[] THE WOODMAN, A COMIC OPERA.

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

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

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

Yes.

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

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

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

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

I will.—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well then go—that's a good lad.

I will, your Worſhip.

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

SCENE II.

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

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

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

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

And I of rubbing the nutmeg over it.

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

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

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

Yes, child, you did.

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

I don't know that.

Well—and ſo.—

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

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

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

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

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

Well, and that was right.

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

Barbarous creature!

Hold your tongue a little—pray, Dolly!

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

I honor your ſpirit!

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

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

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

And ſo the dear, conſtant-hearted man is ſoon expect⯑ed back again?

He is indeed, Dolly—

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

Oh, the feelings of my heart!—

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

SCENE III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCENE IV.

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

Good morrow, brother Matt.

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

Yes—I love her dearly.

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

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

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

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

How can you be ſo abſurd, Dolly?

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

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

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

"Why, ſo-ſo!

"Then, Mrs. So-So—the reſt of my buſineſs hap⯑pens not to be with you—but with your pretty com⯑panion there.

"With me, ſir?

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

"Faith, Bob, ſhe's a nice griſt!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ridiculous!—

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

Impudent fellow!

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

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

Lamentable indeed!

But that an't all?

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

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

Lord, Miſs!—but his love—

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

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

Ha!—ha!—ha!—

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

At you, and your fooliſh brother!

Oh! you do?

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

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

Oh! pray do, Mr. Jack in office!

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

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

Taken compaſſion upon her?

Yes, ſir.

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

Well—and ſuppoſe he does.

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

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

You don't, upon your little wicked ſoul?

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

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

SCENE V.

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

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

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

Oh! ſhe will repay all my anxieties!

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCENE VI.

Did you ever hear ſuch a perſecuting clapper as cou⯑ſin Di's?

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

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

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

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

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

But not without poſitive evidence of the fact.

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

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

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

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

SCENE VII.

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

Oh la! what fine gentleman can this be?

How are you, my little innocent?

Very well, I thank you ſir—

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

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

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

"No—who tells you that?

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

"But you don't believe him?

"I don't know, ſir."

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

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

Indeed! and ſo you are, my dear!

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

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

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

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

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

Well done, little Whirligig!—

Good day to you, friend Bob.

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

—The fame to you, ſir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Becauſe I can't chooſe the ſample I like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Juſtice you know, ſir, ſhould be blind on theſe occa⯑ſions.

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

No good, I'll anſwer ſor't—

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

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

Which of us, and pleaſe your Worſhip?

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

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

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

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

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

But not exactly, Matt, according to my nature.

Indeed, firſt of all ſhe ſhould be ſworn!

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

Take off your glove—

What can this mean?

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

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

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

You hear his Worſhip's commands, and that's ſuffi⯑cient.

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

No?—not an oath?—oh fie!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now for it!

I [...]ound this poor Emily, a friendleſs creature, that the world had turn'd it back upon—and ſo, your Ho⯑nor—I took her in—

And keep her in the face of the whole foreſt?

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

No, indeed, your Worſhip.

No?

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

There's impudence for you!

Why, what will the world ſay of you?

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

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

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

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

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

Dear heart! what a queſtion?

Ay, anſwer him that—

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

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

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

What! you will be obſtinate?

What a ſturdy old pollard this is, Matt?

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

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

You know, your Worſhip, Burn ſays—

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

A ſtrange gentleman!—glad to ſpeak with me?

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

No ſure, your Honor!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCENE IX.

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

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

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

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

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

I collogue?—I ſcorn your words!

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

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

"Pray what do you mean, ſir?

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

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

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

That what?—

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

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

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

"Keep her?—and ſo he does.

"Well—there now!

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

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

What?

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

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

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

—why, Dolly, I only—

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

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

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

Are you in earneſt?

Earneſt!

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

My dear Matt—do you ſay ſo?

To be ſure I do—

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

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

Oh!—half one, and half t'other.

Then let me have a whole one on your own ac⯑count—

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

Lord! you do teaſe a body ſo, Matt!

Come—come—

Well then, there—

—but you muſt get my father's conſent.

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

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

SCENE X.

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

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

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

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

Ay! who can that be, child?

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

What, old Fairlop the woodman, you mean?

Yes, ſir.

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

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

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

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

Gad!—that's a ſignificant hint I don't diſlike, how⯑ever.

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

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

SCENE XI.

But where's your innocent companion—I long to at⯑tone for my offence—

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

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

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

Oh, ſir—but I dread the effects of Sir Walter's re⯑ſentment!—

Never you ſear—leave him to me.

He directed me to conſult you about a further inter⯑view with him to-day.

