SCENE I.—A Road.

So, once again have I got up among the Mountains of Wicklow. Ay, yonder is the very cabin where I ſupped my bread and milk, a little chubby-cheek'd younker. Oh! but I'm every hour to expect Mr. Donnybrook, and his charming daughter from Dublin. William, remember you're not to drop my name to a ſoul here.

Never fear, Sir.

Well, return to the public-houſe where we ſtopp'd, open the Portmanteau, and lay out my famous dreſs!

Dreſs! Oh! yes, yes, Sir.

This delightful country! now mine, thanks to the will of my crabbed Uncle. In the diſguiſe of the character I aſſum'd ſo ſucceſsfully at the maſquerade, I'll ſee what they are all about here. I can make trial of Sullivan the poſt-maſter's honeſty, have a ſharp eye too on the old companion of my childhood, Felix; of whom I have heard ſuch dreadful ſtories. Lucky my finding in Dublin [6]the good old woman that nurs'd us both. My opu⯑lent family left her (and this young man, ſo long her only ſupport) to indigence. This letter that ſhe gave me for him, might diſcover his reſources; but I've promis'd, and he ſhall have it. When meta⯑morphos'd, I may alſo ſpeak to my lovely Helen, without her knowing who I am; and if I find her not as amiable as ſhe is beautiful, then farewell love! now for my diſguiſe, inſtead of the young 'ſquire and lord of the manor, I'm an old, merry, jolly, lying, wicked, mumpping, travelling merchant.

‘Sleeve-buttons, ſhirt-buttons, sciſſars, threads, tapes and needles, ſpectacles for all ages! do extend your charity to the poor old man!’— very well! bravo! bravo!

SCENE II.—The Mountains.

Will you eat ſome Fraughans, Roſa, child?

Billy, you have been rambling over the mountains, when you ſhould be teaching the chil⯑dren at Mr. Sullivan's ſchool, you're a pretty uſher.

And you ſinging here, like a lazy ſparrow, when you ſhould mind your buſineſs.

Well, now Billy, don't ſay I waſte my time,—ſee what I've been doing,

there!

My new ſhirt finiſhed! why you've put a ruffle on it! two ruffles!

then, bleſſings on you, do you want to make me a man in a ruffled ſhirt? a ruffle on my right hand, and a ruffle on my wrong—no, my left hand, and a great long ruffle down my neck!—next Sunday I ſhall ſtrut into Chapel, like a white gilled Turkey-cock.—No man that ever fold Goats milk on the Mountains of Wicklow, was—you talk of Felix! pſha! I am—

Ha! I'm glad to ſee the boys and girls ſo ſweet to one another. And my honey, were you ſinging a ſong for her? the very birds in the air, ſet you that gay example—look among the hens and chickens, ſee that tight, ſmart cockerel, how he chaunts and crows round the little pullets.

What do you chatter to me about cocks and hens, you beggarly looking thief? who are you with the devil to you?

Oh ſhame! Billy, you're always abuſing every body.

Let him alone, honey, the poor muſt bear and forbear. I'll tell you who I was, for I have had my day.

So have I.

Ay, every Dog has his day.

What do you ſell? ſpeak this inſtant.

Oh! why do you ſhake one about, as if I was a bag of cockles?

You've got ſuch a croſs way, Billy, by crowing over the little boys in Mr. Sullivan's ſchool. But you're not an uſher here.

Oh! miſs ſweet-lips,—pretty roſe-bud!

what do you ſell if you pleaſe, Sir?

Oh Sir!

decent ſleeve⯑buttons, and handſome ſpectacles for all ages,— comely pins and needles, and well behaved threads and tapes. When I can't ſell, I beg—So either in charity or fair dealing, I've always the beſt of the bargain.

Bargain! I'm your cuſtomer. I'll buy a pair of ſleeve buttons for my new ruffled ſhirt,

Oh! how nice you've marked it! as if you'd pick'd out the letters from your very ſampler, and ſtuck them on, now for the W.O.R. eh! what! F—o—fof!

To be ſure; it's for Felix.

Ruffling ſhirts for Felix! that's pretty be⯑haviour.

Don't be angry Billy. Beſides his kindneſs to me, Felix is good natur'd to every body. He is generous to all that's in want or ſickneſs.

My companion ſuch an excellent charac⯑ter! this is not what I've been led to believe.

Then Billy, Felix is ſo handſome, and here he is.

Here he is, and he is not ſo handſome.

Ah! I remember the boyiſh features, but exceeding well grown up.

You're not as handſome as me! Felix.

Felix! why, I believe you've been to Dub⯑lin?

I have my ſweet Roſa, and have brought you a ſilver thimble; and here, Billy, is a red ſilk handkerchief for Sunday.

I thank you Felix, but I can't accept it.

Thank ye, Felix, but I can't accept it,

I thank ye, Felix, but indeed I cannot accept it!

there, [10]that's Felix's way, he's always making preſents to the folks, a buſy cur! now I never make preſents to any body.

Do not be offended, but I muſt not take any thing from you, till I firſt know how you get the money to buy it?

Felix, I don't want to affront you, but I believe you're a robber!

How! oh! this may be the malice of ruſtic jealouſy;

but, young gentleman, your generoſity hurts the poor man that wants to live by turning the penny.

Oh! I'll not do miſchief either. What have you got?

He's got ſine ſpectacles. I wiſh I had a pair to make a preſent to my maſter, Mr. Sullivan, it would ſave me many lags by the ear. Felix, dam'me, I'll buy a pair, if you'll pay for them?

