Now madam, give me leave to congratu­late you on your safe arrival on the English coast.

Ah Cicely, if the storm that op­posed our landing had fulfilled its threats, it wou'd have reliev'd me from a world of misery.

Are you then resolv'd to obey your father and become the victim of his ambition, by marry­ing [Page 4] the young Baron of Oakland, whom you have never seen?

I am, at least I think I am.

O, Madam! how can you determine to for­get Sir Palamede, he who loves you so.

Poor Palamede, yet, why was he absent when I left my father's court? why did he not bid me adieu?—

Madam, most of your attendants are come ashore, but it's a great way to Oakland Castle, and its very cold.

Where are they?

Why, Madam, at this good old lady's cot­tage, where there is a charming fire, and I wou'd advise you madam, to go there and warm yourself, for I am sure you must be very cold.

Where are you going sot? Stay here and wait for the rest of Lady Elinor's attendants; and do you hear, the next voyage you take, I wou'd advise you to keep yourself sober.

Why, that's very pretty indeed, so, I am to stay here freezing by way of a direction post, I got tipsey and lost my money in France, and began to come to myself, when I was about half seas over; and now when I thought, I shou'd be comfortable by a good fire, I must remain freezing here, in all the horrors of sobriety. It is the fate of genius to make discoveries by which other people profit—why, who have we here? sure it can't be! yes it is—what my dear Master, Sir Palamede!

Is that Lewis?

Yes sir, I was Lewis, till I was froze into an isicle, how did you come over from Normandy?

In the same ship with you, though con­cealed from the knowledge of Lady Elinor.

I guess the rest, ah! you are a happy man, you are in love; I wish I was in love or in liquor, then I shou'd have warmth enough in me to brave the weather.

I saw your Lady land, whither is she gone?

Why, Sir, to a cottage hard by, where is such a delighful fire-side:—Oh, I wish, I dar'd, follow her.

Go, thither instantly—and say, I in­treat permission to fulfil my duty in attending her.

I'll be there immediately, but may I say I came by your orders.

Yes, begone!—

To what a wayward fate, am I subjected to love!—without hope and to pursue disappointment.

How Lewis, Sir Palamede in the same ship with us, and coming here immediately!

Yes Madam, if he is not froze by the way.

Oh, Cicely! assist me to conceal my joy.—What can Sir Palamede [Page 6] mean by surprizing me thus?—agreeably—oh! heavens he is here.

Pardon my intrusion Madam! an hum­ble dependant on the Lord de Courcy, may well dread his presumption.

Sir, the clandestine manner, in which you quitted my father's court, renders it impossible for me to consider you as his friend.

Oh, forgive me!—long I ador'd you in secret, and shou'd have fallen a silent sacrifice to my presumptuous love.

Was it well done to take advantage of my father's friendship for you, and watch an op­portunity to triumph over the weakness of his daughter—not that you ever will triumph over her weakness;—but—but why did you follow me?

Ah Sir, why did you follow my Lady?

Destiny compelled me hither, compelled me to a land where my footsteps are forbid­den, where my presence is a treason, where my life is proscrib'd!

Good heaven, what have you to fear!

Nothing: for I have lost you.

I must not trust myself to pity him—Yet how can I avoid it, in seeing him unhappy.

Sir; I beg your honour's pardon for my boldness, but do you accompany the Lady, because my Grandson, Martin here, will be your guide to the Baron of Oakland's Castle.

Why, do you know the Baron of Oak­land?

Aye Sir: I knew him before he was a great man!

Yes Sir, so did I, for all he holds his head so high now, and quite forgets when he was plain Edmund, the Ploughman.

What, d'ye say—why then who is this lord?

Ah, Sir, it does not become poor folks to speak ill of people behind their backs, for that it might get to their ears again.

No Sir; as my grandmother says, it don't become poor folks to say.—

Psha, it becomes every one to speak the truth—torment my curiosity no longer.

Why, then Sir, you must know that about ten years ago, the old Baron, Lord William, was accused of being in a plot, and conspiring against the life of our good King William, the Con­queror, and was banished.

I remember it.

He took with him his only son, a fine youth, about twelve years of age; but, alas! Sir, he has not been heard of since.

I am all impatience?

Now Sir, about a year ago, Lord William's wicked accuser died, and declared the good baron innocent.

Alas!

The King willing to make reperation, for the wrongs he had done him, endeavoured to find him, but all in vain, therefore his lands and estates have been in possession of a distant relation of the family;—then sir, there is a young baron the present heir to.—

Aye and a pretty fellow he is too,—you may go in good woman, we have no further occa­sion for you I believe.

Good woman—Marry, come up I say, have I lived all these years to be call'd good wo­man, by a lady's waiting maid! come along Martin—a good woman indeed!

Good woman indeed!

I have heard the whole story Palemede.

Oh, Cicely!—

Oh Cicely!—ah, you may spare your long speeches, poor Palamede!—you are in a sad delima truly, and have'nt wit enough to extricate yourself; but want me to help you, I pity you to be sure, but I can't help laughing at you.

I have now still stranger motives for wishing to accompany Lady Elinor to the Castle, motives you cannot guess at.

Well, Well! so you shall, leave the man­agement of the affair to me, and don't you ap­pear till we are setting off.