What can his Worſhip want with her again?

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

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

We do, indeed—and mine is more than common cu⯑rioſity.

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

Let us retire awhile—

—for I feel an agita⯑tion I cannot deſcribe!

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

Good day to you, ſir.—

Sir, I'm your ſervant.

I am told you wanted to ſpeak with me.

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

That's coming to the point, indeed!

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

That we ſhall ſoon ſee.—

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

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

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

Oh, no!—

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

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

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

I hope, ſir, ſhe's worth looking for!

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

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

You have mine, ſir—from a ſympathiſing heart.

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

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

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

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

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

Not your's?

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

Oh! your friend's is it?—

To be ſure and it is!

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

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

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

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

But are you in earneſt?

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

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

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

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

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

But what are you proſeing ſo much about to your⯑ſelf, little fellow?

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

So much the better.

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

Is it a laugh, ſir, you are after putting upon a ſol⯑dier?—

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

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

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

Well, proceed—

You ſee that great houſe.

Very well—

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

The devil ſhe is now!

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

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

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

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

And why not?—

SCENE XII.

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

—Bridget!—Bridget!

Did you call, your Ladyſhip?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

C [...]me from Medley?—Then I find there was ſome⯑thing in his hint to me this morning, about a new ad⯑mirer.—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too long have I been loſt indeed, ſir!—Oh! the te⯑dious moments that—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCENE XV.

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

Well, my friend—did you meet with her as I inform⯑ed you?

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

You found her well, I hope?

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

Alter'd a little, no doubt?

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

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

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

"You did not ſtay long with her?

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

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

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

His Worſhip wants you, brother, directly.

And I his Worſhip—and I fancy on the ſame buſi⯑neſs.

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

None in the leaſt, ſir.

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

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

Ay, that it is, for certain.

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

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

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

Hilliho!—hilliho!—ho!

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

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

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

Well—what ſucceſs?

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

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

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

Say, then—where? and how is ſhe?

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

Spoke ſhe not of me with paſſionate anxiety?

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

Pooh!—is this a time for jeſting?

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

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

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

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

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

Direct me but the way—

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

But may I depend upon you?

Oh! as ſure as fate!—

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

SCENE XV.

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

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

Well, my dear!—

Ecod, I ſear it's not ſo well.

Why? what's the matter, little ſellow?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With all my ſoul!

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

Well—and what of that?

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

Oh! not at all—a ſoldier's jacket is not made for ſun⯑ſhine—and mine, I know, won't turn its back to a fly⯑ing ſhower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There's an abominable old gander for you!

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

How indiſcreet to conſent to this interview!

Indeed, Miſs, and you may ſay that.

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

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

I thought I heard a footſtep this way!

Your own, my dear—for you tread none of the light⯑eſt!

Faith they've got a ſouſer!

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

And now, Matt, muſt you avoid an untimely explana⯑tion.

What a mighty pretty joke is love in a ſhower!

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

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

—You may think, ſir—

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

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

This is very extraordinary behaviour in you, ſir!

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

What is it you mean, ſir?—I came—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I ſeduce!—I—a fighting fellow!

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

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

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

So much the better, my dear.

SCENE XVI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now pray talk a little gently, ſweet ones!

"An't they very gay, and pretty?

"Yes, very ſmart indeed!

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

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

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

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

"That there, my love?

"Yes, that—

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

"Dear! I don't care!

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

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

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

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

I'll go and fetch 'em, brother.

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

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

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

SCENE XIX.

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

—How can you be ſo unkind?

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

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

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

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

Well, ſince you will have it ſo—proceed—

SCENE XX.

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

"What's the matter, Ma'am?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Oh, bad, very bad!—

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

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

Oh, Madam, Jenny Hawthorn! hollow!—

Now for it, Dolly—Now, Dolly!

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

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

Of all conſcience, Matt—I'm content!

Where is the perfidious Emily?

Oh, there ſhe ſits—

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

Why add mockery to my diſtreſs?

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

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

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

—after my own choice.

She's won it—ſhe's won it!

Can it be poſſible?

Oh! very poſſible! keep a little back.—

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

Oh, my Emily!

And do I live again to behold my faithful Wilford?

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

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

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

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

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

It is I, my friend, who have loſt mine in love, and ad⯑miration!

But where is the ruſtic guardian of my Emily?

Here—

—My kind, diſintereſted protector!

Lackaday! what is all this?

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

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

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

By all means!

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

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

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

What ſay you, my dear friend, Dolly?

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

How is all this?

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

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

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

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

—It's a bailable offence, I truſt?

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

But perhaps, Miſs Emily—

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

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

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

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