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Every person injuring the Books by tearing or defacing ^ $ them in any way, will pay^the price of the Books so in- J jured. ^ $ 4 t t ^ store ^ sivf ^fir U. F. I>OUBL.£DAY, Kee-^s constantly for sale, at the Cayuga County Book- ^posite the Western '^xchange. Auburn, an exten- ort-i- ' of BOOKS, STATIONERY, FINE CUT ' 'ARTICLES, &c. Also, the latest and^ APER HANGINGS, ever offered in J •^ooo^ KcwWaA ,«; «i DRAMATIC SCENES FROM REAL LIFE BY LADY MORGAN. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL I. NEW-YORK: PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY J. & J. HARPER, No. 82 Cliff-street, AND SOLD BY THE BOOKSELLERS GEKERALLT THROUGHOUT THE UNITED STATES. 1833. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2009 with funding from Duke University Libraries http://www.archive.org/details/dramaticscenesfrOOmorg ^p PREFACE, It is no easy matter to write up, or down, to the present state of British literature. It may seem " affectations, look you," (as parson Hugh has it,) to say that literature is leisure ; but its existence, in its most palmy state, indicates an epoch in society, when the public have time to read, what authors have time to write. Such Avere the great ages, when nations, after a long and fevish struggle, subsided into some new and settled order : — the ages of Augustus, of Lewis the Fourteenth, and of Queen Anne. The civil wars of Rome, terminating in Imperial tyranny, the League and Fronde, fatal to the French aristocracy, — and the more glorious civil wars of England, achieving liberty and pros- perity for an emancipated nation, each left the public mmd leisure to stoop from its high quarry of political change, to sport in regions of purer intellect, and play with interests less mundane and positive. Such, however, is not the present epoch. We are living in an era of transition. Changes moral and political are in progress. The frame of the con- stitution, the frame of society itself, are sustaining a shock, which occupies all minds, to avert, or to modify ; and the public refuses its attention to literary claimants, whose pre- tensions are not either founded on utility, or backed by the brilliancy or brevity of their appeals. Publishers and thea- trical lessees, who complain of the times, overlook this fact. Deceived by the stale philosophy of the little back-parlour behind the shop, or the old jargon of the green-room behind the scenes, they talk of bringing back the public taste ; in- stead of following its changes. There is no legitimate lite- rature, as there is no legitimate drama. Those who would live by the world, must live in it, and with it ; and adapt themselves to its form and pressure ; for it is in vain that they attempt to force society to be amused, with what has ceased to be amusing. Adieu, then, for the nonce, ye charming historical romances, which were not historical ; whose materiel waS taken from inventories ; and whose IV PREFACE. events were coloured from the political creed of the author. Adieu, ye fashionable novels of silver forks, and of golden necessaires ; with bursts of rant, and pages of platitude. Adieu, ye volumes of paradoxes, written to startle, not con- vince. Adieu, ye lady-like tales of blonde lace, and broken hearts, — the miseries of marriage, and the merits of Her- bault. The forms by which imitative mediocrity has long sought the suffrages of fashion, are exhausted : the plate is worn out, which once produced proof impressions of such price and mark. Movement has succeeded to meditation ; and, except the tones of Pasta, or the steps of Taglioni, *' point the moral or adorn the tale," even the scene-shifiing drama fails to fix the rapid perceptions of a public, whose own drama is so bustling and pre-occupying. The candi- dates, therefore, for cotemporary notoriety must seek it by other means than the pathways, battus et rehattus, of book- making and bookselling. They must, if they can, obtain cards for a royal breakfast at Sion, or a fete at Chiswick ; or, if this fail, they must try the Sunday mart of the Zoological Gardens ; and by staring the eagle out of countenance, or joining the bear in a ttte a tete, out-dressing the maccaws, or out-chattering the monkies, insure the desired qu'^en dira-t-on, the object of their frivolous labours. Under this impression, be it false or true, I have ventured to bring forward a trifling commodit3r, of no pretension and of little importance, — " a homely thing, but a thing of my own," — a thing that may be read running, or dancing, like a puff on a dead wall, or a sentiment on a French fan. I have thrown the heavy ballast of narrative overboard, sunk the author ; and, loosing every rag of sail to the breeze, my bark may perhaps (if the literary pirates and privateers do not, as usual, strive to run it down,) escape better, than nobler vessels, freighted with the fortunes of literary Ceasars, who steer right onward, for other epochs and better times. When one, who, in Ireland, was a wit among blunderers, and a blunderer among wits, obtained a good match for his eldest daughter, he observed, in the ardour of his gratitude to the pretendant, " Troth then, sir, if I'd an oulder, I'd give her to you :" and I frankly own to the public of the present day, that if I had any thing to offer, more light and trifling, than the trifle I have the honour to lay at its feet, I should, of preference, have selected it, — not in presumption, but in deference to the great (Questions by which the world is occu- pied. MANOR SACKVILLE. MANOR SACKVILLE. CHARACTERS. Henry Lumblet Sackville, Esq. — An English commoner of the highest class ; liberal, enlightened, and philanthropic. He has lately added to his immense hereditary property, an Irish estate of ten thousand a year, in right of his aunt and mother, co-heiresses, and representatives of the ancient family of Sackville. Lady Emily Lumley Sackville. — His gay and beautiful wife, the spoiled child of nature and fortune, of a joyous and happy temperament, and a quick and uncontrolled sensibility : a leader of ton in London, and an enthusiastic admirer of Ireland, and Irish novels. Lady Julia Herbert. — Her unmarried sister, gay, pretty, and petu- lant, a creature of circumstances, a coquette in town, a sentimentahst in the mountains of Mogherow. The Hon. Clarence Herbert. — Lieutenant of the Regiment, quartered in the neighbourhood of Manor Sackville, cousin and cavalier of the ladies Emily and Juha. The Lord Fitzroy Montague.— Captain of the same regiment ; an intimate of the Sackville circle in London, and by chance a guest at Manor Sackville. Mrs. Quigley. — Housekeeper for the last twenty years at Manor Sackville, under the regime of its late master, William Gerald Mont- morency Fitzgerald Sackville, Esq. Mrs. Q.uigley is much given to cats and corpulency, and easily put out of her way ; though not out of Manor Sackville. ^ Little Judy. — " Her Nora, (but not) in lohile dimity." Terry Madden, ) Her soiifre douleurs, and pages of the poultry- ToMMY Slevein, 3 yard. Vlll MANOR SACKVILLE. Jeremiah Galbraith, Esq. — Of Mary-Ville, Mogherow. The man of business and sub-agent of the late Lord of Alanor Sackville, still kept in office till the arrival of the Auditor of the estate, Captain Williams, who is abroad. Alicia, Baroness of Rosstrevor. — The young and handsome relict of the late oldLordRosstrevor,*a Saint of the highest calling, witha strong vocation to found a new religion, — the Kreudner or Southcote of Alog- herow. The Rev. Enoch Grimshaw. — A professional Saint, her moral agent, to whose guardianship, temporal and spiritual, she was bequeathed, by her late venerable, but rather suspicious husband. Miss Grimshaw. — A maiden lady, the ardent disciple and puffer of her brother — companion and confidant of Lady Rosstrevor. Mrs. Grafton. — A once gay widow, who has recently had a serious call. Mr. Binns. — A very young, and rather rich Catechumen, who drives Mrs. Grafton in his cab to chapel, class meetings, &c. &c. Miss MuLLixs. — A would-be saint for the sake of getting into good society ; disciple of Mr. Grimshaw, and probationary visitor at Ross- trevor Castle. The Hon. and Rev. Dr. Poltftjs. — Rector of Newtown Manorsack- ville. Vicar of Sally Noggin, and Rural Dean of Mogherow, holding the livings of Shu-Beg and Shu-More with an income of tour hundred pounds per annum. The Rev. ]Mr. Emerson. — His curate, (at seventy pounds per annum,) an odd sort of young man, not particularly well thought of in the neigh- bourhood. Hon. and Rev. Mrs. Poltpus. — Wife of the Doctor, and daughter of Dr. Grindall, late Bishop of the Diocese. Archdeacon Grindall. — Son of the late Bishop. Mrs. Archdeacon Grindall. — Daughter by a former marriage of Dr. Polypus. Miss Polypus. — Daughter of the Doctor by his present lady. Sir Job Blackacre — of Blackacre, high sheriff of the county, a magistrate, and very influential person at the Castle of DubUn, in former heutenancies, but now a little shorn of his beams. A magnate of the first class in the barony of Mogherow. Captain Blackacre, — his son, of the regiment of heavy dra- goons; — paying his addresses to Miss Polypus, and much occupied in looking at his rings, in combing his hair, drawing up his shirt-collar, and tapping his boots with his whip. MANOR SACKVILLE. IX The Reverend Mr. Ever ard.— Parish priest of Mogherow, of the foreign school ; of bland and persuasive manner, adopting or dropping the Irish brogue at will. An ex-professor of the Jesuit college of Cuenca. The Reverexd Mr. O'Callaghan, alias Father Phil— (his curate,) of the College of Maynooth. Mr. Sampson. — A tithe-proctor. Mr. Brady. — A surveyor. Cornelius Brian. — A ringleader of Whitefeet. Honor Brian. — His wife. Dan O'Leart, Darby O'Loughlin, and Shane Dhu Sullivan. — Peasants. Mr. M'Dermot, Mr. O'Hanlan, and Mr. Phineas Finnegan. — Patriots, &c. Mr. Jones. — Sub-sheriffto Sir Job, an attorney. The Widow Gaffney. — Hostess of the Rosstrevor Arms. The new- light inn of the new-hght village of Sally Noggin. Mr. and jNIrs. Brallaghan. — Merchants (i. e, proprietors of " the shop'') of Mogherow. Saints, Sinners, Patriots, Policemen, Whitefeet, Redfeet, and Black- feet, Conservatives, Destructives, Orangemen, Ribbon-men, Footmen, Groom of the Chambers, " and others." TiMUR. — Mr. Sackville's Newfoundland dog. Bijou. — Lady Emily's pug. MuNGo. — A large black catj the idol of Mrs. Quigley's ^^ passione gai- Uscha,''^ THE SCENE Lies principally at Manor Sackville, an ancient fabric of vast extent and low elevation, in the mountains of the barony of Mogherow, and county of— , in the north-west of Ireland ; and in the neighbouring villages of New-Town-Mount-Sackville, Mogherow, and Sally Noggin. The first, an old English " plantation," (much decayed,) of the time of James the First. Sally Noggin, from a boggy common, covered with lawless paupers, has become a trim resort of New-Light Sectarians, possessing much of the externals at least, of cleanliness and prosperity, if " all within" does not exactly correspond. There is perhaps too much of the " painted sepulchre" about its temporal arrangements. The walls, without, being punctually whitewashed, and flanked with Chinese roses and woodbine ; while the interior has added nothing but hj'pocrioy to the original attributes of idleness, thnftlessncss, and misery. Mogherow is a genuine Irish town of the third or fourth class, unchanged during the last century ; swarming with pigs, beggars, and children ; and richly endowed with shebeen houses, and " porter, punch, and spirit stores." The moun- tain district, in the vicinity, is of the wildest description, with inhabitants *' to match." Among the latter, are distributed many unfortunate out- laws, driven there, partly by the sudden rage for large farms and pasture culture, and partly by the labours of an " active magistracy," at deadly feud with the religion of the people. In the plain below, there are a few squireens and middlemen, drunk with the insolence of religious suprem- acy ; but from pride and idleness, not much more comfortable in their appearance, than the mass of rack-rented ci-devant forty-shilling freehold- ers, who form the great body of the inhabitants, near the mansions of the resident landlords. MANOR SACKVILLE. SCENE I.