I want words to thank you.

I am very glad of it, for words would take up too much of our time at present, but away and wait till I send for you,

well wou'd we were at our journey to Oakland Castle, I wish to see this baron's son,—Dear Curiosity how I long to—gratify you!

How are ye my lads?—How are ye?

O, here comes our young Master, Lord Edward

Does your Lordship hunt to day?

No, Robert not this morning.

What Sir! do you give up the chace when the game's in view:

Hush, that's my dear Adela, whom I told you of; she arrived here yesterday evening unknown to any body—if you betray the secret.

I, Sir! no, no, I am your father's butler, the post of all others which I love, and while I have the management of the wine cellar, it is quite indifferent to me how the world wags;—so I shall follow the Huntsmen.

But hark'ye Robert, not a word about the Haunted Tower, or you will frighten her out of her wits.

No, no, Sir—

Here comes father, strutting along; ecod he did not strut so when he followed the plough.

Heyday, how dare you appear abroad with­out your servants with you, why are you walking alone?

Why father, if one must always move in a crowd, one might as well be bell-weather, to a flock of sheep.

Sirrah, Sirrah; don't put me in a passion, you have been civil to those rascals, I know you have, why don't you frown at 'em as I do? how often have I told you, there's nothing supports dignity like ill-humour: but you have no ambition.

Not much indeed.

Why, have'nt you more pride? hey, if you are not proud you dog, I'll break your bones.

Why, I can't help nature, father.

Nature; why, look at me, do you see any thing like nature about me? No, no, yet I, myself, am as vulgarly and naturally pleased as any body; but I'll not show it, I'll defy the best friend I have to say, I have given him a civil word since I have been Baron of Oakland—an't I the terror of the neighbourhood.

Yes, that you are; especially since you imprisoned the poor fellow for catching a hare—and it is proved since that he is innocent.

Innocent, I am very sorry for it—that is—I shou'd be sorry, if I was not a Baron—give him this money;

but don't let him know it comes from me, but tell him I have the power to hang him; for I will have no man dare to think I am in the wrong; justice holds her seat in my breast, and is to all parties equal and indifferent.

Very indifferent indeed.

What's that you say? if I desired you to behave ill to other people, I did'nt mean you should to me—do you know who I am? that I am the Baron of Oakland, and that all dignity flows me.

Yes, it flows from you pretty fast, I think none seems to stay with you.

Don't you grumble Sirrah, but do you hear? prepare to receive the Lord de Courcy's daughter, whom I intend for your wife, I expect her arrival every day.

But perhaps I may not like her, father.

That may be, but you shall marry her for all that, I insist on it, aye; and love her too—no,—I don't know that I may insist upon that.

Ha! ha! ha!

Why, you impudent scoundrels, how dare you laugh so! I'll have no persons to attend upon me that have'nt a proper respect for my dignity—follow me you rascals—

I hope I shall be too sharp for you, tho' father, for I am determined to marry nobody but Adela,

Oh, my dear Edward! I am glad you are here, I have got a thousand questions to ask you—is the Lady Elinor de Courcy arrived yet?

She is not, so all you have to do is, to dress yourself in the cloaths I gave you, and to pass upon father for her.

Egad, and so I will—I always long'd to be a fine lady, but how shall I manage to be­have like one?

Faith, I can't tell you—however, it don't signify, any thing will pass upon father.

But are you sure now Edward, he has not much dignity, if he has, I shall only be confounded and look foolish; but is he much like a great gen­tleman?

Ha, ha, ha! heav'n bless you, father is no more like a gentleman than I am—

I am glad of it, for the presence of our great quality folks always takes my breath away, and tho' I cough and hem, for an hour, the deuce a word can I get out.

'Tis just the same with me—tho' I am a Baron's son, for my part, I never feel myself so [Page 13] much like a great man, as when I am with the servants—I hate talking to my betters.

I am pleased to hear you say so, I was afraid you would have forgot poor Adela, for the rich lady, de Courcy.

What marry a woman of quality—oh! I shall be a lost man; I shou'd never be able to make free with her—shou'd she use me ever so ill, I cou'd never venture to scold her.

But when you marry me—

Oh! I love you so much, that I cou'd scold you with the greatest satisfaction.

But won't marriage—

Never fear Adela, love has hitherto been our constant attendants—I'll warrant you he'll follow us to church.

Ay, but they say, he has a sad knack of leaving married couples at the church door.

Psha, love and marriage are better friends then you think for.

Yes, perhaps they are best friends at a distance.

No, no, like true friends, love and mar­riage must meet together, to perfect the happiness of both—Oh! Adela, when I come to the title and estate, and you are my lady.

Oh, we shall be as happy as the day is long.

Aye, and the night into the bargain.

Then such dancing—

And such tilting and cudgel playing.

And such fine talking and singing—

And then such eating and drinking.

And such fine company, and then.—

Here let us remain, till I gain some intelligence of the object of our search, I am sure my sister and her attendants must have been on board that very ship, which we saw at a distance in the late storm.

Well Charles! what news of my sister?

My lord, I learn that the lady de Courcy is on her road to the Baron of Oakland's Castle, which is at no great distance.