Ha, ha, ha! with all my heart. Here then.

Felix you've given him two half crowns. Why, you might have bought 'em for ſixpence. Ah! light come, light go.

Ay, what's got over the devil's back, is—

Oh fie! don't blame the lad, for helping honeſt induſtry.

Certainly it's very good in him ſo far; but his having ſo much money is the talk of every ſoul in Croghan.

You pulled out, the laſt time you came from Dublin, four guineas, two half guineas, ſix crown pieces, three bright farthings, and a bundle of ſix⯑pences. You go from home here without a penny in your pocket—you ſtand behind a windmill on Red-croſs-hill, and you rob the gentlemen and ladies, as they paſs in their coaches. Look now, there's a coach coming over the common yonder, ſee how Felix watches it, juſt as a cat would a robbin.

Then, but for us, he'd be at his trade.

He's groping for his piſtol.

Thoſe horſes are running with the coach down the hill.

There's a lady within—ſhe's in a bleſſed way?

Heavens! it's my Helen and her father.

Why don't you go and aſſiſt in ſtopping the horſes, Billy?

Lord, if ever I ſaw ſuch ſpirited nags! there they kick and jump. The coach will have an immenſe tumble down the quarry. Talk of horſes and carriages. Nothing like a man's own handſome leg.

There! Felix has caught hold of the bridle of the firſt horſe.

See how he rears, and pulls him up in the air! hoo!

If I wasn't ſure Mr. Sullivan didn't want me to open ſchool, I'd join in the ſun. But let old Sullivan go to the devil, I will divert myſelf.

Oh, ho! you're here.

The gentlefolks are ſafe; thanks to my brave Felix.

Oh, my Felix! how good you are!

It's very wrong the ladies not getting out, and walking down that hill.

They're not hurt, I hope.

Oh! no, no harm, but what the coach maker can repair. But my dear Roſa, I'm exceedingly hurt by your ſuſpicions.

Well, now nobody is bye, do tell me how you get your money?

The time will come, and very ſoon, when you ſhall know how I have a guinea, for other peo⯑ple's ſhilling; but while I put it to a good purpoſe don't think ill of me.—I think I may truſt Roſa

Come my love, look pleaſant—I'll call upon you to-night, and then, perhaps I may tell you.

I ſhall expect you to ſupper. But, dear Felix, let me know no more than you think proper.

SCENE III.—Sullivan's Houſe.

And you muſt be courting Roſa, and be damn'd to you?

Yes, I muſt—and the horſes were ſo ruſty.

I thought Billy, I was poſt-maſter in this here town of Arklow, and ſchool-maſter, and that my ſchool was the chapel, and I was owner of three herring-boats.

Well, and a'n't you?

Then as you are my uſher, never ſtand be⯑fore me with a hat upon your cangrona,

and never ſpeak to me without ſaying, Sir!

Lord, I cou'dn't remember that. It would hurt my intellects.

What you ſpalpeen cur! mind you ſet maſter Fogerty a copy.

For your cruſtineſs, Felix's ſpectacles never rides upon your bandy noſe.

What, are you talking about my noſe?

I was only ſaying I wanted a quill for a new pen.

You want a quill! and pray what do you think the old gander is marching about the door for? d'ye hear? write Maſter Pat. Mulvany's mul⯑tiplication table, on his new ſheet of brown paper; and tell Maſter Shamos Meguiggin, that I'll whip him for drawing dogs and foxes on his new ſlate; that is, if his daddy, Mr. Meguiggin. don't ſend me that ſheaf of barley he promis'd me.

There's the boys making a hullaballoo at the ſchool door.

And why don't you go and open it, you whelp?

Oh! if every babe of 'em doesn't give me [14]his morning's bread and butter, how my cat will whiſk her nine tails about their legs!

How do you mean, honey?

Why, dam'me, ſo.

Oh! you curſed hound! eh! 'Squire Donny⯑brook!

Come, put down my coat there, I have done with lace for ſome time. Ah! Mr. Sullivan, I pre⯑ſume. Well, my friend Sir Richard, told you I ſuppoſe, of my coming down, or rather coming up here, and that I'll lodge with you.

Oh! Mr. Donnybrook! then it was your coach that was overturned juſt now? well, Sir, you ſhall have a glaſs of Claret, and in our Iriſh way, I won't aſk you whether you will, or no.

No—I—prefer a little of your Wicklow Ale.

And that you ſhall have—here, Billy.

May be you want me.

And where's your Sir? and where's your bow?

arragh boy! don't kick up your leg in that manner. Suppoſe Maſter Me. Fogerty was behind you, what a devil of a kick you'd give him in the ſhin.

Sir, will you ſit down?

Thank ye.

Then, how dare you aſk even the Pope, to ſit in my ſchool elbow chair, and be damn'd to you.

Oh! very well, pray Sir, ſit on this ſtool.

What's this?

'Squire, don't think me unmannerly, you're welcome to my great chair, if it was made of gold [15]and ivory; but my uſher and my boys, muſt believe I'm the greateſt bird in the buſh.

Billy, boy, from your behaviour, I'm ſure the gentleman cou'dn't tell what I am.

Why does my daughter ſit in the coach?

Sir, miſs Helen's woman was ſo frighten'd at the danger, that ſhe fell quite ill upon it, and my lady obſerving a ſmart looking girl at a cottage-door as we paſſed thro' the village, thought ſhe might hire her a little, and ſo has walked back to have ſome talk with the girl herſelf.