— Time, mid-day. [The housekeeper's room at Manor Sackville, a long, low, narrow apartment on the ground floor, commanding, by a single Ehza- bethan window, a view of the poultry-yard, "and kitchen offices. Near the window reposes an old easy chair, of a very uneasy form, but well pillowed. Before it stands a spider table, on which lies open a new " SaWy Koggin Bible Society" Bible, marked by specta- cles, and laden with a trash bag, knitting apparatus, and nutmeg- grater. On either side hangs a bird-cage, from which an old cana- ry and a young thrush sing, in emulation of the various noises which ascend from the basse cour. On one side of a blazing turf fire, which fills the ungrated hearth, lies Mungo the cat, upon his red cushion. On the other, sprawls on her knees, little Jud}', toasting herself and a round of bread ; while Mrs. duigley is but- tering another round at the breakfast table, that stands in front. Judy's garments are scanty ; Mrs. duigley's costume is voluminous and cosmopolite. Her shawl is Scotch, her gown Irish poplin, and her cap French.] MRS. aUIGLEY, (moaning and buttering her toast.) Ochone ! well, well ! what is all this for ? I declare to the Lord, I haven't a foot to stand on ; and might as well never have laid my side on bed, for all the sleep I got : and breakfast to purvoid for twenty, and more ; and the quality less trouble than th' other bastes! And in regard of the be- havior of Mr. Galbraith ! — such behavior I never seed ! To say that he, who is never out of the place, day or night, when not a Christian is in it, living or dead (as his wife says, and a poor jealous sow! she is !) that he'd be letting the new people, and all the quality, and them divils of furreigners and impudent English ladies' maids arrive, and he not here to receive them ! but throwing every thing upon me, a poor lone woman ! [Gives a glance at the window, which she ^ MANOR SACKVILLE. taps violently^ and then opens.'] Very well, Terry Madden ! Ye think I'm not looking at ye ! Is that the way ye are plucking the powltry, ye little spalpeen ? Is it flaying them alive ye are, and letting the feathers fly about ? Do you hear, Johnny SleA'ein, lave off there, cramming Mr. Gal- braith's pay-cock, and run up the mount, and see if there's any notion of his gig on the road. Well ! old Molly, the hin-wife, w^as the greatest of losses ! It's now I miss her ; and the powltry never thriving since. [Johnny Slevein, perceiving that he has nearly choked Mr. Gal- braith's peacock with a lump of dough, scampers off with great glee, and Mrs. Gluigley closes the window.] MRS. aUIGLEY. Judy, dear, did Mungo take his warm sup of milk this morning, the cratur 1 JUDY. Sorrow sup ; there it lies beside him, ma'am. MRS. GIUIGLEY. Well, there's something wrong with that baste ; and I wouldn't wonder if some of them furreigners had pisoned him. It's little they'd think of it, — or me either. JUDY, (turning the toast, with a look of horror.) Och musha ! MRS. aUIGLEY, (carressing the cat.) My pusheen slawn, 3'e were, and my own old deelish dliu. MUNGO, (wagging his tail.) Pur — r — r — r — r ! MRS. aUIGLEY. Aye, in truth were ye ? [Starts up.] Huisht, now ! — quit ! — [Listens — a dreadful confusion of sounds in the poultry-yard. i\Irs. Gluigley, followed by Judy, flies to the window. The whole MANOR SACKVILLE. society of the basse cour is in a state of dissolution, occasioned by the invasion of Tiniur, a magnificent New-foundland dog, and his little ally, Bijou, a poodle. The former is distinguished by a su- perb collar, the latter by a knot of rose ribbons, and a silver bell dangling from his neck.] MRS. aUiaLEY, (screaming.) Och, murther, murther ! My hatching hin off her nest ! and och ! what's gone of the head of the Muscovoy duck ? Judy, run, my girleen, with the fork, and kill them divils of dogs. Och ! this is a pretty work, and Mr. Galbraith's pay- cock, that he left me to rare ! Terry Madden, why don't you kill thim dogs, ye little cowardly spalpeen ? Och ! then, Johnny Slevein, I'll tache you to lave the powltry-yard open after ye, ye dirty brat ! [The dogs pursue the poultry, and Judy and Terry pursue the dogs. An extremely fashionable footman, armed with an elegant horse- whip, lays about Terry and Judy ; snatches up Bijou, and ties 9. handkerchief to Tiinur's collar to lead him off] FOOTMAN, (in a sharp cockney accent.) I say, you little Hirish savages ! what do you mean by 'anting my lady's dogs ? If I ever see one of you filthy bog- trotters meddle with our hanimals, I'll have your dirty little Hirish skins dragged over your hears. I have no hidear of such impudence ! no more I ha'n't. [Exit in a rage. Mrs. Quigley, completely subdued, shuts the win- dow, and seats herself at the" breakfast table.] MRS. aUIGLEY. Well, well, the Lord 's above all. But the world 's come to an end. The millennum 's come, as Mr. Grimshaw said, at Sally Noggin Rosstrevor chapel last Sunday. " The in- fernal raigions opens to receive yez all," (says he,) and so it does. Would any one know Manor Sackville this day ? Not all as one, as in th' ould gentleman's time. It's he that loved his powltry ; — to say nothing of ould Molly ! Well, it doesn't signify talking. I'll quit the place, as soon as Mr. Gal- braith comes. That's if he ever comes. My mind misgives me about that man ! Five days away ! He that was as reg- ular as clockwork! I wouldn't wonder if them furreigners pisoned him. They're a bad breed. [Wipes her face, and gives other signs of strong emotion, in mutter- ing and broken exclamations. In the mean time, the door opens, 2 4 MANOR SACKYILLE. and Mr. Galbraith, a smug, snug, red-faced person, with eyes and mouth puckered into a most characteristic expression of humorous cunning, pokes his head in.] MR. GALBRAITH. God save all here ! Is the coast clear, Mrs. duigley ? MRS. aUIGLEY. Och ! the Lord be praised. Is it you, Mr. Galbraith, are come at last ? Well, it's time for you : better late nor never ! Come in, sir. I wouldn't have wet the tay, if I'd thought you'd have come, at all, at all : but I gave you up entirely. [During this apostrophe, Mrs. Gluigley assists in disrobing Mr. Gal- braith.] MR. GALBRAITH. Thank you, ma'm, thank you. I beg your pardon. I'll just lave my surtout outside, if you plaze. My man, Tim Reyftolds, is waiting to give it a shake. It's Avet through, ma'am, with the mountain dew. Stay, ma'am, — my life-pre- server's a little tight. [He takes off a net neck scarf from his neck.] Your own purty knitting, Mrs. Gluigley. Take care, ma'am, if you plaze. Them two little travelling companions is mighty touch-and-go sort of gentlemen. [TaJces two pistols from his breast.'] ]d[ere, Tim, take all up to my room ; and get me an entire change ready, and my new black shoot of mourning. [Sighs.] I'll engage Judy has good care of me, in regard of a bit of fire in my own little glory hole ! JUDY. I'll just run and throw^ a sod on it, sir. (Exit Judy.) [Mr. Galbraith seats himself at the breakfast table, and begins an immediate attack on the buttered toast. Mrs. Q,uigley "bustles through the duties of the tea-table; and, full of the importance of her recent troubles, opens a volley of reproach, complaint, solicita- tion, and self-applause, on the resigned, but occasionally deeply sighing Mr. Galbraith.] MR. GALBRAITH. Well, ma'am, when ye hears all, it's pitying me ye'll be, MANOR SACKVILLE. 5 instead of blaming me — I'll thrubble ye for another cup of tay — Grief is dry, they say. A thimble-full of brandy, ma'am, as it's on the table, just to qualify it. It's a wet morning, ma'am, [sig-hs,] and there's an ould saying, Happy is the bride the sun shines on, And happy is the burying the rain drops on. MRS. aUIGLEY, (much provoked.) Och ! never talk to me, Mr. Galbraith, of brides and ber- rings. It's other things you ought to be thinking of. If any one had sworn before a rigistered magistrate, that you would be out of the way, just as the new people were coming to take possession, and that you'd throw all upon me, a lone woman ; and cart loads of groceries coming down from Dublin, sir, and twenty beds ordered, and you away five whole days, and never coming near the place, and above all times in the world MR. GALBRAITH, (interrupting her with a look at onee imploring and deploring.) Och ! then, Mrs. Q.uigley, is it possible, ma'am, ye didn't hear the melancholy news of my domestic misfortune ? MRS. aUIGLEY, (peevishly.) News ! What news, sir ? What should prevint you, if you cared for your own consarns, or mine, coming here to recaive Mr. Sackville and my lady '^ Sure, sir, barring your wife was lying dead before you, what else should interfare with the agent, and great man of the dace being on the spot ? MR. GALBRAITH, (clasping his hands, and drawing his face on one side with a most doleful look.) And what else was it, Mrs. Quigley ? Sure, Ma'am, the late Mrs. Galbraith is dead, and buried this day in Moghe- row churchyard. [Mrs. Quigley throws vp her hands and eyes in unspeakable astonishment.'] Aye, indeed, ma'am ! [Wipes his mouth in mistake for his eyes.] MRS. aUIGLEY. Jasus preserve us ! — Amen ! She that I saw last Sunday 6 MANOR SACKVILLE. at. Sally Noggin Chapel, with her new family jaunting car, and Miss Costello ; and this Friday MR. GALBRAITH. Aye indeed, ma'am ! — and was at a party on Monday at Sub-Sheriff Jones's, where Sir Job and my Lady were ex- pected : and on Tuesday evening, ma'am, after the heartiest dinner ever I saw the poor woman ate, and taking her usual quantity of port wine, and her glass of punch afterAvards — I'll say rather more than usual. Mistress Gluigle}', than less ; — and she making a party with Miss Costello to meet the cavalcade yesterday, com.ing to Manor Sackville, with colours flying in honour of the memory of his uncle, in the new family car, — all of a sudden, ma'am, — just as if you would say a drop of punch went the w^rong way, — she made a w^ry face, and dropped, as if she was shot, on the floor. And so, ma'am, as it plazed the Lord, in his infinite wisdom, to take my poor woman to himself, I conveyed her to her last home, this morning, on my way here ; and she was launched, I may say, into eternity, in the churchyard of Mogherow:, at ten o'clock this morning. [He puts his handkerchief to his eyes, and then, spreading it on his knees, breaks a second egg.] And now, Mrs. Q,uigley, would it be dacent, I put it to you, or proper, for me to have left my poor woman, without even a shoot of genteel mourning, and present my- self among a parcel of strangers ; and I in throuble, and and wanting all my presence of mind ! For they say these English people are mighty high and hoity-toity, as it were, — nobody knows what to make of 'em. MRS. dUIGLEY, (weeping behind her pocket handkerchief, and after an affecting pause,) Surely, sir, surely, it would not be dacent. But och ! Mr. Galbraith, just to see, as Mr. Grimshaw says, one's right hand doesn't know w^hat one's left one does : and we're grass to-day, and flesh to-morrow ; — and never heard a word of it, — and no wonder, for the place was more like a Bedlam since Monday last. But, sir, it was mighty soon to bury the cratur, she dying on Tuesday, and in her grave on Friday morning, — the Lord bless us ! MR. GALBRAITH. (petulantly, and filling his own lea-cup.) Ah ! nonsense now. Mistress Gluigley, what deader could she be, if she died last Christmas ? I wonder to hear you. MANOR SACKVILLE. a sinsible woman, giving into them saints, that are ruining the place. [Continues his breakfast.'] Well, ma'am, what do you think of the new people ? Tim Reynolds, who has been on a sharp look out, tells me that them blackguard cottiers, and con-acre men, about Manor Sackville town, and others from Mogherow, came powering down, hurrahing in the new man, — the dirty, mane, ungrateful spalpeens, that were bred egg and bird, under the late raal good and loyal gintleman ; and making believe that the new one was of their own kidne)^, and as green as the dike of shoobeg ! Well, never mind. But what do you think of them, ma'am, and the Lady Emily ? Sub-sheriff Jones says she is a ran- tipole woman of quality, and won't stand the place : but that he's of the right sort, and of a great Protestant family, as well as his late uncle. But who knows ? so I just stepped in by the ould back road, to get a word with you : for it isn't now, widow duigley, that I need be telling you, that it's the greatest reliance, ma'am, I have on your opinion ; and a great friendship my poor woman had for you, till Miss Costello put odd things in her head. [Suiiles.] MRS. aUIGLEY, (weeping.) Och ! then, sir, there was no love lost between us — and God forgive Kitty Costello ; and that's the worst I wish her. And I hope the death of my late friend will make no odds betwixt us, Mr. Galbraith, but quite the contrayry. MR. GALBRAITH, (taking the widow's hand.) Widow Q,uigley, I intended long ago, ma'am, to spake to you about your bit of land by Jones's Fort. For the rint is too high, ma'am ; and so I shall tell Mr. Sackville. — And so they arrived the day before yesterday, did they ? A deso- late ould place they found it, I'll be bound, [chuckling,] and great complaints, I'll engage, — and the damp — and the rains — and th' ould furniture ! MRS. aUIGLEY, (impatiently.) Not at all, sir. They're highly delighted with every- thing — that's the quality themselves ; but as for the English ladies' maids, and the furreigners, — but I'm not come to that, nor wuthin a mile of it, Mr. Galbraith. Well, sir, your gig 2* 8 MANOR SACKVILLE. hadn't drawn scarce from the door, Monday morning, when comes a waggon and cars from Dublin, with wine and gro- ceries, and the Lord knows what besides — chany oranges and fruit, sir ; and it was night before all was stowed away. And I was putting on my night-cap, Mr. Galbraith, and step- ping into bed ; and Judy raking over the turf, and Jemmy Malone locking up the great door, when, to my entire sur- prise, drives up, sir, a coach-and-four, stuffed inside and out with gentlemen and ladies. Upon my credh, you might have knocked me down with a pin. So, sir, I dressed in the best I could find, and hurried down to recaive Mr. Sackville, and my lady, and Lady Julia, and made my best curtsey, sir, and said as how you were just gone, and never expected them till Thursday evening. And to be sure it's them that took an ; and such airs, and the half of them without a word of English in their mouths ; — and such jabbering and calling for lights here, and fires there . and asking me if I was the Irish cook, and what there was for supper ? And one would have tay, and another would have coffee ; and when I said you had the kay of the cellar, off with the heads of the bot- tles out of the hampers. And such squabbling, and turning up of noses ; and every thing was so dirty, and this, and that. It was three in the morning before I could get them to bed. And v\^ho do you think the great quality was ? why, sir, no quality at all, but the out-of-livery servants, sir, and a young woman as called herself my Lady's own chambermaid, and her assistants in silk pelisses, trimmed with fur ! Well, well ! — Well, sir, and the gentlemen — there was the French cook, that takes his coffee without crame, and another fur- reigner, a mighty swarthy cratur, that seemed to be the whip- per-in of the whole pack, and takes the greatest of airs upon himself. And would you believe it, Mr. Galbraith, they had the impudence to say, that English pigs have better styes, than the ould servants' hall ; and they took possession of the second best dining-room for themselves ; and have written over the door, " Steward's room. No entrance for livery or Irish servants !" And so, now, Mr. Galbraithj I'll quit the place ; and it's only for you that I didn't quit it long since. MR. GALBRAITH. Tut, woman, don't make a Judy of yourself. Quit the place ! for what ? Sorrow a foolisher tiling ever you did than that same, Mrs. Gluigley. What does it matter, ma'am. MANOR SACKVILLE. 