And Sir Palamede—

My lord, I am sorry to say he is with her.

Infamy, and dishonour! but I will pursue her, and avenge the wrongs of my family; go forward Charles, and procure every intelligence you can gain—I shall wait for you within a mile of the Baron's Castle.

I will, because it is my duty; but wou'd I were in Normandy again, nothing shou'd induce me to quit it, except my regard for so good a master.

Well! Palamede, I will frankly own to you, that the account, I hear of the Baron of Oakland's son, is far from pleasing me; and though I dare not disobey my father, yet I will do every thing in my power to delay the marriage—

In short, Si,r my lady agrees to my scheme of visiting the castle as Lady Elinor's Attendant till she h [...]ars further from the Baron, her father.

Transporting tidings!

Well Robert!

Make yourself perfectly easy, friend Hugo, every thing shall be in perfect order to receive Lady Elinor.

Aye, I hope so, for the honour of the family; It is near three score years since I was first a servant in Oakland Castle, and have seen three possessions of it; I have come down from father to son, with the rest of the old furniture.

And a fine tough piece of English Oak you are.

I remember the death of Edmund Ironside and the restoration of Canute; I remember the Harolds and Hardy Canute, and the good King Edward the Confessor; and I remember the good Baron, who now haunts the old Tower.

Hush! no more of that.

Ah Robert, if you were old enough to remember what I can.

I am just as well pleased as it is.

We shall have musick and dancing enough at the wedding, I hope Robert—for the honor of Lord Edward.

Yes, yes, when a man is desperate to at­tack matrimony, the more noise and bustle the better; like trumpets in a battle, it drowns reflec­tion and prevents cowardice.

Are all the pikes and javelins burnished up, and the armoury put in order, and the large stag's horns in the hall dusted?

Horns are most ominous wedding deco­rations—No, no, friend Hugo, I have ordered the horns to be taken down.

Bless my soul! why, I remember 'em in the family these fifty years.

For which reason, the young lady ought not to see them.

Then is the Lady Elinor very beauteous Robert?

Why do you ask Hugo, do you admire beauty yet?

Oh yes, Robert! I never could yet behold a beauteous woman without admiration; the setting sun may surely cheer my sight tho' it cannot warm my heart.

I hope Adela has got her fine cloaths on, to pass for Lady Elinor—O! here she comes!

Well, here I am at last ready dress'd, to pass for a fine lady; but how long shall I remain so?

Why, you are now in the high road to suc­cess.

Aye: but there is so many turnings and windings that one is never sure of being right,

What! Madam with such a guide as Merit.

Yes, Merit is often apt to lead one a stray;—Oh dear! I do think the old Baron is coming—hey, O no! he is'nt—O! I wish the meeting was over.

You have no idea, how much you look like a woman of quality!—

Indeed?

Nature certainly intended you for a fine Lady.

Then indeed shew as very much mistaken; for I never in all my life cou'd tell a lie, without blushing; so I am sure I shall never do for a fine lady.

But I hope you have your lesson by heart.

O ay, let me see, I am come over from Normandy, from my friends, and arrived here to day, did'nt I, Sir?

You did ma'am.

And anxious to pay my respects to the Baron of Oakland, left my servants on the road?

Yes ma'am.

O! but there's one material circumstance I have forgot, I don't know who my father is.

That may happen in the best regulated families; however, I'll tell you—your father is the Baron de Courcy of Normandy, a great favorite of our good King William, and you will remember, that the King wrote to your father, recommending this marriage.

Well, I'll endeavour to recollect if I can, but you know it is not very strange, I shou'd for­get what never happened.

Well madam! I will go and acquaint my lady of your arrival—and pray be careful in what you say.

You may depend on it Sir, I'll not speak truth if I can possibly help it.

These gay trappings hang very much in my way, I shall make a sad fine lady I fear; I wish I cou'd [Page 20] fancy myself in my every day cloaths again, when I think where I am and on what occasion, I won­der at my own confidence! Nothing but love cou'd have inspired it, and to gain my dear Edward, I wou'd attempt a thousand times as much!

O! here he comes, ah! its all over—I shall never be able to get thro':

Ah! there she is sure enough—she seems very pretty, what a fine eye she has.

My courage fails me—'twill never do I find!—

Her coming so suddenly is so cursed un­lucky, I don't know what to say to her, I have not got my speech in my pocket; she turns her back upon me. I believe she is very proud—

Ay, now he is laughing at my aukward­ness—I wish he [...]d speak first,

Well, come if I must speak, here goes—My lady, the joy!—I say my lady the joy!—that is joy my lady creates happiness—and is—is—joy my lady—which joy I say my lady is—I hope your Ladyship is pretty well.

Yes, pure well, I humbly thank your lordship—O lord! I am glad it's over, the first word is a great matter,

She's wonderous, condescending, Robert, considering her high blood,

—Well my lady, as you have been in such a hurry as to leave your servants on the road, and only to come here on a hop, as a body may say; I hope your ladyship will have the goodness, to excuse all faults.

O yes, my lord, I'll excuse all your faults with a good deal of pleasure.

All my faults, aye, she has found me out already,

—Why to be sure my lady, we all have faults; but if one is of a good family, you know my lady, it does'nt so much signify.