Well, do you ſee, your lady, my wife; ſent me up to the mountains in ſlate; but now I'll unſtate myſelf for one month at leaſt. There now, my two ſinecure footmen, take yourſelves and my fine gingerbread coach back again to Merrion⯑Square. I come hither for ſport,—that I'll have in ſhooting grouſe. My daughter, miſs Helen Don⯑nybrook, comes here for health, that ſhe'll quaff up in fine air, and Goats milk; ſo begone back to Dublin, you ſuperfine gaudy raſcals; march, trip, ſkip, hop, bounce!

Ah! maſter breaks out now he hasn't my lady to controul him

Come Billy, bring it in. 'Squire, you have ruſticated yourſelf into a country Fox.

Time and ſeaſon. In town I was gay; I rattled, ſwore, guzzled and gambled; but here I'm rural, ſimple and ſerene.

Sir, I juſt now handed miſs, your beautiful daughter, out of the coach. I hope I wasn't too bold. What a ſhabby figure I muſt have cut;

pray, Squire, what do you do with your old clothes, that you throw off?

Why, I give 'em to my man.

Your honor's welcome to Arklow;

maſter, here's long life to you.

Then the devil fly away with your manners.

You ſhou'd have firſt taught him a few; come, come, don't be cow'd down, Billy, my man.

Oh! I'm his man; thank ye Sir! theſe old clothes I ſhall be obliged to wear. 'Squire if you let me ſerve miſs with Goats milk, ſhe ſhall have a pale of it under the window every morning, before the crow can ſhake his ears.

But, Billy, we ſhould warn Mr. Donnybrook againſt Felix.

Right; Sir, never go ſhooting on the hills, without taking a gun with you.

Why, it's what I generally do.

My way.

Felix is, I ſuppoſe, that travelling pedlar, that came to aſſiſt us, when we broke down.

Oh! Sir, no; Felix is a ſaucy boy, that c [...]s my Roſa, but he's very ugly, isn't he maſter?

Yes; he's a deformed man. Then Felix is [...].

He wou'dn't put one foot before another to oblige a living ſoul.

And if he meets you on a common, he wou'dn't mind knocking your head againſt a ſtone wall.

Then you ſhou'dn't encloſe the commons.

And he's ſo unmannerly, that if you'd take off your hat, and ſay "how do you do Mr. Felix?". he'd ſtump by you, like the ſtump of a pigeon⯑h [...]ſe.

So, on a ſum up, this Felix is a ſaucy, rude, ugly, deformed, uncivil ſtump of a poſt? I'm a magiſtrate,—he ſhan't ſtay here to frighten me, when I'm running over the ſweet, blooming heaths; I'll tranſport him! the infernal raſcal! ecod! you've fired me ſo, that if he comes in my way—

ah! my dear worthy lad!

I'm very glad to ſee you, I long'd to make ſome acknowledge⯑ment and return you my hearty thanks.

Sir, the pleaſure of aſſiſting any that ſtand in need of it, is to me a ſufficient recompenſe.

Billy, I'm amaz'd!

Sir, I'm aſtoniſh'd!

Felix, I charge you before 'Squire Donnybrook, as a common highway footpaddy.

Then, this is the lad you've been abuſing ſo?

Sir, he's a robber.

He can't, he ſaved my life, my daughter, and my four coach horſes!

Sir, he wears the beſt of clothes.

And a ruffled ſhirt, ſo he muſt be a rogue.—I wiſh I had ruffles to my ſhirt,—damn him how fine he looks!

Felix, you either rob, or have ſold yourſelf to the devil for your gold.

Neither.

Why you do more good in the village, than all of us put together, ſo you muſt be a bad man,— then you're always going to Dublin, and coming back, and what for?

And people ſends him letters,—now nobody ſends me letters, tho' I'm an O'Rourke.

Well thought on—as I'm poſt-maſter, and all the letters comes thro' my hands, I'll open yours, and find how you get the money.

Open my letters! then all is blown indeed. The boy is now on the road with the Arklow mail.

There! he cou'dn't ſtand the charge, but has run away with himſelf.

Then, by the time this Felix does good enough to be canonized for a ſaint, he'll be quite a devil among you all. But am I to have no ſupper here?

Suppoſe Sir, you go and ſhoot a little; I'll ſhew you ſuch big round flocks of Grouſe. I wiſh I could get ſome for a preſent to Roſa;

beſides, Sir, I ſhoot a little myſelf; you ſhall ſee how I'll [19]cock one eye, and wink the other. Hey! they're up! whiz!

Pray Billy, turn your muzzle another way.

SCENE IV.—The Mountains, Roſa's Cabin.

This claſh of contradictory reports. They allow Felix is their univerſal benefactor, yet all agree that he muſt get his money by improper means. Eh! he's here, running out of town this late hour, is ſuſpicious,—if, as that clown ſaid, his buſineſs ſhould be to collect from travellers—

Yes, here the poſt-boy muſt paſs; if there is a letter for me in the bag, he may for a little caſh, [20]give it me and keep ſecret, ſo prevent Sullivan diſ⯑covering my hidden precious reſource. A pity my nurſe was from home, when I call'd there yeſterday, ſhe'll be diſtreſs'd, and perhaps may write this very poſt, enough, to let any reader know the means, by which I have relieved her.

Franklin) Isn't that the facetious pedlar?

He ſees me,

tol, lol, lol,

then Heaven bleſs you my good young man.

The ſame to you.

The poſt-boy—

Yes, with the Dublin Letters for Arklow,— I—I—want to ſpeak to him.

Sure he won't rob the mail! yet ſo com⯑municative of his villainy!