9 for a few weeks ? — and you mistress of the place, I may say, for the rest of your days, with your tribute fowl, and your tribute eggs, coming in to you, and your little taste of build- ing going on, down below in the town. Ah ! be aisy now, Mrs. Gluigley, and let them above, there, have their run. I'll engage they'll be sick at heart of the whole thing, before the month is out. MRS. aUIGLEY, (composing herself) Well, if I thought that, sir ; if I was sure they would not stay over the Christmas. MR. GALBRAITH. If you were sure of it ! Why, then, I think we have made purty sure of that, ma'am, if the want of every conva- nience in life, — if a tight pattern of beds, and the clearing out of the ould lumber-room, in the castle wing, down to the sitting rooms, by way of furniture, — if hard bottomed chairs, and ricketty tables, and not a pot fit to bile a potatoe in, that han't a hole in it as big as my head, will do the business. What, betwixt the young mutton, and the ould poultrj^, and Mr. Brazier's sour beer, and your own sweet vinegar, and beef as tough as a suggawn, the divil's in it if the}^ arn't soon tired of Ireland and Manor Sackville. MRS. aUIGLEY. Och ! sir, you don't know them at all at all. Why, in regard of the ould furniture, sir, the oulder the better, it seems ; and the worse every thing is in the place, the more they laugh at it. The divil of such giggling and romping ever I seed in the place, since first I come to it. Himself^ indeed, is a fine, saucy, comely gentleman, and surely has a fine air with him, like a lord ; and no m^ore like the late gen- tleman, than if they were neither kith nor kin. But as to my Lady, and Lady Julia, and them young officers, that they found on the road, I hear, watching the sale of the tithe-pigs, and nobody to buy them — why Mr. Galbraiih, they're no more the breeding nor Avays of raal Irish gentry, than little Judy there. Nothing high nor genteel, like Lady Black- acre, and the Rev. Mrs. Polypus ; but going on with their game, and their skit, and skelping about the place, sir, like mad ! Why they Averen't five minutes in it, sir, when they 10 MANOR SACKVILLE. were all down in here upon the top of me ; and I, taking- my tay in pace and quiet, after recaiving them in great state in the hall, and showing them the rooms to dress for dinner, which wasn't ordered till nine ; what do you think of that, Mr. Galbraith ? MR. GALBRAITH. Why, ma'm, Mr. M'Kew, th' attorney of Dublin, (clerk of the Crown, and Sub-sheriff Jones's Dublin agent,) always dines at six. The Honourable and Reverend dines at seven, to a moment ; and turned away his French cook for being five m.inutes before the time. So it is but raisonable, that the London duality should be more foolish nor they. Well, ma'am, give me my comfortable bit of mutton at four, like the late ould gentleman ; — but go on, Mrs. Q,uigley. MRS. aUIGLEY. To be sure sir, but as I was saying, in burst the whole set, and my lady at the head of them, romping and laughing : and "We're come to pay you a visit, dear Mrs. O'Gluigley," says she. " Your ladyship does me much honour, madam," sajrs I, courtesying, and Judy looking like a stuck pig. '* But, plaze your Ladyship, my name is Q,uigley, and no O, my lady." " O dear," says she, " but you're Irish, ar'n't you ?" [Mimicking the English accent ,-] " at least, I hope you are." " To be sure she is," says the young lady, putt- ing up her quizzing glass. " Don't you see her dear old Irish face, and her old Irish wrinkles ? I do so like her Irish face ; and won't you tell us all sorts of stories about this old castle Rackrent," says she ; " and about O'Rourke's noble faste," says one of th' officers. " That will ne'er be forgot By them that was there, and by them that was not," And then, sir, they all set up a laugh. *' And I do so like her old Irish cap," says my lady, — (my bran new French cap, sir, that came from Ennis by the fly that day.) But nothing should serve her, sir, but she must try on my cap ; and dashes down her own illigant bonnet, — there, sir, on the floor ; and runs off to show it to Mr. Sackville. MR. GALBRAITH. Ha, ha, ha ! well to be sure ! And then, ma'am ! MANOR SACKVILLE. H MRS. aUIGLEY. And then, sir, up snatches Lady Julia my poor Mungo, hugg-ing- and kissing him. " And this is a raal Irish cat, my Lord Fitzroy," says she,—" did you ever see such a dear quiet sowl ? " " And uhat do you call it, Mrs. Quig- ley ? " says she. " Mungo, plaze your Ladyship," says l, *' in regard of the black man in the play." " Mungo, says she ; " why don't you call it Knockycrockery ? " says she, " I'll always call it Knockycrockery," says she : and away she gallops off with m.y poor pusheen ; and the young lord galloping after her ! and Mungo frightened out of his life, and the tears in his eyes, mewing like mad ! thecratur of the world ! MR. GALBRAITH. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! I think it might make a cat laugh, instead of cry, Mrs. Quigley, as the saying is. MRS. aUIGLEY, (angrily.) Och ! sir, but it was no laughing matter at all, as you shall larne ; for just as I was quietly sated again, and taking my tay, I heard my poor cat moaning and mewing, like a Ban- shee, outside the door sir ; and when Judy ran to let him in, in he bounded like a wild cat in a bog, with a turf at its tail ; and would you believe it sir, my iligant bran new cap tied round his poor black face; and before Judy and I poked him out from under the press, troth, you wouldn't have picked my cap out of the guthur. MR. GALBRAITH, (wiping his eyes.) Well, Mrs. Gluigley, I declare to you, ma'am, I think it all mighty comical ; and they are just the sort, for my money. Sure, you would not have them like them Scotch Macaskys, that have come in for the Mullavaly property. " Grim growdies, that never made their mother laugh," as the say- ing is ; and that goes about spying, and prying, and calcu- lating, and minding nothing but the main chance, ma'am. But in regard of the dinner — all the French cooks in the world cannot serve a good one, with bad matairials, and no- thing to cook them in ; for I take it for granted, [sli/li/,] you didn't lave an ould stew-pan in the place ? 12 MANOR SACKVILLE. MRS. aUIGLEY. Och ! sir, they wasn't beholden to me, nor the place nei- ther, sir. Sure, a whole cart of coppers came down from Dublin — they call it a batthery ; and fish in ice, sir, by the mail ; and pheasants from their place in Wales ; and venison from the Lord Lieutenant's ; and a whole carcass"^ of donny Welsh mutton, sir, from Holyhead ! MR. GALBRAITH. See there ! well, they're fine people, surely, and don't spare money. But they can't roof the house, nor stop the rat-holes, nor make tight the windows and doors, all in a rnonth or six weeks ; and for the ould furniture, some of it since King William's time of glorious memory, and before. MRS. aUIGLEY. Th' ould furniture ! Why, sir, my lady stood staring at my ould spider-table here, and says, " Oh, the charmer ! I gave ten guineas for one, not half so rotten, for Elizabeth's cottage in the Raigent's Park." MR. GALBRAITH. But I hope, ma'am, you hurried all the captain's French- ified new things into the castle-wing, and shut it up as if it was saled Avith wax. MRS. aUIGLEY. O, lave us alone, Mr. Galbraith ; you think ye are the only head in the place. Why the day ye left us, sir, myself and Jem Malone, and ould bothered Tom Hanlon the game- keeper, put by every screed of new furniture, and brought down th' ould voyadores and corner cupboards, and the high- backed carved chairs, and the worm-eaten settees, and every ould picture and taste of cracked chayney from time imme- morial ; and then we nailed a piece of tapestry over the door, and placed a talboy against it. And it's into my lady's room we wheeled Lady Isabella Sackville's chest, as it is called, with her ould wardrobe, and the ould gentleman's castle shoots, w^hich I intend to sell to the players, for they are my perquisites, by right, Mr. Galbraith. MANOR SACKVILLE. 13 Very good, ma'am ; and then the rat in the box in the library, which Mr. Sackville wrote to have ready for his own sitting-room. MRS. ClUIGLEY, (holding her sides, and laughing herself into a cougliing fit.) O dear, Lord save me ! Well, sir, it's all right ; and a good bit of cheese to keep the cratur alive and frisky. I engage, if he gets out, he'll show them sport. MR. GALBRAITH, (laughing and rising.) Well, ma'am ! But I must now go and change my feet, and dress myself for an audience. And I suppose, Mrs. Gluigley, it's with themselves I'll dine, as in th' ould gentleman's time, even when I was but a slip of a clerk in the agent's office. What do you think, ma'am 1 MRS. ClUIGLEY. To be sure, sir, and why wouldn't )^ou, a magistrate of this county, and a captain of the Manor Sackville yeomanry corps, and your sister married to the Sub-sherifl, and you living with the first and best of the county, and the Honour- able and Reverend never aisy without you. MR. GALBRAITH. Och ! surely, ma'am — surely I have every right in life ; only these English have sometimes such odd waj^s. But I declare, I'd rather be taking my tay with you. Widow duigley, [zTt an insinuating to7ie,] than dining with the best in the land. MRS. aUIGLEY, (looks modest.) Shawl I tack a bit of crape round your hat, Mr. Gal- braith ? MR. GALBRAITH. I'll be indebted to you, Mrs. Gluigley ; and I needn't recommend you, dear, to be as close as a cork* Mum's the word, ma'am. 14 MANOR SACKVILLE. MRS. aUIGLEY. Naboclish, Mr. Galbraith ! It's an odd thing, if friends and pew-fellows like you and I, time immemorial, and good Protestants, and of the right sort, cannot depind on each other, and trust one another, though it were w^th their lives, sir. MR. GALBRAITH, (taking her hand tenderly.) Och ! then, I'd trust more nor my life with you, sure enough, Mrs. Quigley ; but time will tell, ma'am ! So God be with you, for the presint, my dear friend. I'll try to stale down to tay with you this evening, and tell you which way the bull runs. [They shake hands with looks of significant cordiality.] MRS. aUIGLEY, (throwing her shoe after him.) Well, then, God be with you — and that for luck. MR. GALBRAITH. Thank you, ma*am. (Exit Mr. Galbraith.) MANOR SACKVILLE. 15 SCENE II. {The library at Manor Sackville, a low, close and gloomy room, with a small bookcase, strongly fortified with rusty wire-work, half filled with immoveable folios and quartos, with statutes at large, parliamentary records, &c,, with a miscellaneous collection of rac- ing and Newgate calenders, old almanacks, plays, and polemical divinity; not very numerous nor very complete: in every sense, an assemblage of odd volumes. The high, small windows give upon the lawn. Over the chimney-piece hang the several portraits of a horse and a dog, on either side the picture of a rather flashy looking person, in a full court-dress, of forty years back, all evi- dently by the same hand. A stand of arms decorates the further wall. The furniture, — old fashioned, and time-worn, — is formally regimented round the room. In a curiously carved oak chair, (called traditionally Lady Isabel's chair,) reposes Mr. Sackville, a man of distinguished air, in the prime of life, with a fine intellectual countenance, and an evident attention to fashionable propriety of dress. Immediately opposite to him, on the extreme edge of an high-backed seat, sits Mr. Galbraith, much improved by an entire change of decoration, his shirt collar rising above his ears, and his bob wig exchanged for a coiflTure, "au ?jav what is, once for all, your 7iice name ? MR. GALBRAITH, (a little mortified, and petulantly.) Why then, my leedy, once for all, Jerry Galbraith, of Maryville, Sally Noggin — with your leedyship's good lave. LADY EMILY. Mr. Galbraith !. But why is it not Mac Rory, or Crohore of the Bill-hook, or something with an O, or a Mac, like the names in the novels ? I thought, when I came to Ireland, I should have nothing but O's and Macs, and names ending in aughs and doughs. MR. GALBRAITH. Not at all, my leedy ; only the peepists and the pisantry. LADY EMILY. The papists ! what papists ? MR. GALBRAITH. - Why the Romans, my leedy. The gintry of the country have no such low neams at all at all, — that's the Protestants, ma'atn ; (for all the esteated gintry, and greet families, and thim attached to church and steat, and king and constitution, and of the right way, are Protestants, every mother's son of them, time immemorial, since iver the Glorious and Immor- tal first set foot in the pleece. Och ! the right sort are aisily known, my leedy, from the peepists, by name and neature, and it's with the likes of thim, your leedyship will be after living here. 36 MANOR SACKVILLE. LADY EMILY, (interrupting him impatiently.) But I don't want to live with those people. I want some- thino;' so very Irish, you know ; such as one sees on the stage, and in the Irish novels, and that do such funny things, and are so amusing. Haven't we any papists at all on our estates ? MR. GALBRAITH, (with a peculiar draw up of his mouth and eye- brow.) Plinty, my leedy. All the pisantry, to a man, are the blackest of peepists. LADY EMILY. Oh ! I am delighted ! I will go and see them all. I knoAV I shall so like a black papist ! Pray what is the costume here ? Do you know, I have an idea in my head, Mr. Gil- lespie ; I have told you, I mean to dress them all like the peasantry of the Campagna : for, you know, we are come to improve, and do all the good we can. I am dying to do good here ; and we have but six weeks to stay, so now you must help us. Do you think the poor people would exchange their old national dress for one more picturesque ? MR. GALBRAITH, (with a humorous smile.) Troth ! I'm sure they would, my leedy, with all the veins : and sorrow much trouble that would teak them. For few has more nor two suits ; — that is, put an, and teak oif ; and not that same always. LADY EMILY. Well, that then is settled. I'll show you the model-dress. All the materials must be Irish, you know. Only consider what good it icill do ! I don't know yet how many thousand yards of stuff and cloth it will take ; but, I believe there is nothino- like encourag-insf the Irish manufacture. MR. GALBRAITH. Sorrow a thing, my leedy. Oh ! the manufactures are the thing. MANOR SACKVILLE. 