O! to be sure not, for though some peo­ple are a little aukward and bashful before company, yet I don't think they are a bit the worse for that.

No, no—that's a hit at me—

For you know my lord, if one is not used to strange company, one's very apt to look like a fool—

Ye—e—s so one is my lady—yes she means me,

but come my lady, let's talk of something else; how does the lord, your father, I respect a man of his great family.

Ay my lord, a great family indeed?

Oh, she's proud enough of her high blood, tho',

well my lady! no offence, but I fancy I may venture to say, my family is equal to his!

Why, I thought Edward told me, he was his only child,

indeed my lord!

Aye, indeed my lady;—now my blood is up, I can talk to her,

and give me leave to assure your ladyship, whatever notions you have form'd of a great family, you'll not be disap­pointed.

Ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha!

What the devil does she mean?

I declare your lordship makes me laugh, ha! ha! ha!

Yes I see I do, but I think your ladyship need not be so polite as to tell me so.

Nay, now your lordship looks angry.

Have'nt I reason! what did your ladyship mean by affronting me, in telling me of your fathers great family!

Why so he has, there are eleven of us, boys and girls.

Hey, what?

O what have I said!

O! I suppose this is some quality joke, and that's the reason I don't understand it.

Come here sirrah, there's the Lady Elinor de Courcy! go and talk to her, bid her welcome; and do you hear, don't be bashful, and dishonour your family; but attack her with your whole stock of impudence.

[...] bashful! no I thank you, we people of fashion know what's what.

Tol. de roll. [...]am prodigiously happy to see your ladyship;—hope you left all friends in Normandy well, all right and tight, had good weather, and a good ship, no sea sickness; even we people of fashi­on are subject to it sometimes, as well, as well as other people—an't we father—hey!

Why, the boy's assurance astonishes me—oh! he has touch'd her hand and caught it of her.

Never mind I'll bring you off with the old fellow—ha! ha! ha! a monstrous good joke indeed, very well faith, very well, ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha!

My dear father: Lady Elinor tells me she has joked a little with you, as we people o fashion do without meaning any thing—ha! ha! ha!

Aye we people of fashion do, ha! ha! ha! I beg your ladyship woud'nt think of it.

Zounds, father don't be bashful—

why don't you bounce a little as I do.

Well my lady, I am now going to my great hall, where I'll receive you in form, and I believe I shall trouble your ladyship with a bit of a speech on the occasion, come my lady—no, no, you must not go before me—I am a baron you know, consider my dignity!

I say Robert, I think we shall be too cunning for old dignity, though:

We are at length arrived at Oakland Castle, continue your disguise madam, but a little longer.

And do you Palamede, recommend dis­guise, you who pretend to be a lover?

Oh! madam here comes the old Baron, but pray think of something melancholy, or you will certainly laugh; nature and art have made him such a strange animal, that he seems only to be laugh'd at; but here he is!

And is this the representation of our family, degrading thought! but I must dissemble

So you are an attendant on lady Elinor de Courcy, hey! but who's that

Oh! that's my lady's own waiting woman, and a very great favourite of my lady's Sir,—I assure you.

She must be a great favorite of every body's for she's a monstrous pretty girl; and pray who is that gentleman, is he a favorite of your ladyship's?

O no! that is—that is Sir Palamede the Baron's Jester.

A curious character she has assigned me, but I must carry it on,

Why, jesting is a very pleasant employment to be sure, though not a very profitable one.—I [Page 25] shou'd think—hark'ye friend, don't you some­times get a bone crack'd?

You are mistaken, my lord, we jesters are privileged people; we anatomize vice and folly.

Ay, that is you cut up people by way of amusement.

Improvement my lord—satire well applied, is the medicine of the mind—

That may be, but I don't take physic, so you may spare your trouble; and so the baron pays you for jesting, hey? that's one way of enjoying a jest, at his own expence; but I shou [...]d think now, so good-natured as the world is, that he might contrive to get laugh'd at, Gratis.

Your lordship finds it so, I have no doubt, now as a specimen.

Ah! that's another hit at me, but, I dare not resent it,

well, but if you are attendants on the lady Elinor de Courcy, where have you been all this while?

Oh! Sir, we have left my lady behind on the road.

Your lady has left you behind you mean—why she's here in the castle.—

Indeed!

Yes, indeed, Mr. Jest-hunter, and, I am going to give her ladyship audience in my Great Hall—and if we want any body to laugh at—we'll send for you—there, I hit him I think.

What can he mean—give me your ad­vice, Palamede.

Ah, madam! you forgot that Sir Palamede is a lover, and consequently advice is a commodity he does'nt deal in; but if you will take my opinion, ma'am?

Well?

It is plain some imposter has assumed your ladyship's name, for what purpose we must endea­vour to find out; therefore suppose we continue our disguise, wait on the mock lady Elinor, overturn her with respect and confound her with courtesy—

Admirable!—

Sir, the messenger is return'd and brought these letters—Aye, madam, your shadow is here before you, find—

Hush! not a word, I charge you; from whom are those letters?

That's what I want to know, I wish you wou'd ask Sir Palamede, the question?

Lady Elinor, every moment furnishes additiona [...] reasons for requesting you will be guided by Cicely's advice.

