ACT I.

CONCEITED fop!

Impertinent ſavage!

Gentlemen—

'Pon my honour I ſhall pink you.

And by my fiſt I'll thump you.

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

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

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

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

Mary!

My miſtreſs! Coming, madam.

Frill!

My maſter! Yes, Sir.

You Muns! Why Muns!

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

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

Mary, ſee where's Miſs Adelaide.

Yes, Ma'am.

My riding hat and ſwitch cane.

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

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

I will.

You will not.

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

Ha, ha, ha!

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

Not I, Sir—till you go out.

Here, you Muns! (calling.)

Frill.

A ſervant without from one Mr. Nu⯑gent, from Paris.

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

Sir, the horſes are ready.

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

This is charming!

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

Buſineſs.—You Muns.

Sir.

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

I will, Sir.

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

I will, Miſs.

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

You may, Sir.

You won't fail?

I won't.

Mind, don't ſtir out.

Not a leg.

You'll run now to Jack Connor?

Every foot.

My dear Jack Connor, I love him more than ever for his fidelity to my Lord; and ſurely the man of honour and integrity can ne⯑ver prove a faithleſs lover.

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

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

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

I had.

O precious! Who is he?

Let theſe tears tell you my lover is no more.

Dear me!

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

Ten years! You conſtant ſoul!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the Count will meet me?

Yes, my Lord.

You call'd me Nugent?

I did, my Lord.

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

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

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

Somewhere here ſtood

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

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

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

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

One will do for me.

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

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

Thirſty! Oh!

Phelim.

You ſhall have a traveller's wel⯑come to the houſe of Jack Connor.

'Tis he! the companion of my youth.

I'll fill for you, Sir—Come—

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

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

Pray where is my Lord now?

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

What's the matter?

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

Affectionate fellow!

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

What's that?

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

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

A myſtery there.—But

I'll get to the bottom on't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm a cur! Oh you puppy.

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

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

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

A ſupper! delightful!

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

Charming! then I'll go ſuperintend ſupper.

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

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

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

Who is here?

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

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

What, Sir, go to bed without your ſup⯑per? the nice ſupper that Miſs Rachel has pre⯑pared for you?

Hey! what is all this?

The table laid for your ſupper, Sir.

Why who knew I was coming home?

Miſs Rachel, Sir.

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

The devil a word of it.

Oh yes, Sir, Mary told her that.

Mary! who told Mary?

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

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

That was a great fall indeed, Sir.

Eh?

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

Mary?

Yes, Sir; Muns rode before her.

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

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

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

Yes, Sir, ſhe ſaid ſhe ſquall'd.

Then perhaps 'twas ſhe ſent the 'po⯑thecary to me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ha, ha, ha!

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

Ha, ha, ha!

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

You muſt.

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

Sure!

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

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

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

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

I wiſh Jack Connor wou'd make haſte.

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

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

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

Ah!

What's the matter with you?

Sir, I—I—I thought it was the ghoſt.

Why, did you invite the ghoſt to ſup⯑per?

If Jack returns we're undone.

Lord, Sir, who expected you?

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

What tumble, Sir?

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

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

Forgive us! Then, Sir, you know all?

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

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

Sup! what your ſervant?

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

Who, Muns?

Muns!

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

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

Now up with Black Sloven.

Hey!

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

What's that?

Eh!

If I could prevent Jack Connor from coming in.

Here's two bottles for the jolly dog.

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

Ah!

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

Me!

Where the devil did you pick up ſuch an apothecary?

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

He was a farrier

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

I take the road!

So you muſt go on the pad!

I go on the pad! Oh Lord!

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

Mary, fetch my maſter the pillow.

So, Sirrah, ſhe's in love with you?

Yes, Sir—eh Mary? ha, ha, ha!

And you muſt ſit down and ſup with me?

Eh! well—thank ye, Sir.

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

Tooten, ſit down, boy.

Get along, you infernal impudent ſon of a—

Oh Lord, he's mad!

Where's my ſaddle, you villain?

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

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

The ghoſt has bit him—Oh.

A knave!