I think he has a letter for me, that I would not wiſh ſhould fall into the poſt-maſter's hands.

Then it's only a letter for himſelf he wants out of it, I think, I hope he is ſlandered.

From a girl, eh! ah! ah!

He, ha, ha! no faith, it's from my old nurſe, that lives in Dublin.

Indeed!—how fortunate!

To get that from the boy, would make me the happieſt fellow in the world.

If your mind is really good, now for a ſevere trial.

Shall I aſk the boy or no? upon conſide⯑ration I'd better not, he might refuſe, and I get vex'd, perhaps he'd run into town complaining; then Sul⯑livan would have a handle for his ill will to me. No, if there's a letter, I'll leave it to chance. Eh! I'm before Roſa's Cabin; well thought on, I am to be with her;

how ſweet that ſound, this tran⯑quil evening, over the hills; but harſh to the voice of love and Roſa.

Ha! my merry, honeſt fellow here again!

Young man, the money you generouſly gave me this morning, for my ſpectacles, was four and ſixpence over the price, that buys me a jolly ſtock of merchandize, and makes me happy; you ſaid, the letter you expected, would make you ſo, there it is.

S'death! you hav'n't forc'd it from the boy?

Aſk no queſtions, you have it, and be happy.

This is a very dangerous act of kindneſs; why, there's no poſt-mark! ſhe muſt have ſent it in a cover. Then my new venturous friend has torn it off to prevent detection. Plague on't I wiſh he hadn't been ſo buſy. However, ſince I have got it, I may as well ſee, what ſays my good old woman.

Oh! they'll catch the robber, ecod, I've leſt Mr. Donnybrook to grope his way home as he can. Pho! let him lay down on the top of the hill, and roll into the town at the bottom of it, he, he, he! I've got all his birds, he has had the ſport, but I have the game; Roſa ſhall broil all theſe fat Grouſes for her and my ſnapper

What, Felix! Arklow and the whole country is up, do you know any thing about it?

About what?

Why the mail is robb'd.

Ha! then he did force it from the boy. Is he in the habit of doing theſe things, or was it the impulſe of the moment, to ſerve me? I obſerv'd his activity in endeavouring to aſſiſt the people, when the coach broke down, ſo I'll think the beſt of him.

But Billy, ſure there's only one letter taken, and for that, I'll ſooner—than have a noiſe—I my⯑ſelf will pay—the poſtage—out—of my own pocket,

and then there's no harm done.

You'll pay the poſtage! why, what is it to you? and how came you to know how many letters were taken? no harm done! Mr. Sullivan ſays they're always gibbered upon the ſpot where the fact is committed, hung up in chains, as a warning to the Crows, and the Sheep, and the Sea-gulls.

Wretched man! why would he do this?

What's the matter with Felix? he was reading a letter juſt now, eh! how! bleſs my head! he ſaid there was but one letter taken; oh, ho! then the ſecret's out,

this is how Felix gets his money.

Felix, upon the very ſpot where we now ſtand, what a terrible fine place for a gibbet.

I'm faint, and tremble.

Why your face is as white as a Goat's elbow; here's Mr. Sullivan and the whole poſſe coming to look for the robber. Ah Felix! I wasn't quite out, when I ſaid you hid behind the windmill, to rob the gentlefolks.

Me! am I ſuſpected of this?

Oh! no, you're not ſuſpected,—pretty well known,—I'll go in and tell Roſa, that winds him up with her, ſhe's ſo honeſt.

The poor fellow wou'dn't have committed this action but for me; the crime is all mine; unleſs I give him up, a ſhameful death muſt be my doom. How to eſcape? Roſa is beloved of all, if the con⯑ceals me, they'll not force their way into her cabin. Roſa! Roſa!

Who's there?

My love, open the door, quick, quick, and you ſave my life,

Felix, as long as I could, my affection for you, repel'd every thought to your prejudice; whilſt all were in full certainty of your diſhoneſty, love whiſpered. "Roſa, only doubt it,"—but this laſt action—Felix I muſt ſpeak to you no more, and if poſſible forget you.

My life is in your hands, won't you pre⯑ſerve it? ſave me my dear, my only love.

get away, we know nothing about you.

Then this is the cauſe, treacherous Roſa!

Come don't you abuſe the girls, with your impudent robberies.

Then life is not worth preſerving.

Here they come to take him; ecod I'll have the reward; my beautiful Felix, if you attempt to run away, I'll ſhoot you flying.

When I queſtion'd the boy, he ſaid the fellow was muffl'd, and he cou'dn't ſwear to him.

Redmond, I know Felix did this, by his running out of my houſe, when I talk'd about his letter.

Damn it, I'm quite aſtray, how ſhall I get home?

Juſtice Donnybrook! Sir, the mail is robb'd!

Ay, you're a pretty parcel of pickpockets; that curſed fellow pretended to be my guide, led me about and about, then ran away with my birds.

Maſter, I ſaw a letter.

Oh! you poaching villain, where's my game?

Lord, Sir, none of your game now, we've other fiſh to fry, a'n't we going to law? Maſter, I juſt this moment ſaw Felix reading a letter that he took from the Mail.

You ſaw him! then Billy honey, you were the man that was ſeen with him.

You're an accomplice.

Me! I wasn't within ten miles of him.

I know who it was.

There, I knew it wasn't Felix, an honeſt e'low, didn't he ſave me? tender hearted fellow! didn't he ſave my daughter? a brave fellow! didn't [25]he in the danger, put Helen's little lap-dog in his coat pocket?