37 LADY EMILY. Especially the Irish tabinets ; and I have been thinking, as the corsage takes such a very little bit, that we might treat the women to a corsagt of Irish poplin, if you have no objec- tion. MR. GALBRAITF. Not the laste in loif, my leedy. Whatever you plaze. LADY EMILY, Well then ; say a red corsage, laced with green. MR. GALBRAITH. Leaced with green, Leedy Emily ? You ameeze me, Leedy Emily. LADY EMILY. Or any colour you please, Mr. Galbraith. I know there are prejudices here about colours. Mr. Sackville told me all about it ; orange or blue, or something — orange, I believe, is not reckoned loyal. MR. GALBRAITH. Q.uite the contra^^ry, my leedy : it's the green that's the rebelly colour. I suppose your leedyship is politiciaxi enough to know LADY EMILY, (interrupting him.) No, no ! I am not a politician. Mr. Sackville and I are come over to do as much good as possible, but no politics. Oh ! but Mr. Gil Mr. Galbraith, who were those wretched paupers, that came out of those miserable hovels on the road- side, as w^e drove along yesterday, half naked, and looking so pale and haggard? I never was so shocked: and we went on so rapidly, that I could not give them any thing. It was in that desolate village MR. GALBRAITH. Oh ! I see, my leedy. I believe your leedyship's tow^n of 38 MANOR SACKVILLE. New Town Sackville, [fixiiig his eyes keenly upon her.'] Well, then, my leedy, them half-naked starving, murthering- looking craturs, is the finest pisantry in the world, that one hears so much of in the peepers, and from the agitaytors, Lady Emily. LADY EMILY. Gracious, you don't say so ! Are those really the Irish peasantry that make one laugh so in the novels, and on the stage 1 MR. GALBRAITH. Indeed, and troth, I do, my leedy ; only they sometimes make us laugh, here, on the wrong side of our mouths. LADY EMILY, (seriously.) But they don't belong to us, Mr. Galbraith ? they are not our tenants ? not Mr. Sackville's people, who pay us our ten thousand a year ? MR. GALBRAITH. They are your leedyship's tinants, and your tinants' tin- ants, and your cottiers, and your spalpeens. They all go thereby, to'^make up your leedyship's Irish rints in gineral, and another rint in particular into the bargain ; and there is not a man among them, nor woman either, for all their palaver and blarney, but would think no more of teeking the life of a Christhian, nor shooting me from behind an hedge, as often they did, (the Lord be praised for his protec- tion,) than your leedyship's beautiful little Frinch poodle there would think of killing the rot he's watching in that hole. LADY EMILY, (frightened, and starting up.) Oh ! Mr. Galbraith ! you don't say there are rats in this room 1 There is nothing in the world I am so much afraid of as rats ; they are my favourite aversion. MR. GALBRAITH, (cautiously, his eyes still fixed on the box.) Don't be afraid, my leedy ; sorrow much they show them- selves in the day, though the place is ate up alive with them from garret to scullery. What do you think of them impu- iVIANOR SACKVILLE. 39 dent thieves drawing the bed from under Mistress Quigley, the other night, though she keeps that big black cat of hers always near her, like a watch-dog. [Lady Emily moves timidly towards the door.] Stay now, my lady ; don't stir, if you plaze ; stay where you are — keep near to the table, madam. [He rises with caution, and appears to watch something in movement. Lady Emily springs up on the table. Galbraith throws his hat at the box, which upsets, and an enormous rat bounces out. Lady Emily screams violently. Galbraith shouts, and claps his hand ; and Bijou, barking loudly, gives chace. The rat shows great sport. Lady Emily becomes almost hysterical. Galbraith gets frightened. Bijou is outrageous. The rat escapes through a hole in the wain- scot. Bijou stands at fault. Lady Emily now laughs violently. Gal- braith leans against the book-case, wiping his face, and unconscious that his coiffure an naturel has escaped from its moorings, in the course of the chase. Bijou, with a mischievous look in his bright little eyes, has carried the wig under the table, where he is busy dressing it, after his most approved fashion. At this point, the door opens. A group, alarmed by the previous noise, rush in ; — Lady Julia, in the full dress of Lady Isabella Sackville, Lord Fitzroy, and Clarence _ Herbert, in the cut velvet suits, bag- wigs, and swords of Mr. Fitz- 'gerald Sackville, and Justine following with an antique dress on her arm for Lady Emily. A general burst of loud, vociferous, and continued laughter ; Galbraith alone preserving his gravity, as he fans himself with his hat.] LADY EMILY, (still on the table, holding her sides, and quite ex- haustedly laughing.) Oh ! I shall die of it ! I shall indeed. Look at Lord Fitzroy's face — ha ! ha ! ha ! Do, somebody, help me to get down. LORD FITZROY, (assisting her to descend, addresses her in a theatri- cal and formal manner.) Oh ! my Harriot Byron, have I indeed been so fortunate as to arrive in time to rescue you ? Speak, loveliest of your sex ! LADIES EiMILY AND JULIA. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! LORD FITZROY, (turning upon Mr. Galbraith, and placing his hand on his sword.) Sir Hargrave Pollexfen ! you are engaged, I doubt, in a very bad manner.* (Shakes his wig till the powder falls out.] * See Sir Charles Grandison, p. 209, vol. i. 5 40 MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. GALBRAITH, (staring.) Och ! is it me, sir 1 — LORD FITZROY. Yes, you, sir. CLARENCE HERBERT, (taking snuff affectedly.) May I perish, if I understand this adventure. [Galbraith, confounded, not knowing whetlier this is jest or earnest, but inclined to take it tout de travers.] LORD FITZROY,. (addressing Galbraith.) Perhaps Sir Har grave will explain. MR. GALBRAITH. I beg your lordship's pardon ! You mistake entirely, my lord — I meant no offence — I am not Sir Hargrave, my lord, as you seem to suppose ; if it isn't joking you are ; but Mr. Jeremiah Galbraith, egint to Mr. Lumley Sackville, attorney of Maryville, Sally Noggin ! [Much laughter.'] And ye see, my lord, whin a big villain of a rot [a shout of inextin- guishable laughter] came running about the room, like mad, and frightened tbe life out of my leedy CLARENCE HERBERT, (interrupting him with an affectation of much indignation.) But your wig, sir, your wig ! did the rat frighten your wig from its propriety ? MR. GALBRAITH, (in consternation, and putting his hand to his head.) My wig, sir — och murther ! What's gone with my new wig ? [A general laugh.] LADY EMILY, (who had thrown herself into a chair.) Oh ! Mr. Galbraith, don't mind these young men. It's all fun — ha! ha! ha! It's all those comical old dresses, and MANOR SACKVILLE. 41 acting Sir Charles Grandison, you know — and then your new wig ! and Bijou ! — ha ! ha! ha! [Renewed and general shouts of laughter. Galbraith perceives Bijou's abduction of his wig, and flies to the rescue.] MR. GALBRAITH. Oh ! you little rogue, you — quit now, quit. [Recovers and resumes his wig, with an air of great mortification.] LADY JULIA, (throwing herself on another chair.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! O my ! I am 50 tired ! I have laughed more in one morning, in miserable old Ireland, than .... LORD FITZROY. Than in merry old England, all your life. Well, and so have I. [Wipes his ei/es.] If ever any body died of laughter, I shall be buried in Moge-row churchj-ard, before the year is out. But, Lady Emily, how do you like our dresses ? I am Sir Charles , and Herbert is " Cousin Reeves." LADY EMILY. They are enchanting, and really so becoming ! CLARENCE HERBERT, (looking at Lady Julia.) Yes ; I think I never saw Lady Julia look so well ; not even at her great epoch, the queen's first drawing-room ! I do think the hair, drawn up over that roll, — the system, as dear old Mother Q,uigley calls it, — is most becoming. It de- fines a beautiful forehead so. And allow me, Lady Julia, to say, vous briilez par Id. LADY JULIA, (pleased.) Dear ! only see how gallant Clarence Herbert has become, since he has breathed Irish air ! LORD FITZROY, (with an assumed brogue.) Och ! it's the praties that does it, my lady. 43 MANOR SACKVILLE. OMNES. Ha ! ha ! ha ! LADY JULIA. But, I say ; we are all ready dressed, for the rehearsal of our proverb. LADY EMILY, (still staring and laughing at the masqueraders ; while Galbraith is evidently meditating an escape, in which he is impeded by Lord Fitzroy, who has not done with him.) Exactly. After luncheon we will have a grand rehearsal. Well, I do think that old style of coiffure is preferable to the modern coiffure a la Chinoise. Justine, do try and do up my hair that way — only to see how it will become me. JUSTINE, (laying down her parcel.) Mais voila une toilette complette, miladi, robe, — pompon h. grands faiballas, cornette et chevelure relevee. [Lady Emily throws off her cap. Her beautiful hair, which falls in profusion, is gathered by Justine over a black silk roll, formerly known by the name of a tete. They all gather round this sum- mary toilette. At this moment, a train of carriages appears des- cending from an eminence at the left of the mansion, and sweeping past the library window, towards the front of the house. The party all rush to the windows, in eager curiosity. The carriages are divided into two platoons. Mr. Galbraith is called to name the parties as they pass. The first carriage is a handsome open ba- rouche, with coronets and supporters. In the seat of honour is Lady Rosstrevor, with Mr. Grimshavv at her left, and Miss Grimshaw and Miss Mullens opposite. In a gig follow close Mr. Binns and Mrs. Grafton, both of the congregation of Lady Rosstrevor. All the parties are in earnest and zealous conversation, heads bobbing, and tongues wagging. At a little distance, a handsome dark cha- riot, well and knowingly appointed with postillion in purple and gold, and coachmen riding before, contains the Honourable and Reverend Mr. and Mrs. Polypus inside, and on the rumble. Miss Polypus and Captain Blackacre. In a one-horse phaeton, are the Archdeacon and Mrs. Grindall. LORD FITZROY. Here's an incursion ! The natives risen en masse ! Good turn-out though, by Jove ! Lady Rosstrevor is a monstrous pretty woman ; and the moral agent, celd passe outre ! MANOR SACKVILLE. 43 MR. GALBRAITH, (running to the door.) I'll just run, my lady, and tell th' Honourable and Rever- end that you will have the pleasure of receiving them in a jiffy, which will give you all time to take off them comical ould dresses ; and I'll entertain tnem the while. LORD FITZROY, (seizing his arm.) Not so fast, my excellent Mr. Galbraith ! [ Turns to the ladies.~\ Let us turn out just as we are. It will give them a sensation for the present, and de quoi penser, for the rest of their lives. LADY EMILY. Oh, delightful! — charming! To be sure. It will be the greatest fun. Now, let nobody laugh. Here, Justine, put on this old dress over all. Never mind ; the more boufonne the better. Can't look too bungy, you know. [They all assist— Galbraith tries to steal off again.] LORD FITZROY. No, no, Mr. Galbraith ; we can't do without you, can we Lady Emily ? [ Whispers.'] He'll blab if we let him off. LADY EMILY, (with imperiousness.) Certainly not. You must dress too, Mr. Galbraith ; that will complete the group. You shall be the pendant to Jus- tine. Every one, you know, must have a cavalier, to hand her in, in the old style. MR. GALBRAITH, (in trepidation.) Och, my lady ! I beg your pardon ; but it would not do in this country ; they're all mighty sairious here, and LADY EMILY. Well, then, we'll cheer them up a little, and show them what it is to be gay. Mr. Sackville and I have it at heart to amuse them. It is among our first intentions for their good and improvement. Here, do look among those Italian cos- 5* 44 MANOR SACKTILLE. tumes for something that will suit Mr. Galbraith. We must have you, Mr. Galbraith. JUSTINE, (throwing every thing about.) Ah ! — mon Dieu ! — Tnoi^ Dieu ! C'est tout costume de femme. Cependant, en voila une qui ira bien. C'est fait expres pour Monsieur. (Holds up the dress of a Roman Pifferaro.] OMNES. Hal ha! ha! LADY EMILY. That will do, that will do. There, just throw it over his coat ; make haste ! MR. GALBRAITH, (struggling between Lord Fitzroy and Justine, who gradually force on the dress.) My leedy ! I beg your leedyship's pardon, but raally I never need show my face agen on the bench, as a magistrate, if I make a Judy Mulfluggins of myself in this way ! LADY EMILY, (haughtily, and drawing up.) Mr. Galbraith, your principal, Captain Williams, a man of fashion, and Mr. Sackville's particular friend, (though he has done us the honour of acting as our agent for this bar- barous estate,) never refuses to enter into our frolics. He acted in my proverbs at Florence, all last winter. I cannot, therefore, understand, in a person desirous to stay in our service — [checks herself,] I mean, Avho belongs to our estab- lishment, that he should be too prbud, and in such extremely bad taste, as to decline joining in any thing in which my sister and myself are leaders, and which Mr. Sackville will be delighted to witness, when he returns from his ride. [Galbraith, frightened and subdued, permits Justine to finish his toilette.] MR. GALBRAITH. Surely, madam ; whatever your leedyship plases. Only MANOR SACKVILLE. ' 45 I hope, Lady Emily, you will have the very great kindness just to explain to the Honourable and Reverend, and Lady Rosstrevor, how English agents disguise themselves, and make Judies — that is — for it's by no manes the weys of the pleece to do the loikes here. [Enters the Groom of the Chambers, who observes the transforma- tion of the company with coldness and tranquillity, as a thing of frequent occurrence.] GROOM. Lady Rosstrevor, my lady, and Dr. and Mrs. Polypot, and several other persons (of the neighbourhood, I believe,) are in the drawing-room. LADY EMILY. Oh ! very well, Harrison. I'll wait on them immediately. Stay, you must announce us, or the poor people won't know which is which. And, Harrison, tell Marchand to send up soups with the luncheon, and all sorts of things. There is a long party, you know. [Harrison bows in solemn silence.'] Well, now, is every body ready ? Oh, bravo ! Mr. Gal- braith ! charming ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! — Now you know what you are ? MR. GALBRAITH, (sighing.) Why, thin, I declare to the Lord, madam, I do not. LADY EMILY. You are a jpifferaro — a Roman Pifferaro ! MR. GALBRAITH. A Roman pufferary ! see there now ! If it's the same thing to your ladyship, I'd rather be a protestant pufferary. LADY EMILY, (staring.) Why, Mr. Galbraith, the Romans you know are all Catholics, and subjects of the Pope ; and you are a sort of minstrel or piper to play before the Virgin, and of course not a Protestant. 