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

Stop the fellow—thieves—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where have you left the gentleman?

In the lodge. Come—

You need n't run away from a body.

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

This is the room, Sir.

Yes, Sir, this is the room, Sir.

I'm very much obliged to you.

The bed's in the alcove, Sir.

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

Can't you?

Pſha!

Sir, the bed is very well air'd.

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

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

The gentleman of the houſe is gone to reſt?

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

Indeed! Poor gentleman.

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

Then I ſhall return him thanks in the morning.

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

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

Yes, Sir.

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

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

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

Huſh! huſh!

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

Wiſh you a good night, Sir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

ACT II.

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

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

What wou'd you be pleaſed to have?

Any thing, Sir.

What do you want?

Every thing, Ma'am.

Who are you?

A poor ſervant out of place.

We want a waiter, huſband.

Did your maſter give you a cha⯑racter?

No, Sir, he had none for himſelf.

What can you do?

Sir, I don't know what to do.

What are you capable of?

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

I want no horn.

No, that you don't, huſband.

You underſtand horſes?

Yes, Sir, and cookery.

I want one in my ſtable.

A horſe?

Pſha! my ſtable.

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

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

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

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

Yes, Sir.

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

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

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

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

Raſcal!—my friendly ſchool-fellow.

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

I think not.

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

Excellent! You'll ſay I'm his lord⯑ſhip, ha, ha! they pay me, and we return to Paris, and ſhare it with our club, ha, ha! ad⯑mirable!

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

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

Ay, I'll have him.

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

Diable! dat is he!

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

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

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

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

Well, Trap—I call him Trap—

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

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

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

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

Bravo, my Lor; now jailor.

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

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

But I am now going to my caſtle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valet! what do you mean?

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

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

You will drink my health?

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

Ha, ha, ha!

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

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

Do you call, Gentlemen?

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

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

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

Den you were at de houſe, eh?

Laſt night, to look for you.

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

Immediately.

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

Hey! What have you got lazy already, ſirrah?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, Jack Connor, what is this buſineſs?

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

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

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

I will have it.

Now here's that litigious block⯑head, old Tough, the grazier, come wrangling about—

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

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

Oh! that was a grievous ſin, neigh⯑bour Tough.

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

My love!

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

Ha, ha, ha! gueſs'd it.—Ah, ſlyone!

But have you her father's conſent?

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

You have,

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

Here's the ſteward.

Lud, my father!

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

Will he? 'Gad I've a thought—Ha!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No! Well you're a devil of a—

I am—and how can I help it?

You can't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Call a prieſt from his breakfaſt! are you mad?

Call the wench hither.

I will, thank ye—

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

No?

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

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

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

Did you? What! to his face?

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

Do, —go in and do it; ha, ha, ha!

I will—I'll do it.

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

So do I, ha, ha, ha!

I'll have her.

Eh! here he is.

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

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

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

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

Done! He won't.

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

Well, but do you call to the friar.

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

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

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

What doings? ha, ha, ha!

What doings! Jack Connor to take away my lamb?

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

His! For ten guineas ſhe carries my name.

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

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

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

Feather'd!

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

Zounds! then he intends her for his own table.

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

He's plaguy dainty.

Yes, he's a dainty fellow.

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

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

Father, your bleſ⯑ſing.

Eh! zounds! if this ſhould be the lamb!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, plague of your obedience.

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

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

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

Bleſs me! will ſhe ſleep all day?

'Tis very late.

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

Oh! Mary, the ſweeteſt dream!

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

Ring! Oh Hea⯑vens! is it poſſible?

I muſt put your room to rights.

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

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

Do you know of any ſtranger here laſt night?

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

Where is he?

Gone, Ma'am, but Lord knows where.

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

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

Dear Sir, did you ſee the gentleman?

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

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

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

Hey! what great man is this?

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

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

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

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

Hey! Turn out.

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

My beloved Adelaide!

My darling Mary!

'Tis my Nugent!

Nugent! Oh! ſhe vil ſpoil all.

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

Eh!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diable! Are you really my Lord Eſ⯑mond? Oh, I am ruined!

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