Pocketted a dog too; aye, he can afford to pay the tax.

The begging pedlar was Felix's conſederate.

I had no confederate, the crime was all my own.

Indeed! is it poſſible I cou'd be ſo deceiv'd in this young man! but what a fooliſh knave to own it.

Now Bob, I think this lad is innocent, becauſe, ſuppoſing I was guilty, I'd be hang'd if I'd confeſs it.

Well, as he has conſeſs'd it, he'll be hang'd.

Felix muſt be lock'd up in the Chapel to night, and to-morrow I'll convey him under a ſtrong guard, to Wicklow jail.

Billy, boy, fetch away the childrens copy books, or Felix will be ſtealing the paper, to write petitions to the Lord Lieutenant.

SCENE I,—Inſide of Roſa's Cabin.

Ha! good morning to you my dear girl; Roſa, I pretended to my father, that I'd take an eaſy, quiet ſaunter over the hill; but 'twas only to have a little more chat with you, do you know that I like you vaſtly?

Oh! ma'am, I cannot think that ſuch an ignorant girl as I, could ſo ſoon obtain the favor of a lady.

Have you ever been in Dublin? no! then you have no idea of the elegant delights of plays, ridottos, public breakfaſts, caſtle balls, circular road canters, new garden concerts, and black rock caſſinos! Roſa, you ſhall be my confidante, ha, ha, ha, both papa and mama think me ill, but, dear, I only coun⯑terfeited, deceiv'd even the doctors, ſo they ſent me into the country.

But why miſs, did you pretend to be ill?

Becauſe, mama, ſo grand! would have me marry a man, only on account of his having come to an immenſe eſtate, by the death of an uncle, and this compulſion has given me a great averſion for him.—I hav'n't yet ſeen him, but have ſet him down in my fancy, as a puppy.

Aye, but ma'am, ſince thoſe delights of Dublin, are only to be enjoyed by rich gentry, a marriage with this gentleman, procures you pleaſure to your heart's content.

True Roſa, but the content of my heart, is to chooſe for myſelf; I never yet was in love, and 'tisn't mama's experience can convince me 'tis ſo charming.

my father! Roſa. I muſt be very ill

oh! this laſſitude is intolerable! heigh [...]!

Oh, Sir! miſs is ſo ſa⯑tigu'd and ſo weak—won't your honor pleaſe to ſit down?

Sir! honor! oh! now ſhe's talking to my garb,

get out of that, you huſſey, how dare you catch ladies in your arms, when I am by?

Why gracious! miſs, it's only Billy O'Rourke.

What an impudent creature! to put me to the trouble of fainting, for nothing, but how came he in papa's clothes?

Billy, isn't this Felix's ruffled ſhirt? where did you get it?

Aſk no queſtions, you—miſs I've been ſearching through every room in our houſe, and I didn't find you.

You didn't find me—ſure!

So I thought I'd bring this fine glaſs of Goat's milk,

drink it miſs, for the recovery of your conſumption.

Here offers a little diverſion,

wasn't it you that handed me out of the coach laſt night? I thought I remember'd it was juſt ſuch a handſome young man.

Eh! hem! Roſa, ladies can find I'm a handſome young man—Roſa I know loves me—I'll vex her; miſs, you're a beautiful ſoul.

So, I've made a conqueſt here,

and pray, is it your way to ſqueeze ladies hands, when you gallant them out of coaches?

Did I? I believe I did, I aſk pardon, miſs—ecod I'll throw a ſheep's eye at her.

Billy, you're very rude to ſtand and make faces at the young lady.

Ah! ſhe's jealous—go you, and make faces at your fine thief, Felix, through the ſpike holes of the chapel,

may be now I'm making my fortune, and don't know it—ſhe fainted at ſight of me—I'll court her,

he, he, he! Roſa is ready to die with [30]ſpite,—ſhe'll come and give her a dig with her ſelf, ſars, by and bye.

How ſhall I keep my countenance?

It's well miſs hasn't got a cap on her head—ma'am won't you ſwallow the milk? ſtop! I'll ſweeten it with a touch of my own cherry lips;

ecod it was ſo nice, it ſlip'd down, before I cou'd whiſtle after it.

Well, this is the completeſt love ſcene I ever ſaw, heard, or read of, ha, ha, ha!

My poor, unhappy Felix! miſs Helen might make intereſt with her father for him;

madam cou'd I ſpeak a word with you?

With pleaſure, my dear,—adieu,—farewell—bye, bye—heigho!

Well, if this is not being in love with a body, I'm not Billy O'Rourke; what a rare concep⯑tion for me to put on this apparel—how good of her papa to give me them! that jealous wretch to run away with her. This moment is the nick of my fortune, I wiſh I had ſome friend to conſult.

This ſcoundrel Billy! I ſend him round to the young gentlemen's daddies and mammies, to tell them I could have no ſchool to-day, becauſe of Felix being lock'd up in the chapel;

arrah then—is it—Billy O'Rourke! what, put on the 'Squire's clothes! and my new caxen too and be damn'd to you; oh! I ſee it, you've put them on to come courting.

You may ſay that.

But I'll let Roſa know ſhe's not to take my uſher's time, if ſhe was as pretty as a Yellow-ham⯑mer. Come you back home, Billy, and mind your affairs.

Pho! let my ear alone now, I beſeech you: maſter, there's a great deal of good ſenſe, under your wig.

Why, boy, I have ſenſe to be ſure; were you going to talk about that?

Mr. Sullivan, when a man's without a wife, what is he to do?

Why, he's to do without a wife.