46 MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. GALBRAITH, (much bewildered.) Before the Virgin, my lady ! LADY EMILY. Yes, you know, before the Virgin in her niches. I am supposed to have brought you over to teach the Irish to play the Roman pipes. MR. GALBRAITH. To play the pipes ! LADY EMILY. Now, Lord Fitzroy, you and I take the lead. Then iTulia and Clarence ; and you, Mr. Galbraith, — vous menez Mam'selle Justine ! Voila, — c'est bien ! Marchons ! CLARENCE HERBERT. Stay, let me parade you all. Fitzroy, you are to salute the company " in a genteel and gallant manner." Julia, you are to bridle, and play with your fan, and I, like Sir Hargrave, am to " give myself airs with my eyes, to have them look rakish." Justine, agacez monsieur ! [Justine makes eyes at Galbraith.J MR. GALBRAITH, (muttering.) The divil a bit, but they're all as mad as hatters I CLARENCE HERBERT. Now then — marchons ! [Exeunt Omnes. MANOR SACKVILLE. 47 SCENE III. [The drawing-room, a spacious, modernized apartment, scantily supplied with the lumber furniture of the worst asra of British taste, (the close of the eighteenth century,) cumbrous calico-covered chairs, and shapeless sofas, frightful pier-tables, laden with ugly- glass chandeliers, before ill-fraraed siiallow pier-glasses. The walls sprawled over with a dingy-figured paper, bounded at top and bottom with a tawdry border of blue roses and pink leaves, mingled with orange lilies and festooned nonentities. A large Northumberland table is covered with the portable elegancies of modern refinement. Several splendid volumes in morocco and gilding. {The Italian gallery ,) albums, annuals, illustrations, &c. &.C. In a deep window recess, closely grouped, stand the high church party of Mogherow, the Honourable and Rev. Dr. and Mrs. PoLTPus, the Archdeacon and Mrs. Grindall, Miss Polypus, and Captain Blackacre, all apparently occupied with a volume of Pinelli, v/hich they hold among them, with the sober gravity with which they would read the morning's lesson from the same Bible. Their eyes, however, are furtively watching the congrega- tion of saints enumerated in the preceding scene, who are gathered round the table and are evidently engaged in some sly manoeuvre of pious fraud. Each saintly lady has a capacious reticule, laden with tracts. MRS. GRINDALL, (muttering to Mrs. Polypus.) Look, ma'am, look ! — look, I beseech you ! they are in- sinuating their new light trash among the books on the table. [Aloud.'] Very pretty indeed ! a charming print ! Prints are very amusing things. Don't you think so doctor ? DR. POLYPUS, (looking covertly at the adverse party, but with sen- tentious pomposity, addressing his reply to the fair interrogator.) Very amusing, my dear, in their way ; but they are infe- rior, in my mind, to fine pictures. MRS. POLYPUS, (emphatically.) He is right ! — the doctor is right, quite right. A fine painting is a fine thing ! 48 MANOR SACKVILLE. ARCHDEACON GRINDALL. The doctor is always right. DR. POLYPUS. But I like a print-book too. I like whatever gives inno- cent amusement, (that is, in proper season,) in spite of cant, and hypocrisy. The church is no enemy to innocent amuse- ment. Prints, ma'am, if they do no good, do no harm ; and that, let me tell you, is a great merit in these perilous days, — [looks at the saints] — an eulogium which cannot be be- stowed on the idle books artfully thrust in the way of the ignorant and unsuspecting. MRS. POLYPUS. Good, good ! — very good ! ARCHDEACON AND MRS. GRINDALL. Very good, indeed ! [The saintly party having deposited a few tracts among the pomps and vanities which encumber the table, direct their attention to the bound volumes of the Florence galle^'. Lady Rosstrevor, who has opened one of them, and mistakes them for scriptural illustra- tions, pauses over the fine print from AUori, of Adam and Eve under the tree of knowledge, with the serpent above in its branches, fixing his bright eyes on Eve.] MR. GRIMSHAW, (aloud to his own friends.) Oh, my friends ! there is a text to enlighten the darkest ! — to inspire the dullest ! Behold the beauty of those sinless countenances ! Behold the first man, before sin had im- pressed its furrows on his brow ! Behold the first woman, ere shame had crimsoned her pure cheek ! MR. BINNS, (with vacant simphcity.) They are a beautiful pair. Give you my honour, I think Adam has a great look of you, Mr. Grimshaw, if I might presume to say so. LADY ROSSTREVOR, Praising her fine eyes from the figure of Adam, to the not ignoble countenance of her moral agent, whose long, black, and wavy hair, divided on his high forehead, gives Bome colour to the resemblance.) MANOR SACKVILLE. 49 Why, yes ; there is a likeness. If Mr. Grimshaw is not, as our first parent then was, without sin, the assurance of salvation, the consciousness of a perfect grace, may give a kindred expression to the countenance. MR. GRIMSHAW. Alas ! my friend, the likeness is not merely that of the outward man. Adam was the weaker vessel of the two ; and sin was already casting its shadow forwards on his brow. Eve was the well-chosen instrument of Satan's temptations ; and in selecting her for the medium of man's fall, the wily seroent showed himself, indeed, the suhtilest beast of the field. [Lady Rosstrevor sighs, and turning over the leaves, comes to the Magdalen of the same artist. The Magdalen is seated in deep shadow on a rock ; her face and figure veiled only by her long luxuriant hair.] MR. GRIMSHAW, (contemplates the picture with enthusiasm.) What penitence in those heavenly eyes ! Every tear seems laden with contrition. What compunction on those beautiful lips ! She had erred much ; that fair, frail creature. Her fall was terrible ; but she redeemed it. Her sins were forgiven her ; for she loved much. It is by faith alone, my children, we can hope for salvation. [With a deep and affecting intonation.] O ! my daughter what consolation ! [Lady Rosstrevor's lips move in mental prayer and emotion. Mrs. Grafton turns over to a magnificent work by Titian. Thi.s picture represents two subjects ; the one, the visit to the house of the pharisee; the other, a virgin and child, surrounded by saints and angels.] MR. GRIMSHAW. True zeal spares not itself; it shuts not itself up in the cell of its humble meditation ; but comes forth to seek its converts in the gorgeous dwellings of pharisaical pride. MISS GRIMSHAW, (addresses her brother with deference.) Sir it is pleasing to observe, even here, in the house of the pharisee, a work so edifying. The seed may be sown, the calling may have been heard. O my brother ! you may have been directed hither, at this propitious moment, by the unknown hand 50 MANOR SACKVILLE. MISS MULLINS, (stupidly.) Amen ! DR. POLYPUS, (apart to his own group.) Did you ever hear such impudent presumption ? [The door opens ; the masquerading parly enter, in the order in which they left the library. The groom of the chambers announces " Lady Emily Sackville.^^ Lady Emily swims in, with an irrepres- sible air of fun, which is strongly contrasted by Ihe grotesque gravity of her two young cavaliers. Justine, led by Mr. Galbraith, or rather forcing him on, immediately withdraws, along with the groom of the chambers, who shuts the door. The Pifferaro is left "alone in his glory," to stand the brunt of his ludicrous and painful position. Pinelli drops from the hands of the church as by law estab- lished. The saints stand aghast. Lady Emily, with graceful ease, approaches each party alternately, points to chairs, and throws her- self into a fauteuil. She apologizes for the delay in her appear- ance, without accounting for it ; and suddenly recollecting herself, introduces Lady Julia, Lord Fitzroy Montague, Clarence Herbert, and finally Mr. Galbraith, who has taken shelter on a low stool, behind a high-backed sofa. His head only is visible, dressed in a red net, and the high-crowned hat with flowers, of the Roman Pifferaro. The astonishment of the formal guests increases, not unmingled with feelings of resentment. They suspect a mystifica- tion, but fear to risk an expression, which may betray an ignorance of some newly revived old fashion — having before their eyes the threat of hoops, and powdered toupies, recently announced in the London papers as re-appearing in the circles of Paris. The guests return the "genteel and gallant" salutes of the Grandison party with cold and suspicious formality. At the announcement of Mr. Galbraith's name, the church party burst out into an involun- tary laugh. The brows of the saints knit and darken. Mr. Binns and Miss Mullins bite their lips and try to look miserable.] DR. POLYPUS. I beg your ladyship's pardon — ha ! ha ! ha ! the mas- querading of my oH friend, Jerry Galbraith, I confess, a little upsets me. I should never have recognized him under that disguise, which gives him the look of our Christmas mummers. MR. GALBRAITH, (with an imploring look to Lady Emily.) Her leedyship will explain, Dr. Polypus, the meaning of this dress, which I have put on, just to try how it will shoot the lower orders, in respect of her leedyship's new dressing the poor of the pleece in Irish manufacture. MANOR SACKVILLE. 51 LADY EMILY, (good-naturedly coming lo his relief, and with great earnestness in her own plans.) O certainly, Mr. Galbraith : Dr. Polypus, you are aware that Mr. Galbraith is sub-agent to our Irish estates. We really have a great confidence in Mr. Galbraith. He is so very good-humoured. He has been good enough to try on our model dresses, which we have brought for the poor Irish from Italy; for I assure you all, [looking graciously round,'] that we have come to this wretched country with the best in- tentions for ameliorating the condition of the lower classes, as Mr Sackville says. Now this dress — pray stand up, Mr. Galbraith. THE CHURCH PARTY. Ha ! ha ! ha ! [The saints grow grave, (as the esfablisment becomes gay,) and are takmg in gas for a future explosion. Lady Emily draws up, and fixes the Grindalls, Miss Polypus, and her beau, with a look of intense haughtiness. Dr. Polypus direct? '^ xm regard foiidroyanV^ at his family, who suddenly look grave, and become silent as mutes. The Grandison party flutter and bridle, and shake their bag wigs, and flirt their fans, and " give themselves airs with their eyes."] LADY EMILY, (continues with increasing errphasis.) It does not appear to me that there is anything laughable in the costume which good Mr. Galbraith has put on to please me. You will find it in that volume of Pinelli, Mrs. Polypus. It is light, v\-arm, and picturesque. Compare it with the filthy rags of the wretches I saw yesterday swarm- ing about this place, — (in the last twenty miles I counted three churches, and not one well-dressed peasant,) — and if you laugh at this, turn and weep at the misery which sur- rounds you. MR. GALBRAITH, (to himself) Divil a bit, but they're getting it now. [Lord Filzroy, unseen, pats Lady Emily on the shoulder, and in a low voice says, " Bravo, padrona ! — " hravo, ancora .'" LADY ROSSTREVOR, (in a rhapsodical manner.) O Lady Emily ! if you form an opinion of all the poorer 6 5S MANOR SACKVILLE. classes of this country, from Avhat you have seen in the be- nighted villages of Manor Sackville and Mogherow, you will greatly deceive yourself. You speak of their outward wretchedness ; but what is it to their inward darkness ! what is the body which perisheth, to the soul that lives for ever ? THE SAINTS, (in a low, deep, choral intonation.) What ! what ! [Mr. Grimshaw seems buried in silent meditation.] LADY EMILY. I do not see why the body is to be abandoned to filth and misery, because the soul is to be saved. Besides, as Mr. Sackville says, how^ can one shut oneself up, in measureless content, within one's gates, when all without is wretchedness and privation ? THE GRANDISON PARTY, (flirting and bridling in chorus.) How ! how ! MISS GRIMSHAW, (pertly, and getting the start of Dr. Polypus and Grindall, who each strives to gain ^^ la parole.") That is rather, I beg your ladyship's pardon, a selfish con- sideration. Turning charity into a luxury, is making it a purely human enjoyment. MR. BINNS. Purely human ! LADY EMILY. Is it not humane, is it not a luxury, to substitute plea- sure for pain, health for disease, comfort and contentment for poverty and despair ? [A struggle for " la tribune" between the Church and Congregation.] LADY ROSSTREVOR. It may be a luxury, madam, but it is not religion — for MANOR SACKVILLE. 53 among- the children of light and grace, the hunrmn feeling is but the canker in the rose ; it is the sounding brass, and tinkling cymbal. Man is saved by faith alone ! THE SAINTS. By faith alone ! [Dr. Polypus rises with a look and manner that indicate " the chureh is in danger.'" But Lady Emily interrupts him petulently.] LADY EMILY. Lady Rosstrevor, I regret that I cannot agree with you. I have always been taught that charity is a virtue at all events ; in this miserable country, it is a duty ; and it will be to us, as Mr. Sackville says, a positive enjoyment. We are therefore resolved to devote ourselves exclusively to doing good. All we want is to know how we shall set about it. THE CHURCH AND THE SAINTS, (in antiphonizing chorus.) We shall be most happy, Lady Emily, to point out the way. DR. POLYPUS, (laying both hands on the table, and with a stentorian voice and ex-cathedra manner.) Lady Emily, I have the honour to be the rector of the parish of Manor Sackville ; and if public station gave any right to meddle with private opinion, I certainly might claim the right of the church as by law established, to direct the benevolent views of the wealthiest of my parishoners, MRS. POLYPUS. He is right — quite right. ARCHDEACON GRINDALL. He is always right. DR.