Ah! Cicely, there they go, a pair of as true turtles as ever bill'd—Oh! what a fine thing mutual love is if you wou'd but let us follow their example, and fall in love with me in a strange place, now!—

Oh! you may spare your rhetoric—I promise you. I prize my liberty too much to be talk'd out of it.

Where the duece is Adela? if we can but get married before she is discovered—but, why is she absent? she for whose sake Oakland Castle resounds with jollity, till the old walls crack to their foundations.

Ah! it's all over, there's an end of our scheme.

How!

I knew how it wou'd happen.

Did you, I wish then you had told me so before!

Well, it's all a scheme of your own.

Mine! why you know it was your scheme.

Why did'nt you first propose it?

Yes, because I was sure you first thought of it.

Why, did I ever leave my spinning wheel for fine cloaths? why did I quit my father's cottage.!

Because I got you a better situation to be sure—you won't deny that I sent you to a relati­on's house in Suffex, six months ago, where you liv'd like a lady, and had nothing to learn, to read all the day along.

So much the worse, improving the mind as they call it, only serves to make one lazy; in my father's cottage, industry took up all our time, Wealth never came near our door.

If he had, you wou'd have been glad to have ask'd him in.

No Sir! there Innocence, and Happi­ness were our guests.

'Twas lucky they did'nt take up much room, or the house woud'nt have been big enough to hold 'em—I fancy all the spare corners were occupied by birds and beasts.

Well, I own it! we did all sleep under one roof; the family, the pigs, and poultry all in harmony, peace and friendship.

Except now and then, when you ate some of your company for dinner.

Oh! oh!

Why look'ee there, now that's always your way, if one says any thing to you—you fall a crying!—

You want to break my heart!—I see that.

No, I dont—

Yes, you do—

Why, what signifies quarrelling now my lord.

Why, I don't know Robert, she will quar­rel I think.

No, it is you—

Come be friends I say, we are all in a pret­ty hoble to be sure.

Yes, and I believe you brought us into it.

'Tis my opinion he did—

Me!

Yes, I am sure, Edward woud'nt have thought of such a thing, if you had'nt put it into his head.

No, that I shoud'nt—

You are both very entertaining and so I shall leave you to yourselves.

Nay, but Robert, don't desert us.

Faith I shall make my peace with your father, by falling on my knees, and asking pardon immediately.

Had'nt we better do the same, Edward? for consider we are all in the same boat, and if we pull different ways, we shall certainly go to the bottom.

That is very true,—so Robert you shall be our pilot.

Well! then we must 'een meet the old baron in the hall of audience, at any rate; [how won­derfully does common interest beget friendship!]

Adela—

Well—

You forget we have been quarrelling, kiss and friends, you know—

Well Charles, how did you come over from Normandy?

Why, Cupid lent me his wings and I hovered over your ship—come, come, Cicely you know as well as I, there were more lovers aboard than the Captain knew of—

I believe I had better ask no more ques­tions.

Lewis, come hither, you are sure that not a whisper has escaped you; likely to discover Lady Elinor.

Lord, Sir! I have done nothing but ate and drink since I have been here, so that I have no time for talking.

And our honest guide here:

Oh! no, Sir, he has been so taken up between hunger and wonder—that he has not thought of secrets.

You are certain the servants know what to do Cicely?

O yes, madam, I have given them all their lessons, and you'll see them receive the mock Lady Elinor, as you cou'd wish, but see, she comes!—

Now, ma'am, to compleat their astonish­ment!

Hem! my Lady Elinor de Courcy—now some men in my situation, wou'd make you a set speech on the occasion; but I shall give your lady­ship a touch off hand; as to your great family, my lady, all the world knows that—and as to your beauty—why that speaks for itself, as a body may say;—but I say, when I consider, my lady—I say—when I consider how vain it wou'd be to number your numberless qualifications, and when I think of your goodness, in—confering this visit—I want words—

I say, my Lady Elinor, I want words to—

Hey! egad, I do want words!—I say—madam—my lady­ship I,—I,—I, want words!—

If my father had not wanted words madam, he would have attempted to express, his inexpressi­ble satisfaction—but 'tis just as well as it is—the less that's said, the more there is to guess at.

My Lord! a gentleman wishes to speak with you immediately.

I come to him.

I declare my lady! I am quite asham'd that I—.

O, pray my lord make no apologies!—you know you want words, and it is quite time to have done, when one has'nt any more to say—

Aye, my lady, but I had a great deal more to say—if I had'nt lost my speech—

I can't make out the mean­ing of all this, I don't understand the jest!—

Nor I, upon my soul—but I'll try to find it out, for my part I think we are in a dream.

I am sure it is a very pleasant one, I have'nt the least desire to be wak'd from it.

This way my lord, this way, I am glad to see your lordship—

Hush, my lord! remember that I am here in disguise; I must depend on your friendship, to conceal me from my sister's attendants, till I am revenged on Sir Palamede—

And so this Palamede—

He has long privately lov'd my sister, but the mean advantage he has now taken of our confidence in him—

O! hang him, an abusive sneering knave, to pass on me for your lordship's jester; I wish I had known this—

But we must be cautious—

dark! what noise is that?