Yes, Sir, but how is he to get one?

Court her to be ſure.

No occaſion for that—ſhe I've choſen, loves me already.

Then are you ſo vain as to ſuppoſe Roſa likes you?

Roſa!

miſs Helen Donny⯑brook.

What! pho! you conceited fop, be eaſy— eh! but what reaſon have you to think ſhe likes you; Billy, my boy?

Can't tell my love ſecrets; honor, honor, honor!

True, nothing like honor, as I ſay, when I carch you at my hen-rooſt, thieving my new laid duck eggs.

Damn your ſimilies—miſs Helen Donny⯑brook.

Eh! the 'Squire giving him his clothes is ſome ſign of favor. Now if merely to thwart his proud wife's ſcheme of marriage for his daughter, he ſhou'd give her to O'Rourke, and that the young lady herſelf ſhou'd take a fancy to him.—I've heard of grand ladies running away with drummers, and footmen, and councellors, and ſuch ſort of jockies— Billy, I'll give—no I'll lend you my advice; if, when you've ſucceeded, you'll get my leaſe renew'd without a riſe on the farm!

Well, Sir, I will.

Then my advice is—you'll make me a pre⯑ſent of a hamper of wine!

Yes, yes.

Then Billy, liſten—you'll give me a Cheſhire cheeſe?

I will—I will—tell me?

Marry her, if you can.

You may be ſure on't, and if I get her fortune, put me in mind of the bottle of wine and the pound of Cheſhire cheeſe.

Pho! a hamper, and a hundred.

Aye, Sir—'twill be a hamper in a hundred.

Yonder is her father going to the chapel, to examine Felix, run and propoſe for her, to him.

What did ſhe ever do for me, that I ſhou'd do ſuch a fine thing for her?

Pſha! go and aſk his conſent—fie! with that little bit of a pot-lead on your head—here's my grand three cock'd beaver, (puts it on) there now, look fierce.

She's in the next room, let me ſhew myſelf to her.

Talking to the girl before the daddy, is beginning the alphabet at the great A, inſtead of the aperceand. What ſtrange things happen! 'twas but laſt Sunday, Father Murphy ſaid; "Mr. Sullivan," ſaid he ‘that Billy O'Rourke, your uſher, will cer⯑tainly for his wickedneſs, come to ſome untimely end,’—and here you're going to be married, ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

We ſhall ſplit our ſides with laughing, when you aſk the father to perform his function, ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha! but here's the 'ſquire—muſt look grave—how is my face?

Very grave, how is mine?

Quite grave, I'll put on a bold look, will that do?

Ay, ay; copper, copper.

SCENE II.—Fields, with a view of the Chapel.

What do they mean by their mail robbing! my letters have been deliver'd me. It's well my wife let's me know this Franklin has an eſtate here, a de⯑licious ſpot for ſhooting,—a good match for Helen,— ſixteen thouſand a year, may have a peerage,—my daughter a counteſs.

How do you do Sir? come Billy.

Eh! who's this?

I'm ſo baſhful, damn my ſhame face.

Arragh! did you ſay damn? none of your deed and deeds before the gentleman.

My clothes!

Put in a good word, praiſe me.

I will. Sir, this Billy has a fine capacity, and he never ſwears.

And Sir, I'm ſo handy.

Handy indeed! do you think I'll ever wear thoſe clothes again?

There,—you ſee he gives them me entirely. 'Squire, if I was even to ſpend all my wife's fortune, I cou'd maintain us both, without her wetting a ſinger.

Then Sir, he'd ſend his ten ſmall children to my ſchool.

And pray what's this to me?

Oh! that's very good! the ſchooling of his eighteen ſmall children is nothing to their grand⯑father; pho! boy, aſk his conſent at once.

I will,—hem!—damn my bluſhing face, you aſk him?

I will,—aſk him you.

What are you about?

Sir, I'm about nineteen, and I'm about ſix inches high, and five feet to the back of that, and I intend to be very fat—

You're fat enough already, that my cupboard can tell.

And I've three months wages due to me.

Oh! boy, you muſt never aſk for that!

Theſe are ſurprizing things! but what's the jeſt? come to the point.

Why, Sir, the caſe is,—as I don't think it wou'd be fair for me to run away with your daughter, without—

Run away with my daughter! eh! how! what's that?

Oh, ho! I ſee how the conſent goes—becauſe Sir, this vulgar, low bred ſcoundrel, has had the aſſurance to think you would give him miſs Helen Donnybrook in marriage, and be damn'd to him.

Curſed ſcoundrel! hark ye, Mr. Sullivan!

You go home, and black my boots, and make them ſhine like white marble!

I'm an impudent ſcoundrel! my twenty little babes ſhall never learn manners from you, old Sullivan. Here a young lady falls in love with a young fellow, merely for his prettyneſs, and I'm to be badger'd by her codger of a father.—I'll be damn'd if I don't have her tho'—this hand that has ſqueez'd a lady's ſinger,—bruſh coats!—no, no, Bob Sullivan, I'll back no more to your mouldy cupboard.—I'll run away with her, or I'll be—oh! here's Redmond O Hanlon, though now the conſtable and the county keeper, yet he was a heart of ſteel, that I'm ſure of.

I'll have Felix out of this, then I'm paid for clapping him up again.

Redmond, I've a deſperate wicked buſineſs, and I want you to help me, my good fellow.

I can't—I'm now going to put irons on Felix.

You're a bold and a big man, Redmond O'Hanlon, and a fine thief taker, becauſe you were a thief yourſelf once.