* POLYPUS. Lady Emily, I will yield to no man in my devotion to my country, and in attachment to the lower orders. I love the S4 MANOR SACKVILLE. poor Irish, madam, first, as my humble fellow-creatures ; secondly, as the flock committed to my care by Providence. [A low moan from the Saints.] Yes, madam, committed to my care. I have not seduced them by low and canting arts from other folds. I have neither led, nor misled them, through pathless wilds of sectarian fanaticism, Vv'hich sooner or later, must end in atheism. [A louder groan from the Saints : the Grandison party affect to be much interested in the discussion^ and shake the poicdcr about.] I may one day, madam, become an unworthy member of that Reverend Bench, to whose patronage and support, almost every cha- ritable institution in this kingdom is mainly indebted, and whose revenues go so largely to their support. I am aware that the poorer classes here know not this fact. By a detes- table cant, even the poor Protestants are taught that the epis- copal properties are an abuse of religion, and must be confis- cated to their use ; while the poor wretches are at the same time unpitjangly drained of their last shilling, for the service of the ravenous tabernacle. MISS GRIMSHAW. Drained for the tabernacle! drained of their last shilling! Dr. Polypus, this from you ! who draw your four thou- sand a-year from these poor people ! DR. POLYPUS, (a little thrown out by this palpable hit ; but promptly recovering his presence of mind.) Thirdly, madam, I love the church, — -I mean I love the poor people of the country, I say, because they, — that is, the poor MISS GRIMSHAW, (eagerly.) Because the poor pay you the tithes, which go to make up the immense revenues of your numerous pluralities. DR. POLYPUS, (" patience perforce with M'ilful choler meeting," in an affected tone of moderation and good breeding.) Miss Grimshaw, I respect yoi^as a worthy lady, sincere, 1 believe, though rather intemperate in your calling, (for one, at least, of your sober years ;) [turni7ig to Lady Emily ;] and thirdly, madam MANOR SACKVILLE. 55 MISS GRIMSHAW, (pique au jeu.) I beg your pardon, Doctor Polypus ; my years, Dr. Poly- pus, have nothing to do with the subject under discussion. I do say, that many of the members of the Church of England have no other object than to amass wealth, and aggrandize their own families, so that church dignities have become al- most an inheritance ; and bishops, their sons, and sons-in- law, in the plenitude of their powers, their indolence and their arrogance, lose all recollection of the apostolic mandate " to be blameless, not greedy of filthy lucre, nor lifted up with pride, and self-conceit." [A general murmur of applause among the Saints ; of contempt and resentment among the high church, intermingled with broken sounds of"Zoio" — '' vieaiV'—^Urading saints,'' 4'C.J LADY EMILY, (eagerly and warmly in controversy.) Well now, Dr. Polypus, go on : we sliall be summoned to luncheon directly. DR. POLYPUS. Well, Lady Emily ; and thirdly, — but I have to observe, that there are, as your ladyship must know, accusations which justly subject their makers to a charge of wilful violation of the truth ; and it is common in the low-born and low-condi- tioned, to envy those with whom they cannot be placed in comparison. Thirdly, then, madam, and lastly — but first I fling from me with indignation, the insinuations of my very respectable friend, Miss Grimshaw, in all that concerns the payment of tithes : first, because the poor people, w^hom I love and pity, do not pay me my tithes ; next, because they have not for two years paid me my tithes ; and thirdly, be- cause I have, this day, received a notice from the Whitefeet, that they will never pay me my tithes any more. MRS. POLYPUS. He is right — he is quite right. THE SAINTS, (incredulously.) Oh ! oh ! 6* 56 MANOR SACKVILLE. LORD FITZROY, (standing forth with an assumed "guinde" air; and with his hand to his sword, in imitation of Sir Geoffrey Sackville over the chimney-piece.) I rise to corroborate the assertion of Dr. Polypus. I am an officer of liis majesty's service ; I have been four days only in my quarters at Mogherow ; and on the second day of my sojourn, I was put upon active service, to surround and capture and expose for sale, Molly Molony's mother-pig and all her pretty little ones ; the said Molly having refused ever again to pay tithe, in scRcula scuculorum. And I further declare that the Niobe of the sty, with tears in her eyes did complain .... CLARENCE HERBERT, (in mimicry of the noble debates in the upper house.) I rise to suggest to my nubble friend, than whom there does not exist a tiner or more gj^llant officer, that his ludship mistakes the fact, in as much as that it was not M0II3' Molony's pig, but Molly herself, who, with tears in h«r eyes, did com- plain. [A general titter among the Mondains ] DR. POLYPUS. I did not know your lordship was the young officer called upon to perform that disagreeable, but most important duty ; nor indeed (having returned to the country but a few days) that we had the pleasure of having you quartered in our neighbourhood. I hope the Marquis is quite well. I had the honour of [Enter Harrison from a newly-made folding-door, at the further end of the room. He bows low, waving his napkin, and backs out. A sumptuous banquet, by the name of luncheon, appears laid out in the adjoining room, made " to engage all hearts, and charm all eyes." The sight and odour operate as a " Irhe de Dieu ;" and the parly proceed, by a cointnon impulse, to obey the law of that nature which levels to one condition saints and sinners, the little and the great, in presence of a well-furnished table. The luncheon consists of " j3o/«g-es," '^froids d la gelee d'asfic'^ of all kinds, hot cotelettes, &c., with the choicest wines, confeclionory, and fruits; and a bouffet laid out with tea, coffee, and liqueurs. It excites unusual admiration, and a little surprise in the visitors. Lord Fitzroy lakes the head of t.ie table, supported by Lady Rosstrevor on his right, (who is flanked by her moral agent.) and by Lady Emily on the left, flanked by Dr. Polypus. Mr. Galbraith,"who has dropped his pifferaro dress behind the sofa, entrenches himself behind a cold MANOR SACKVILLE. 57 surloin of beef, at the foot of the table, proud of doing the honours. The party are scarcely seated, and a general attack began, when Mr. Sackville enters, accompanied by a tall and rather siout young nian, with a dress partly clerical and partly sporting. Mr. Sack- ville stares at the appearance of his own friends. Lady Emily runs to him to appease his annoyance.] LADY EMILY, (aside.) We were caught, as you see. Never mind it ; they don't, I assure you — they think it is tout de bon. [Mr. Sackville's look of amazement and displeasure yields to his good breeding. He if? generally and briefly presented by Lady Emily ; and then leads up the stranger, whom the guests recoo'nize with looks of surprise, contempt and anger.] MR SACKVILLE. Lady Emily, I must present the Rev. Mr. O'Callaghan to you. You have to thank him for me, for he has just saved my limbs, at the risk at least of his own. Now you need not look so pale ; since I am here, and in a whole skin. That vicious colt of yours, Clarence, was rather too much for me. MR. O'CALLAGHAN, (with great ease, and taking the seat assigned him next Mr. Galbraith, to whom he holds out his plate for a slice of cold beef.) Not vicious, Mr. Sackville, but spirited. Spirit is often mistaken for vice, in man and baste, — in this country especi- ally. But I think, sir, I could take the shine out of that beautiful high-bred little animal ; for an animal may be high bred in his own race — colt, as well as curragh favourite. DR. POLYPUS, (to Mrs. Grindall.) Did you ever see such easy impudence ? They don't know who he is ! CLARENCE HERBERT, (who is placed on the other side of O'Cal- laghan, dropping his affected tone, and addressing with eager- ness.) You are quite right, sir. But it is a doctrine not suffici- ently known. You may breed up to any point. Have you read Mr. Karkeeth of Truro, on the education of horses ? S# MANOR SA.CKVILLE, MR. O'CALLAGHAN, (without interrupting his gastronomic course.) *' The Veterinarian," — I take it in, sir. I have just got the last number from London — a capital work. The philoso- phy of the stable might often be applied to the philosophy of man. The pleasure of a glass of wine, sir. MR. CLARENCE HERBERT. With all my heart. MR. O'CALLAGHAN. He recommends — that's Mr. Karkeeth — three modes of educating the horse — punisment, reward, and emulation ; but above all, he recommends gentle means to coercive. He'd have made a capital legislator for Ireland — that's in th' ould times — he deprecates a horse of spirit and mettle being deprived of his food. I'll trouble you for the potatoes, young man. Mr. Galbraith, you ought to tache Mr. Sackville's cook to dress potatoes ; no one understands dressing potatoes but the lower Irish. [Galbraith and the Church party " all astonishment."] MR. GALBRAITH, (to himself.) The divil a bit of such aisy impudence ever I witnessed — Maynooth for iver ! MR. SACKVILLE, (breaking off a conversation with Lady Ross- trevor, and walking round the table, stops opposite Mr. O'Callag- han.) Perhaps you can give us some hints, sir. I assure you, I think such secrets worth knowing. I have always thought that potatoes are better dressed in France than any where. I like them a la maitre d^hoiel amazingly. MR. O'CALLAGHAN. Not at all, sir, begging your pardon. Potatoes should always come up in their jackets. You must ate a hot pota- toe out of the pot, in an Irish cabin, to know what a delicious thing it is. The craturs won't always have a grain of salt to give you with it : but they'll be sure to sweeten it with a MANOR SACKVILLE. 59 cead mille faltha; and I believe, sir, there is no better sauce to a plain thing, than the hearty welcome of a cordial hospitality. MR. SACKVILLE. Not to have salt to one's porridge, is a proverbial expres- sion for poverty ; and literally, not to have salt to one's potatoe, seems even below the scale of Irish privation. MR. O'CALLAGHAN. Why then, sir, at this moment, within gun-shot of this stupendous and splendid banquet, at which we are (thanks to the Lord) faring sumptuously, and where, as the poet says, " all is more than hospitably good," there are hundreds of poor creatures who would think themselves vrell off, to have plenty of potatoes, without the salt ; and who would con- sider a scudan rhu, by way of a kitchen, a faist for a king. MR. SACKVILLE, (much affected.) Good God ! The disparity is frightful. But what is that dish you speak of? Is it any thing that I can supply them with ? MR. O'CALLAGHAN. Is it the scudari rhn., sir? Oh, it's only a salt herring, sir, and a single one is often a great trate to a whole family ; and it is shougJi'd about like an anchovy, or other delicacy, after a fine dinner like this. DR. POLYPUS. After all that is said of the poverty of the Irish Peasantry, I most sincerely believe, that on an average, they are better off, or at least as well, as the peasantry of the continent. I have heard many enlightened travellers say so. MR. O'CALLAGHAN. I make no comparisons. Dr. Polypus, for I have not trav- elled further than Paris ; y.urns to Mr. SacJcviUe ;] but when it is remimbered, sir, that the Irish peasant pays to the 60 MANOR SACKVILLE. land shark squireens at the rate of six pounds per acre, or more, for his half-acre of that land, which these middle men get from you, Mr. Sackville, for thirty shillings, — a rent amounting to eleven-pence out of every shilling he earns — that when at the back of this, he contributes to keep Doctor Polypus's coach-and-four, — laving a pretty profit to his proctor besides — that he maintains in a very genteel w^ay my principal, the Rivirend Father Everard, (who will give you as good a boiled fowl, and a bottle of port, as any man in the barony,) and that he even helps me to keep a tight little hack to ride to a station, or mass-house, — you will aisily concaive, Mr. Sackville, that the cratur may think himself well off Avith a potatoe ; — without the luxury of the scudan rhu, and often without a drop of butter-milk to wash it down. The pleasure of a glass of wine with you, Mr. Galbraith. Shall it be Burgundy, sir ? I have it here beside me. \_Helps himself y and Mr. Galbraith icho is overwhelmed by his " aisy assurance."] LADY EMILY, (poking her head forward, and listening with great earnestness.) What is his name. Dr. Polypus ? he is amazingly clever, and so amusing ! DR. POLYPUS. Do you really think so ? I never met him before. His vulgarity, as much as his peculiar position here, keeps him out of good society. I forget his name ; but by the lower orders he is commonly called Father Phil of Mogherow. LADY EMILY, (graciously.) Father Mog-e-row, will you allow me to recommend you some gelee a V aspic, with your cold ham. [A great titter.'] MR. GALBRAITH. (to Mr. O'Callaghan, who ia still talking to Mr. Sackville, with ease and earnestness.) Father Phil, my lady is asking you to take some jelly. MR. O'CALLAGHAN. I ask your Ladyship's pardon — whatever you do me the honour to recommend. MANOR SACKVILLE. 