Only my vassals carousing, in consequence of this marriage of your sister's in our family.

The sounds of festivity, but ill accord with my feelings; a more retired apartment might suit our purpose better.

Certainly, my lord, private concerns, must give way to public justice.

Come, my lads and lasses, at this feast every one must contribute to the common stock of merri­ment, that is the only reckoning we have to pay.

YOU are sure that the soldiers are plac'd at every avenue to the Castle?

My lord, it is impossible Sir Palamede shou'd escape!

And you say, you observ'd him this evening?

I did, my lord, and notwistanding he ap­pear'd to join the general festivity; yet at times he sigh'd so piteously, that I cou'd not help saying to myself, your honour cou'd never find in your heart to kill so brave a gentleman.

Leave me and be ready at the time ap­pointed—and shall this slave boast a virtue to which I am a stranger—shall his rugged heart feel compassion for wretched, whilst I unmoved doom to destruction, him! who has been my Com­panion!—my Friend!—my Brother!—

Poor Palamede, I will see him and converse with him—perhaps he is not so guilty as he appears—at least let me remember that he is unfortunate!

There spoke the generous feelings of de Courcy.

O, my lord de Courcy, I am glad I have found you, I have strange news to tell you: only think my lord, when I thought my vassals had re­tired fatigued, and gone dutifully drunk to bed, the whole village is up and scouring their old hel­mets and armour; I am sure there's mischief in the wind when these rascals are so industrious.

Compose yourself my lord, you seem quite alarm'd!—

Alarm'd my lord! why, tho' I am naturally as brave as a lion; yet I do not like to be taken thus by surprize; it is that which alarms me—and Sir Palamede I am sure is at the bottom of this.

Perhaps then he has heard of my ar­rival, and finding himself discovered, means to op­pose force by force.

You are right my lord, he has been send­ing and receiving letters and messages all night in a continual ebb and flow of mischief.

S'death, can he descend so low as to mislead the rabble into revolt—the traitor shall perish—but where is my sister?

I don't know my lord, but here comes my son, I dare say he'll tell you.

Do not discover me yet, even to him.

Why my lord, as he is shortly to be related to your lordship, I can't see that it signifies—but it shall be as you please; harkee sirrah! come here, where is lady Elinor?

In her own room, I took her a cup of wine just now—but the dear creature prefer'd ale: she seems prodigiously fond of ale.

Who! Lady Elinor, Sir?

Yes Sir, Lady Elinor, my wife that is to be; what have you to say to that? Sir!

Pardon me Sir,—but are you as­sured of the lady's affections?

Aye sirrah, are you sure that she is fond of you.

Fond of me, ha! ha! ha! dammee look at me!

I believe she was once attached to another, one Sir Palamede.

I believe not friend, and my reason for thinking so, is that the dear little wench never saw Sir Palamede in all her life.

Sir, when you name that lady, you shou'd remember the respect due to her family.

That for her family—she is a bud of beauty, which I have gather'd to wear next my heart, and the devil may take the rest of the family-tree for me, here she comes i'faith—

Ah! my dear lady Elinor—

Astonishment!—this must be some plot of Palamede's,

Why, my lord, your sister does not seem to know you.—ah, this is another quality joke, now I'll be sworn.

He is deceived too!

Why, my lord, I think there's a very strong family likeness between you.

I perceive my lord, you are imposed on, but you shall soon be avenged.

How imposed on! O, he means they have been joking on me,—ay but he was serious;—egad, I believe I shou'd be angry,—but then if [Page 40] I shou'd be in the wrong;—I'll e'en go after him and ask whether I ought to be in a passion or not.

Why, I say Edward, the Lady Elinor's attendants did call me their lady for the jok's sake; yet it must soon be out that I am myself.

That's not unlikely.

And if Lady Elinor shou'd be as hand­some, as we heard, and your father shou'd be very pressing—

Then you think I shou'd desert you!—hah.

Your deserting me wou'd then be called by another name, for fine folks have fine names for bad actions, to make them seem like good ones.

Why, look'ye. my dear Adela,—I was always a blundering fellow at a fine speech; [ecod I am like my father for that,] but if I thought my being a nobleman wou'd make me love you a jot the less, deuce take me if I had not rather remain a ploughman all my life,—now do you believe me?

I do.

Why, did I not insist on Sir Palamed eexplaining this mystery?—

Welcome, thrice welcome, ye scenes which re­mind me of happier days;—every step I take—every object of remembrance, warms me with new incitements to assert my birthright,—

How Lady Elinor!

O Palamede! for heaven's sake, why this mystery?

Spare me the explanation of what is yet improper for you to know;—shew me esteem by confiding in my honour,—he who is beloved by you, cannot act unworthily.

I am uneasy only on your account,—therefore do not flatter me, or keep me longer in suspence!

To night is the Crisis of my fate, and to-morrow's sun shall dispel the cloud of mystery in which it is involved.

Cruel concealment, yet it must be so, one only have I trusted in this castle and he is here.

Ah! my dear young master, what plea­sure does your old servant feel, in seeing you once more in your native land! Heaven help us, what strange events have happened, since the good baron your father quitted England.—I long to hear your adventures in France.

It is a long story my friend.