Yes, I think I'm clever at arreſting a man, or doing him an execution of chattles.

Aye, but don't you go ſteal his ducks, that will be over doing it, quack! quack!

Yes, in Antrim I was a heart of ſteel, in Clonmel I was a white boy.

And I'm a tight boy,—now, there's a nice foul I want to ſteal.

What, a fiſh?

No, a lady I want to run away with.

Lady! I will,—I moſt ſtep home for my hanger, this cuts out more work for me.

I thank ye.

Come, Roſa, I will never reſt till I have contrived ſome way to relieve your unhappy Felix

Generous girl! the concern ſhe takes for the unfortunate, charms me. But I'll ſee how far it will carry her.

From the curioſity of my boyiſh rambles, I believe I know more of the coun⯑try, than all its preſent inhabitants.

Roſa, child, you love Felix,—I know he's innocent, yet the event of his trial is uncertain. I think he might eſcape.

Innocent, I'll be ſworn he is.

How cou'd he eſcape?

There is a way under ground from this very Chapel, to the ruins of the old abbey, about a mile up among the mountains. I believe I remem⯑ber an old ballad about it

"under the font is a little trap door," &c.

What, the old abbey yonder; dear, I recol⯑lect that cave perfectly.

Then, Roſa, without telling a ſoul we'll go by ourſelves, and if poſſible, free him.

Thank you miſs, we will,

we thank you pedlar, an I will not forget to reward you.

SCENE III.—Inſide of the Chapel.

This unfortunate letter! I muſt either betray the man that took it for me, or ſuffer in his ſtead.

Felix, I command you to keep from the door, whilſt I open it, to ſee whether you're there or no.

Come in Billy, why do you hang behind?

very odd, this wretch ſo belov'd, that all the country is in tears, and ſobs at his being lock'd up.

Maſter, you needn't mind locking the door till we're out.

I muſt take care of the two offenders.

Two! ſure there's only one.

You know Felix, before you did this laſt damnable job of journey work, you loſt your charac⯑ter, by aſſiſting the poor people, and daſhing your money about. Some thought you had found a pot of gold, others ſaid you had ſold yourſelf to the devil; but all were of one mind, that you went out robbing for it.

In a very ſhort time I purpos'd making a full and open diſcovery; but as it has now happen'd, find it out how you can.

Then ſtay there and be hang'd, you ob⯑ſtinate, unmannerly blackguard, till a guard of ſoldiers come, with their muzzles ſcrew'd upon their bagnets, to take you to Wicklow jail—then you'll be arraign'd, then the judge will put on his little black cap, you'll be condem'd, the cord will be put round your neck, and off you go ſwinging, Billy O'Rourke.

Why, the Lord have mercy upon me, you great big fool! what do you talk to me at all? why don't you turn to Felix?

True; Felix, you'll be hang'd in chains, and as I write in my boys copy books, that will learn you wiſdom in the days of your youth!—Eh! what's here?

this is one of the letters [39]Felix took from the bag, it may diſcover ſome⯑thing.

Now I'll make off.

Where are you going?

I was not going—only for Mr. Donnybrook to examine Felix.

Oh! he has run to look for his daughter, ſhe and Roſa can neither be found; Redmond O'Hanlon has told the 'Squire, that ſome raſcal attempted to carry her off.

Oh lord!

Billy, 'twasn't you ſure, was it? you deſerv'd only a horſe whipping for your confounded impu⯑dence in aſking for her, but the youth that tried to ſteal her away, will ſhuffle out of the world with Felix; but I'll go and read this letter in a corner.

Yes, I ſhall ſwing; a young man gets no good by following the girls, plague choak 'em, choak! Oh! Felix, ſhould you be happy to ſhuffle out of the world in company? I don't mean my company—I never did any thing to deſerve ſuch treatment,

gone! why old Sullivan has lock'd me in too, what have I done? I didn't do any thing—I never did nothing—Felix, I'd get you out if I cou'd—I wiſh I cou'd get you out, becauſe then I cou'd get myſelf out—Felix, you ſhou'd try to get out—it's a great ſin to die whilſt we're alive.

True; death conſtantly purſues and muſt overtake us, yet we ſhou'd keep our onward way, and not turn to meet him. This ſimpleton's but ſad comfort for the hour of ſorrow.

Is this door?—no, double lock'd.

Felix gone to ſit in the veſtry, I won't ſtay in this diſmal place by myſelf.

Felix!

What's that?

Felix!

This is ſurely old harry calling this wicked fellow to him.

An under ground paſſage from this chapel to the mountains; what, that opens at the old abbey! huzza! huzza! thank ye, ſweet little cricket, whoever you are. It's a fine lonely place, I can get off to Dublin without coming into Arklow again;

ecod! here it is—Felix! Felix! hold, if I take him with me, I ſhall be hang'd for his reſcue. No, no, to ſave going up, I'll go down.

not gone!

Whoever wrote this letter, didn't learn in my ſchool-hand, it's a crow's claw; but I muſt read it to prepare proofs before Mr. Donnybrook comes.

Mr. Donnybrook coming! then I'm gone for certain!

Billy, where's that pair of ſpectacles Felix bought for me?

Yes Sir, I'll go home for them Sir,

open the door Sir.

This will be better than eſcaping under the ground I don't know where.

No, Billy, ſtay here, w [...] ſhall want you to write his confeſſion.

Ay, I ſhall be ſent to jail with Felix.

Hell! death! and fury! let me out.