61 LORD FITZROY. Lady Rosstrevor, will you take wine? [The butler advances with some sherry ; Mr. Grimshaw pushes it on one side, helps her to hock, and intercepting Lord Fitzroy's bow, drinks with her himself.] LORD FITZROY, (to Lady Emily.) Come, that's cool. Parlez moi du pere directeur apres celd. MR. SACKVILLE, (still in conversation with Mr. O'Callaghan.) Perhaps there never were more obvious causes for evident effects than those of the wretchedness around us. But the remedy, if not unknown, is, at least, apparently unattainable. For seven hundred years, the history of Ireland has remained the same ; — misgovernment, " one and indivisable." What is the secret of this? Do you know, I am sometimes half in- clined to suspect that there may be something of race at the bottom of all. Nothing is so like the physical character of the ancient Celts, as that of the modern Irish, — I mean the mere Irish. MR. O'CALLAGHAN, (wiping his mouth, throws his napkin on his plate, and gives himself up wholly to his subject.) To be sure, sir. I am a studier of races. Every man who is fond of dogs and horses, and all the poor brute bastes in the creation, as I am, will be a believer in the hereditary temperament of the different great families of the earth. There, sir, sits my neighbour, Jerry Galbraith. Look at that face of his. [All turn their eyes on Galbraith, xoho is " bothered entirely,^'' at being thus singled out.^ Well, sir, all the world over, I would say that was an Irish graft on a Scotch stock. Thin sir, you need not be after studying the genealogical table of the ancient and respectable families of the Polypuses and the Grindalls, to know them as William- ites, — Dutch transplanted to Ireland — a mixture of the tulip and the trefoil. LORD FITZROY, (to Lady Emily.) Yes, by Jove, gaudy and creeping. [The Polypuses and Grimshaws redden with anger.] 6^ MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. O'CALLAGHAN. Then look, Mr. Sackville, at your own high Anglo- Norman faces — another animal altogether, sir. [Great symptoms of impatience and indignation among the Irish aristocracy.] DR. POLYPUS, (in a whisper to Lady Emily.) This is going a little too far. His father, madam, is a poor farmer on your ladyship's estate. I remember that impudent fellow, holding the plough, and dropping it, to run to the hedge schools, until he was sixteen. He was then transferred by that old Jesuit, Mr. Everard, the parish priest, (whose curate he now is,) to Ma3'nooth College, — the house of refuge, Lad)^ Emily, for all rebellion and idolatry. MR. O'CALLAGHAN, (to Mr. Sackville.) It's thrue for you, sir. It's among the pisantry that you will find the raal ancient, ould Celts, Mr. Sackville ; — up in the mountains of Munster and Connaught, the Daltries and Cunnamara ; and down in the loAvlands, among the lower classes, like myself. As to the brass-buttoned gentr}-, as we call them at the fair of Ballynasloe, they're all furreigners, sir, Danes, Saxons, Spaniards, (or Milesians, if you will,) Normans, Allemans, and Dutch. Th' ould saying, sir, that when any one was missing in Europe, — Amandatus est in Hiberniam, is not truer, than the fact, that every Che Shein* of a furreign fellow, that was on the Schaugliran^ or, as the Frinch say, on the pave, at home, with nothing to live by but his sword and his swagger, came skipping across the herring-pond, to cut and carve a nice slice of poor ancient ould Ireland, for his share of the plunder, — bating back the original residenters to the mountains or woods ; or, as ould Richard Regan says in his Chronicle, " waiting to hunt the Irish, till the laves were oil the trees." Och ! Worristru ! [The English party laugh. The church and new-light are bursting with indignation.] MR. SACKVILLE. But the intruder was sure to be beaten back himself, in ♦ An Irish phrase, applied to a swaggerer — literally, "Who is he?" MANOR SACKVILLE. 63 his turn, by some new comer, some more puissant invader. It is the history of all nations ; and not peculiar to Ireland. MR. O'CALLAGHAN, (filling himself a glass of wine and tossing it off) Oh ! by no means, Mr. Sackville. For look to thim Anglo-Normans. Since iver they left the track of their traheens in the soil, there they are, rooted like docks. They've held fast by the fiddle, as the clown says at Donny- brook fair, sticking like burrs, and flourishing like mustard- seed, to this day. They are the fih's, (which we translate Fitzes,) the Geraldines, the Moriscoes, the de Talbots, and the de Botelers, six hundred years and more, keeping the place from the right owners. MR. SACKVILLE, (laughing.) Six hundred years are no brief possession, Mr. O'Callag- han. But I also am a victim of innovation ; the Norman adventurers having treated the Lumleys, my Saxon ances- tors in England, as they did your forefathers in Ireland. Yet I hold that it is neither for the pride, nor the policy of a nation, to be too prompt to acknowledge such humiliating facts ; still less to complain of their duration. Complaint is the language of weakness, an acknowledgment of inferiority, physical or moral, of race or of civilization. Such reverses are universal. It was so with the Greeks and the Romans. In our own times France has conquered all Europe ; and though forced to recoil, she has let fall seeds, to perpetuate the remembrance of her temporary supremacy, which are now springing up, and are destined to bear fruits that will change definitively the character and habits of the civilized world. THE CHURCH AND NEW LIGHT, (in mutters.) Pretty seed — Atheism and Jacobinism ! FATHER O'CALLAGHAN, (in like murmurs.) The philosophy of the Frinch liberals : but any how, there's life in a muscle, as Father O'Toole says of the Jesuits ; and the Gallican church, phcenix-like, will yet spring from its own ashes in spite of all the Voltaires in the world. 7 64 MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. SACKVILLE. There is no wrestling with events. They are more power* ful than men. The fate of Ireland was inevitable. It is her interest, now, to forget the past ; and to cut into the line of march, Avhich is leading on the age to the far more mighty- future. [The Church and State again thrown back.} MR. O'CALLAGHAN, (vehemently.) I don't agree with you, Mr. Sackville, as far as Ireland goes. Ireland is the last country on the face of the creation that should forget the past. It is all she has, — the memory of the time when she was " great, glorious, and free." LORD FITZROY, (dressing an orange with various condiments.) When was that, Mr. O'Callagan? MR. O'CALLAGHAN, (intemperately.) When was that, my lord? Long before your lordship^'s ancestors left their Bicoque in Normandy, and came over as officiers de bouche, in the domestic establishment of William the Conqueror of England. LORD FITZROY, (cooly, and slicing his orange.) Do you know, Mr. O'Callaghan, that I am vastly proud of that descent. An officier de bouche means a cook, — in modern parlance, an artist ; and the art itself marks the highest point of civilization. Think, sir, of the vast dilier- ence between the man who cooks a cutlet to a turn, and he who devours it half raw, after he has coddled it between two hot stones ! The first was my ingenious predecessor, the lat- ter was doubtless yours. Both perhaps were great in their calling : but diet makes the man. The masticator of tough, sodden collops, was a different personage, depend upon it, from him of the cutlet. Allow me to send you a touch of my hereditary office. You will find this dressed orange a conclusive argument. MR. O'CALLAGHAN, (with perfect good bumour.) With all my heart, my lord. Will you allow me the honour of a glass of wine ? MANOR SACKVILLE. 65 MR. FITZROY. What shall it be ! Hock ? MR. O'CALLAGHAN. I've not the laste objection in life, my lord. Here's Mr. Galbraith choking ; shall we take him in ? [Fills Mr. Gal braith's glass. They boio and drink.] But, Mr. Sack- ville ; being-, as I am sure you are, a good friend to Ireland, I should wish you to feel the importance of keeping up the national spirit, by preserving the glorious remimbrance of past times. Let not Ireland forget what she was, and what she yet may be. As our native and immortal bard says, " Let Erin remember the days of old." MR. SACKVILLE, (smiling.) What ? *■ When her faithless sons betrayed her?'* MR. O'CALLAGHAN, (vehemently.) No, sir, — ^that's not the reading. — *' Ere her faithless sons betrayed her !" " And Malachi wore the collar of gold, That he won from the proud invader." MR. SACKVILLE, (shaking his head.) Oh! that collar of gold ! It was still a collar. But, my dear sir, such signs and images of the worst times in the his- tory of humanity, have served the purpose for which they were new burnished, and brought once more forward. The piece dc cir Constance, in which they were introduced as ap- propriate machinery, has been brought, thank God ! to a suc- cessful conclusion ; and they should now be returned to the old property room of Irish vanity, as nO longer applicable to the wants of the times. I must repeat, that men, so influen- tial as yourself in your community, might teach with good effect the necessity of forgetting the past, and of concentrating all the force of the country upon the present, — its peace, prosperity, and moral improvement. 66 MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. O'CALLAGHAN, (earnestly.) Oh, Mr. Sackville, it is neither for the present interest, nor for the future fortunes of the country — neither for her pride nor her glory, that Ireland should forget the past. She should not forget that her soil, where for centuries " many a saint and many a hero trod," has been bathed in the blood of her brave sons, who were deprived of their liberty, and of their ancient, national, and venerated church. MR. SACKVILLE. But your poetical saints and heroes, in plain English, were idle monks and ferocious banditti — alike barbarous, bigoted, and living by the plunder and degradation of the people. They have no longer advocates or admirers in the nineteenth century, save only in that house of refuge for all by-gone institutions and forms, — Ireland. It is her unlucky pecu- liarity to have been thrown back on the past, through dis- trust of the future : and partly, perhaps, by her remote geo- graphical position — partly by the denial of education — to have been excluded from the lights which have beamed upon the rest of Europe. But a new era is come ; your religion is free. The spirit of the age will no longer tolerate that proconsular government which has so long impeded the na- tional energies. No longer, therefore, degraded, you should learn to bear the truth ; and with a career opened to praise, you should not seek to be flattered. The past, even if your early history be not altogether a delusion, is at least inappli- cable to your present position. Other virtues, other energies, than those of your barbarous ancestors, are necessary to lead you to prosperity and happiness. You want not saints but citizens ; — not heroes, but peaceable, industrious, and calcu- lating utilitarians. MR. O'CALLAGHAN. O none of 3^our Utilitarians, none of your Benthams ! Pathriotism, Mr. Sackville, pathriotism taches another lesson. Where else can our fine pisantr}- lain to love their country, and devote themselves to its freedom, but in the records of the courage and piety of their ancestors — the pages of O'Fla- herty, Keating, and O'Hallorum ? MANOR SACKVILLE. 67 MR. SACKVILLE. Oh ! Mr. O'Callaghan ; that is no declamation of yours ; you are evidently too clever, too clear-sighted a person, to be the dupe of such vague generalities, or monstrous fables, as the authors advance, to whom you allude. You must know and feel, that your peasantry are no longer the finest in the ■world ; whatever they may have been. Neglect, oppression, want, and the influence of others over their deep, dark igno- rance, have degraded them in too many instances, to the level of the brute animal, who shares their hut and their scanty food. Their very nature seems changed. Human life has ceased to be valued among them ; they take it without re- morse, — as they part with it without regret ; and if the soil of Ireland is still bathed in blood, it is not drawn by her ene- mies, but by her infuriated children. [Mr. O'Callaghan exhibits marks of vehement impatience, but he is anticipated in his eagerness to reply, by Dr. Polypus, who raises his voice, and speaks in a dogmatic tone. Lady Emily's quick eye glances rapidly round; she is breathlessly attentive. Galbraith remains buried in humorous consternation, and is subserviently silent. The Saints heave, and pant, and wait their call. Lord Fitzroy is much amused. Lady Julia, and Clarence Herbert, have neither eye nor ears for what is passing ; and are deeply engaged with — each other.] DR. POLYPUS. Mr. Sackville, you have hit the point. The present dis- turbed and ferocious — but I have neither words nor breath to express myself on the present state of Ireland, the worst the world ever witnessed. It is, as you say, partly owing to the present anti-protestant government, and partly to a set of mis- chievous men in the Roman Catholic church, who are exer- cising the most frightful influence over the minds of the lower orders. The late otherwise excellent ministry were bullied, in a moment of weakness, into that fatal measure, the emanci- pation of the Catholics, by those w^ho constitute the present government ; — men, who are not only plotting the revival of popery in this country, but, by the frightful system of educa- tion they have introduced, under the pretext of rendering it national, are undermining Christianity itself. The horrid profanation of mutilating God's holy word, can only proceed from the worst designs ; but worse than that — they have intro- 7* 68 MANOR SACKVILLE. duced Roman Catholic versions of the Scriptures, to seduce and corrupt the Protestant youth, even in their own schools. [The Saints groan in spirit.] MR. SACKVILLE. Both versions, sir, are given, I understand. DR. POLYPUS. But why both ? What have we of the established religion to do with the impositions and interpolations of the Catholic church? MR. SACKVILLE. Both are given, because the children to be educated are of both persuasions ; and the extracts from the Scriptures are intended for both. ARCHDEACON GRINDALL. We of the Established Chnrch, Mr. Sackville, are satisfied with the admirable version of the Scriptures given at the re- formation. We think that " Repent ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand," is quite as correct, if not as profitable, a translation, as " Do penance.'''' MR. GRIMSHAW. There is no such doctrine as penance in the Bible. Pen- ance, sir, is a filthy rag of Babylon, and implies a reliance on human works, to the exclusion of that healing faith, which is man's only claim to salvation. MR. SACKVILLE. As a Protestant, I have my own opinion as to which is the more correct translation : but government, sir, has nothing to do with polemics. Conciliation was its object ; and when both translations were set down, every thing that fairness re- quires was effected. ARCHDEACON GRINDALL. Sir, it is the Bible we want. MANOR SACKVILLE. 