So much the better,—I like long stories,—I often tell long stories myself,—re­membrance forms the old man's banquet, and let the viands be ever so ordinary, memory cooks them to his liking.

Hugo this is not time for words, I must support my claim to the honors of my ancestors and this hour,—

What my lord?

Hear me! I have written to an old and allied friend of my father's, a powerful nobleman, and near the king's person, he has assured me of [Page 43] my sovereign's favour,—and I expect hourly letters from the king, acknowledging me Baron of Oakland.

Well my lord!

In the mean time my zealous friend. has advised me to surprize the castle without delay, to man all resistance to the king's commands.

Surprize the Castle! why my lord, I'll fight as long as I can,

but here are only two of us.

Good old man! I shall not need your assistance, a guard of an hundred chosen troops sent by the good Lord Hubert, enter'd the village in the dusk of the evening;—the news of my return is receiv'd by the vassels with transport, and they are this momemt arming in my cause.

Then, why do we stay here, I'll go and get on my armour?

It is not yet time;—the tolling of the Curfew will give me notice when all is ready: but tell me Hugo, was not my father's armour kept in an apartment in that Tower?

Yes, my lord in that very apartment over the wine cellar.

And has the armour ever been removed from thence?

Never! I'll answer for that,—the room has been shut up these ten years past to my know­ledge; I have still preserv [...]d my key to the door which leads to it thro' the long gallery,

Give time,

now let us be gone.

Excuse me my lord, I'll follow you to battle; but not into that apartment.

Why not?

Ah, my lord I tremble at the thoughts of it, no living soul has enter'd that room for these ten years,—voices have been heard and lights [Page 44] seen,—in short it is haunted, and tho' I lov'd your worthy father when he was alive—I,—I,—I,

By heav'n's a light appears thro' the casement at this moment.

And so there does, my dear master don't be rash.

Hark! I hear a noise from the Tower, wait for me here,

and beware your fears do not betray you,

My lord,—my dear lord William don't leave me alone!—he's gone!—oh that cursed Haunted Chamber! I can't stay near it—I,—I, find the only means of perserving my courage is to carry it along with me.

Why, sure that was old Hugo, yes and with his sword drawn, oh, he's in the plot!—O lord! O lord! there's the spirit playing his illumination tricks in the Haunted Chamber;—Oh, how I long to attack this old rogue Hugo, because I am sure I cou'd beat him;—aye, but then I dare not venture alone, valour with me is of a companiable nature and don't like solitude;—My courage is something like the vine, to produce good fruit it must be well supported;—hey, sure I hear some­body coming out of my wine-cellar!—egad, I'll step aside, I may make some discoveries here.

Well my boy, now I have made you free of our cellar.

Give me your hand, give me your hand, Master Robert, I'll live and die with you, of all inventions that ever were thought of, there's none to my mind like good eating and drink­ing.

And for that, Martin, I'll match all Kent, I know the privilege of a diligent butler too well [Page 45] to suffer my master to taste wine till I have approv'd of it.

Oh! the villian

That's right, that's right, give me your hand again; O Master Robert! what a happy dog you are to have the command of such a wine cellar.

Ay, Martin, there I sit, absolute monarch of all the prostrate bottles.

Mighty well!—but I'll be even with you rascalls.

Well, can you find friend Lewis, in the garden?

No master Robert.

He has certainly lost his way, let us go in search of him, Martin?

Aye, Master Robert, do you go one way and I'll go the other.

And to prevent accidents I'll lock the cellar door for the present, we'll soon return and finish the evening.

And so the mock Lady Elinor is coming, Cicely?—Yet how can I trifle thus? While Pa­lamede's fate is in suspence.

Ah madam! it must be a sad thing to be of a good family, thank heaven! I who have no noble blood in my veins have the dearest of all pri­vileges, that of chusing a husband for myself.

These waiting maids pester me to death with questions, here they are again,—

Now madam, to throw her off her gaurd, endeavour to provoke her and gratify your curiosity.

Why, I shou'd like it, but she looks as if she could beat me;—pray madam wou'd your ladyship please to go to bed?

No, my ladyship does not please to go to bed.

No, her ladyship does not please to go to bed.

It is my duty to wait on your ladyship.

Well. wait in another room then.

Aye, wait in another room.

Pray my lady forgive me.

No, I will not forgive you!—I can't hear it

begone! I discharge you my service.

Now to the object of my search,

kind fortune I thank thee!—sacred to the defence of a just cause, the shield of the father shall protect his son, fighting for the rights of an illustrious family.

Well Lewis! since we have met with you at last, I'll give you a specimen of English Hospi­tallity, we have plenty of liquor in the cellar un­derneath, and egad we'll make a night of it.

That's right master Robert, and I love good eating and drinking, so I'll drink with you if it is only to shew you I like your company.

But you have'nt told me yet about this Haunted Tower.

Well, I declare I'm glad of it for your sake, for I am sure you must be dry after telling such a long story.

Come my boys, lend me a hand,

What have we got here?

Some of the best wine in Christendom, my lad; aye, and some of the best ale too, which to me, is the best of all liquors;—the scurvy old knave, my master, who I dare say is a-bed and a sleep, little thinks the honour we are doing to his cellar.