Why Billy, what do you curſe and ſwear ſo for in the chapel? you're grown ſuch a reprobate, I ſhou'dn't wonder if the ground was to open and ſwallow you up alive!

Oh, ho!

Lord! what's that?

What's, what!

A great hole in the earth, bleſs me!

Ah! too late to bleſs yourſelf now.

What's the matter with my feet? ſome⯑thing pulling them, oh! help, help.

Be quiet—father Murphy told me this wou'd be your end; Billy have ſome regard to the ſchool where you were uſher, go quietly, don't let them be ſending fire and brimſtone up here for you.

Oh Sir! maſter! hold me! oh! they'll have me down—oh, help! help!

I won't lay a finger upon you, the horrid vengeance that awaits you, may communicate like electricity—I am ſo frighten'd, I'll ſit down, I ſhall faint, oh for a pitcher of water to throw over me!

SCENE IV.—A Road.

Billy's untimely ſate has ſo ſtupified me, that I forgot all concerns for this other rogue. I thought that by the hurly burly at the chapel door, Lucifer was come for him too—now this letter—why it's from his old nurſe,

—‘your loving nurſe, Margaret Fagan.’ What, 'tis all about his worſted ſtock⯑ings?

Sir, here's Mr. Franklin, the lord of the manor, juſt arrived, and has had Felix put in irons; but he, out of thanks to the people for reſcuing him, has told them of his finding a Gold Mine in Croghan Mountain, ſo all is now out, how he came by the caſh.

Hey! hey! now where are you all running?

Sure we're going to the Gold Mine.

The ſurprize has taken away my breath,— Felix found a Gold Mine! oh! the moſt damnable villain, to keep ſuch a ſecret to himſelf, juſt as a bear wou'd a bee's neſt; I wiſh I found it, I wou'dn't have let a foul know, but now I'll find it, and refine it, and double refine it, and ſuper-refine it.

Come neighbours.

Hold! a'n't I a learned man, hav'n't I read big books of chymiſtry, all about tranſmutation, diſtillation, ſublimation, calcination, evaporation, volatilization, exhalation, dephlequation, concen⯑tration, [43]rectification, ſaturation, chryſtalization, precipitation, conflagration and botheration.

Is this Gold Mine under the ground, or over the ground?

Very probably.—Now ſtand on this ſide of me, for I am deaf in this ear, and you can't under⯑ſtand what. I ſay to you—now one word I've to ſay to you all, liſten to me, ſtart fair.

SCENE the laſt.

I'll not part with you huſſey, till you tell me where's my daughter; Helen was ſeen with you.

Nay Sir, don't be angry—miſs—is—is—

Come out my ſine little boy.

My daughter in a hole with a fine little boy!

My father!

now Sir, don't give the poor fellow up again.

Oh! Sir, ſave my Felix!

Here I am my ſweet little cricket, oh! lord!

What, is it you, you wretch?

Come again from old nick; but I'll ſend you back to him, you dam'd,—

Oh! mercy!

Hold, Sir—don't let's have murder too.

He has ſtole my game, my coat and my girl!

quit your mother's choice, (the pink of fine gentlemen,) for this dam'd lump of a munſter potatoe.

I'm neither a potatoe nor a turnip, old cab⯑bage head.

Bring the culprit this way.

Convey him immediately to Wicklow; but my lad, you're very young, you muſt have had ſome experi⯑enc'd accomplice;

you mentioned a perſon, a kind of pedlar, that was ſeen loitering, come confeſs,

was not that beggerman your confederate?

Yes, that raſcally old thief did it all.

Give him up, and by my honor I not only promiſe you a pardon, but a high reward for your diſcovery of a Gold Mine on my eſtate.

Sir, if I die for it, my word to the laſt: the crime was all my own.

His laſt ſpeech and true dying words.

I ſay all the miſchief was done by that curs'd rogue, the pedlar.

Ay 'Squire, 'twas he that ſet me on to affront miſs Helen, he told me himſelf that he ſtole two ponies, four cows, a lamb and a finger poſt.

He's a very good creature.

A brave old fellow.

I wiſh we could catch the dam'd rogue.

Silence!

Then Felix, you poſſitively will not hang me? your hand—do you forget your old companion, maſter Tom Franklin, who was nurs'd with you in you very cabin. I myſelf brought you that letter from Doblin, and made the boy tell the ſham ſtory of the mail robbery—my diſguiſe and ſtratagem have prov'd, that your generoſity and gratitude, are ſupe⯑rior [46]to, even the concern for your life; and madam,

your humane efforts to ſave a life ſo valuable, have acted more powerfully on my heart, than all I had before felt from the force of your charms.

Ha, ha, ha! Helen, this is Mr. Franklin, your mother's choice.

Indeed! then Sir, your protection was but ſelfiſh—if I'm worth having—

I recollect you Sir, you are indeed the good natur'd young gentleman that, when we were children, honor'd me with his friendſhip.

My dear Felix, can you forgive me.

My innocent Roſa, had I been the villain you ſuppos'd me, your conduct diſplay'd but the purity of your heart.

Stay away all of you with your pans and pails, until your betters are ſerv'd. Billy! oh, then, king Plutus has ſent you up with this cargo of golden curſes; not a thumb upon the Gold, until I have fill'd my barley ſacks.

Hold, Sir, as lord of the manor. I ſhall preſume to lay a finger upon it: but, my lovely Helen, is the angel of the Mine, and it's all at her diſpoſal; Felix has given the example, who not only diſcover'd the Gold Mine, but the far more valuable ſecret of putting Gold to its nobleſt uſe, deeds of benevolence.