nor dignity has erased the affection of our boyish days.—As for my steward—

My Lord, my first request is, pardon for my father-in-law.

Ah, Jack! you know how freely I gave you my daughter.

And I have lost ma chere Rachel—Ah! malheureux!

But now, my Lord you'd as good think of coming back to my house.

I thank you, Trap, but I prefer my own.—Restor'd to my estate, I will satisfy all my creditors; and, be assured, I will take care to indemnify you.

Diable! Are you really my Lord Es­mond? Oh, I am ruined!

My ruin, I hope, will teach our nobility, instead of travelling to become the dupes of foreign sharpers, to stay at home and spend their fortunes amongst their honest te­nants, who support their splendour—Trap, you have been long my gaoler, now I'll be yours;—but liberty shall be your punishment—hospi­tality the lock of my prison—and honest Muns my turnkey, to give a welcome to the kind friend, social neighbour, and, above all, the stranger in distress.