Ha! ha! ha!

Now for't my boys, here's to ye!

Come, drink about,

"And we'll be wondrous merry."

"And we'll be wondrous merry."

Hey day! what's that?

That, oh! that's an echo, I suppose.

An echo! I never observ'd one here, I—

O Master Robert! is'nt this the chamber you said was haunted?

Egad then, its haunted by a jolly spirit—so here's to the ghost!—

"And we'll be wondrous merry."

"And we'll be wondrous merry,"

What think ye now?

Why, I think there's a damn'd noise in the cellar,

Gentlemen, your most obedient, pray don't let me disturb you, pray go on, my butler here, sets you a good example; so pray make free with my property,—upon my life this is a very pretty Chamber to be haunted; the ghost has an excellent choice, but I never knew that your troubled spirits were, such consummers of ale and wine before.

pray who is that? is it any friend or your's gentlemen.

Yes, please your worshipful honour, it is only Hubert with the supper.

O! Hubert with the supper, is it? desire him to walk in

Come in Hubert, here are none but friends, O never mind me, come put the supper on the table.

And now gentlemen sit down and eat heartily.

I am much oblig'd to your honour, but I am not hungry now.

If but your honour wou'd but hear me.

O! with a great deal of pleasure, honest Robert, I was but ill situated in the cellar to hear that catch you sung just now;—rogues! rascals! robbers! whose only sign of fear is, you can't bear your own consciences, so you are afraid of spirits; where's the echo, you conjur'd up just now?

Indeed! me lord, we heard an echo.

Did you? well, sing again then, and let me hear it, I'll shew you a pattern of resolution you rapscallions.

Now mark my lord,

"And we'll be wondrous merry."

"And we'll be wondrous merry."

Egad, but its an odd sort of an echo.

Suppose your honour was to speak to it, perhaps it wou'd answer you civilly.

O! I dare say 'twill have a proper respect for my dignity,—what are you ghost or spirit?

"Ghost or spirit."

O lord! O lord!—why!—why! don't some of you speak to me?—what—what,—are you afraid of?—Robert, what makes you look so pale?—for my part—I!—I!—I don't believe in apparitions, do you friend?

Lord William, my dear master Lord William!

Hark my lord! there's a voice.

Oh! I am a lost man,—but—why,—do you all tre-m-b-le so!

O lord! there's the Curfew going at this hour.

O, dear me it is the old Baron's ghost! I have seen him wear that shield and helmet a thou­sand times.

O! my lord here's more miracles! the spirit has met some armed men and they are all fighting,—that's right,—that's right;—well done my boys—dammee they have kill'd the ghost, huzza.

Huzza,—huzza!—

Egad, that's rare news, come lets go and see what its all about, I'll lead the way, do you fol­low me,—hey—no Robert, you shall go first;—no,—no,—stop, come back—we'll all go together, and then we can take care of one another—

O Edward! I am frighten'd to death! it was an unlucky day for us when I turn'd fine lady and nothing but unlucky days have we had ever since.

Lucky or unlucky,—I fancy there's an end of 'em now, bad as the days were, I wish they were to come over again.

O dear! O dear, they are all at it.

What! what are they at?

Why, fighting, O my Lady Elinor! why don't you order your soldiers to fall on?—O how I hate a man that won't fight.

What, is any body kill'd my lord!

Kill'd, why we shall all be kill'd, men, women and children.

For shame my lord! why do you stand idle here? your soldiers call on you to head 'em,—where's my brother?

Your brother, why what signifies your brother, why they are thirty thousand strong.

I mean the Lord de Courcy.

The Lord de Courcy,—why an't you—

O, no indeed my lord, I am not,—I am quite sick of passing for a fine lady.

My lord, you must come immediately, they are forcing the castle gates.

Forcing the castle gates, O lord I shall die of a fright! and never live to be kill'd.

They have gain'd the Citadel, and we shall be put to the sword.

Once more my noble friend, I congra­tulate you on your success.

My brother!

My father contracted you in marriage with the young Baron of Oakland;—I present him to you, I deem'd him my enemy till I knew him, it is now my pride to call him my friend.

This is a more valuable present my lord, than the life you gave me, when overpower'd by your soldiers in the garden you, still thought me your enemy.

O dear! spare my life, and I'll agree to any terms.

then Sir, begging your pardon for my boldness, I suppose you are the ghost we heard of?

Yes, and you I suppose are the sham Lady Elinor, we have heard of; egad, now I find how things are, I have reason to be in a passion.

You Sir,

have a right to an explanation, I scorn to owe my title to force; I am confirmed by my sovereign in the dignity and estates of my father:—be assured however, that I shall be ambitious to prove myself your friend.

And that's an ambition I shall be very glad to gratify you in.

As for this young couple, I hope I shall have the satisfaction of adding to their store of Hymen's comforts.

I—Thank you my lord,—I begin to be much less inclined to Nobility after the bustle I have seen to-night, and I'm fain to comforts myself with the old remark,—"that a title cannot bestow happiness."

Yes, but I can though there is a title for which I'd give up to all others, it is the wife of my Edward.

My fluttering heart cannot express the joy it feels at your triumph.

A truimph crowned by the possession of that heart which now approves it.