69 MR. GRIMSHAW. Aye, sir, the whole Bible, and nothing but the Bible. ARCHDEACON GRINDALL. We do not want the Latin idiom substituted for the ori- ginal. MR. SACKVILLE. But what was the original, archdeacon ? in which of the dialects of a country, (where so many were spoken,) did the Baptist address himself to the muhitude, composed of all na- tions ? LADY EMILY, (to Lord Fitzroy.) How very amusing this is ! LORD FITZROY. A little digressive, but not the less interesting. MR. O'CALLAGHAN, (dogmatically.) The Bible, by itself, sir, will give you no light on that subject ; for that, Mr. Sackville, you must look, as your church has looked for so many other subjects, to those early traditions bequeathed by the apostles to that faithful church, which they founded almost in the presence of Him, to whom be all praise. [Blesses himself.) This is only one of the thousand instances in which the keenest polemical scent is thrown out, if it takes the Scriptures for its sole guide. MR. GRIMSHAW, (with awful solemnity.) O ye of little faith ! Hear me, that ye may profit. MR. O'CALLAGHAN", (rising to his full height, and raising his so- norous voice.) Hear me ; for I will be heard out, Mr. Grimshaw : — For more than an hundred years, you of the Reformation have trod us under foot ; but I am now an emancipated Catholic. You must hear me ; and cannot torture, ruin, and degrade 70 MANOR SACKVILLE. me for speaking the truth, (what I at least believe to be the truth.) You cannot now seize the colt, which will carry me from this door in a few minutes, and possess yourelf, for five pounds, of the papist baste that is worth forty. I tell you then, you gentlemen of the Reformation, and you of the New^ Reformation, you must both come back to us. You are in a cleft stick ; — faith or reason, Catholicism or Deism. It is the tradition of the true church, alone, that can save you from being split into myriads of sects. You are carrying on a guerilla war among yourselves; you agree in nothing, but to hate, calumniate, and persecute us. It is you who have torn the Lord's seamless garment, the emblem of unity and peace. You have deserted authority ; and yet you dare not call on reason to justify your several opinions. It is DR. POLYPUS, (interrupting him.) As a member of the church of England, as a dignitary of that church, I cannot sit by, and hear the minister of a religion teeming with idolatry, advocate tenets, which in other and better times Avere forbidden by the law as superstitious and traitorous, — a blasphemous religion, or rather a church with- out a religion. LORD FITZROY, (in an under tone.) Strong epithets those — " hard usage, by Jove." [Mr, Sack- ville nods assent.^ MR. GRIMSHAW. A church, which rejects the Bible. LADY ROSSTREVOR. A church, where the creature is every thing, and the Cre- ator forofotten. MISS GRIMSHAW. The abomination of abominations. MISS MULLINS, (half asleep.) Amen ! MANOR SACKVILLE. 71 MRS. GRAFTON AND MR. BINNS, (interrupting a spiritual and spiiited flirtation.) Amen, indeed, as good Miss Mullins observes. MR. SACKVILLE, (after waiting for his opportunity.) Nay, nay, we must not all bear down on Mr. O'Callag- han at once. I belong to neither of your creeds. Permit me, therefore, to part the combatants. For myself, indeed, I cannot admit the authority of tradition ; and Mr. O'Callag- han will forgive me, if 1 say, that it is the rule of barbarism, and the learning of ignorance. A civilized age Vvdll not ac- cept it, save only when in want of better evidence, and when its dicta are confirmed by reason and experience. Neither can I agree with him that he has succeeded by its aid in at- taining to that unity, of which he, as a Roman Catholic, boasts. Remember sir, the absurdities of your casuists, — the warfare of your Dominicans and the Franciscans, — the endless disputes of the Molinists and the Jansenists. I agree, however, with you, that the establishment, in adopting so much of your discipline, as goes to bow us in a blind sub- mission to its own articles of faith, has placed itself in a false position. You are both seeking an unity of opinion which is not attainable from men ; which, not being accord- ing to the natural law, cannot be according to the revealed. But while I protest against a prostration of intellect, to the authority either of Roman or protestant orthodoxy, I can- not hold myself answerable for the errors of all who unite with me in the independent search of truth. We must each be judged by his own doctrines ; and one cannot be confuted by the other. Yet why judge at all ? What I have heard to-day tends only to satisfy me of what I have long thought, — that spiritual pride, and the thirst for spiritual dominion, are among the most powerful causes of Irish misery. I see in your irreconcileable disputes, and common intolerance, the great- est obstacles, not only to domestic peace, but to every com- mon effort for your common improvement. It is the curse of this country, that it is overcharged with a fi®ry zeal, which is as fatal to every other virtue, as it is to Christain charity. It is this morbid excess and derangement of the religious feeling, or rather the ignorance in which these are founded, that has rendered Ireland the prey of every impos- tor, who, under the cloak of piety, of patriotism, or of politi- 73 MANOR SACKVILLE. cal ascendency, has sought to mislead her. False zealots in religion, false patriots in politics, of every shade and colour, inculcate a blind respect for authority; and Catholic and Protestant, orange and green, alike agree in hating and fear- ing the man who dares to think for himself, and act accord- ing to the dictates of an independent conscience. Give to Ireland knowledge, and you will soon give her repose ; give her repose, and her fierce energies will be turned upon her own interests, and find a healthy and happy scope in a well- regulated and productive industry. MR. GRIMSHAW, (rising with a theatrical and imposing air, and over- whelming the attempts of Mr. O'Callaghan and of Dr. Polypus to speak.) Peace ! I invoke, I command it, in the name of Him, by whose call I speak. Ye have heard each other. Will ye not hear the Lord ? [He pauses, looks around, throicsup his head, shakes back his long black hair^ and rolls his eyes, so as to assume an appearance something beiiceen that of the Hev. Mr. Irving and Paganini.] Oh ! ye who deceive yourselves, for the truth is not in ye, hear the word ! For the wis- dom of the world is foolishness ; and, from the beginning, the tree of knowledge was forbidden to man. Ask your- selves, then, do you enjoy a clear manifestation of grace in your souls ? Have you a constant power over all sin ? Are you determined to employ all your time in working for the Lord ? and know ye that justification cometh by faith alone ? Hear what the new St. Paul saith. True religion does not consist in these three things, — the living harmless, — - using the means of grace, — and doing much good ; for a man m.ay do all these, and yet have no true religion. It is by prayer alone that we can hope for grace : and I invoke ye all, solemnly as Christians, to join in holy prayer. Let us pray. [Mr. Grimshaw falls on his knees ; the Saints follow his example ; the High Church hesitate for a moment, with an expression of impa- tient indignation ; but at length yield to the foice of example. The English party startled, lean over the backs of their chairs. Galbraith flops down behind the remains of the surloin. Mr. O'Callaghan buttons up his coat to the neck, picks up his hat and whip, and, obedient only to the authority of Mother Church, stalking across the room with great ponderosity of tread and creak of boot, leaves the company, and is seen galloping with his dogs by the windows at full speed. Mr. Sackville retreats into the drawing-room, which he paces up and down, in utter disgust at the insolent assumption, ignorance, bad taste, and profane intru- sion of so solemn an observance at such a moment.] MANOR SACKVILLE. 73 Mr. SACKVILLE, (repeats to himself.) Les hommes, la plus part, sont etrangement faits, Dans la juste nature, on ne les voit jamais ! La raison, a pour eux des bornes trop petites ; En chaque caraclere ils passant les limites ; Et la plus noble chose ils gattent souvent, Pour la vouloir outrer, et pousser, trop avant. [He listens. There is a momentary silence ; and he re-approaches the party as Mr. Grimshaw is givmg out a hymn.] MR. GRIMSHAW, (in a loud twanging voice.) " Oh ! why did I so late thee know ?" [Lady Rosstrevor, an accomplished musician, sings forth a solo, with great expression, and an air of languishing devotion.] LADY ROSSTREVOR. Ah, why did I so late thee know, Thou lovlier than the sons of men ; Ah ! why did I not sooner go To thee, assuager of all pain ? Ashamed I sigh, and only mourn That I so late to thee did turn, CHORUS OF SAINTS. Ashamed we sigh, and only mourn, That we so late to thee did turn. [Lady Emily joins in, and sings con amm-e. Mr. Binns observes iNIias Mullins watching him and Mrs. Grafton.] MR. BINNS. Sing up, Miss Mullins ; and mind your hymn. [Miss Mullins " sings up," and puts them all out, by chiming in, in G major to their D minor. The English party, in want of " all power of face," stifle with laughter. The Church party rise, with an expression of contemptuous ridicule, to lake leave. The groom of the chambers enters.) GROOM OF THE CHAMBERS. - Lady Rosstrevor's carriage stops the way. Dr. Polypuses carriaga-is coming round. Mr. Binn's carriage is up. LADY ROSSTREVOR, (taking Lady Emily's hand.) Farewell, dear Lady Emily. We part in a better spirit 74 MANOR SACKVILLE. than we met. Let me look forward, then, to an early and more uninterrupted interview. Let me hope that you are come amongst, indeed, for the bettering the condition of the dark, lost creatures, over whom providence has placed you. Oh ! Lady Emily, I have much to say and to show you ! Before that divine man came among us, this neighbourhood was a waste and howling wilderness. The benighted people of Sally Noggin sat in the gloomy shadows of death. It was, as Mogherow now is, under the power of the priests of Baal ! On Suaday next, after chapel, we are to have a class-meeting, at Rosstrevor Park, of the dear people. Could we hope to see you amongst us ? [In a sweet and subdued voice.] " I hold with thee a trembling hand, And will not let thee go." [Mr. Sackville, who has stood impatiently watching this colloquy, hastens to Lady Rosstrevor, and drawing her arm through his, hands her out to her carriage, followed by her tail. The Poly- puses surround Lady Emily ; who, pale and exhausted, hangs over the back of her chair ; while the Grindalls solicit Lady Julia and the gentlemen, for various subscriptions, charities, bazaars, &c.] MRS. POLYPUS. The Dean and myself are most desirous to prevail on your ladyship and Mr. Sackville to give us the pleasure of your company on Monday next at dinner. You will meet all the persons of consequence and distinction of the neigh- bourhood, all whom you ought to know. DR. POLYPUS. And we are the more anxious for that day, as it is the grand anniversary meeting of our society for converting the Jews all over the world. MRS. POLYPUS. I have brought a little programme of the proceedings, and a list of the subscribers, by which Lady Emily will see that the principal nobility and gentry of Ireland are among its patrons. Might I solicit a name so distinguished as that of Lady Emily Sackville ? — no matter how small the contri- bution to the good work. [Takes a gold pencil out of her sack, and presents it to Lady Emily. At that moment Mr. Sackville returns, and takes the pencil out of his wife's hand.] MANOR SACKVILLE. 75 MR. SACKVILLE. What are you going to do, love ? [Lady Emily, scarcely able to articulate, from fatigue, nods to Mre. Polypus to explain.] MRS. POLYPUS. Oh, Mr. Sackville ! her ladyship has benevolently con- sented to become a member of the Society for the conversion of the Jews. MR. SACKVILLE. I beg pardon, madam ; but you must excuse her. She is bound, in Christian humility, not to interfere with the con- version of the Je^YS. That which the Messiah did not effect, when he was among them, my little wife has not the temer- ity to attempt. Besides, foreign charities can have no claim on her, till justice is satisfied at home. She has a great national debt to assist in paying to this country, the long ac- cumulating debt of the overweening rich to the over-wretched poor. [Mrs. Polypus backs coldly out, and takes the Archdeacon's arm, to whom, as she proceeds to her carriage, she mutters some acrimo- nious remark, of which the words "jargon," "infidelity," are alone audible.] MRS. GRINDALL, (advancing to Mrs. Polypus's abdicated place.) Well, I hope i" maybe more fortunate with my little Bizar. Lady Emily, the ladies of the Barony of Mogherow ■will hold their annual bizar for the benefit of the distressed poor, at the Archdeaconry, on Tuesday next. Should Lady Julia and your ladyship honour us with any of your inge- nious little works, embroidered pincushions, caps, card- cases, skreens, on which you will put your own prices, it will give great eclat to the charity. Or, if you would con- descend to hold a counter MR. SACKVILLE. Excuse me, madam ; I can answer for Lady Emily, that she will not. She, as well as myself, is perfectly aware of the mischievous tendency of these frippery charities, which 8 76 MANOR SACKVILLE. rob the independently industrious of their due reward, to benefit a few pampered favourites and sycophants of the capricious and the idle rich, — who most commonly, after raising in them undue expectations of unmerited support, leave them in sudden destitution, more helpless and more miserable than they first found them. MRS. GRINDALL. Oh, Mr. Sackville, you are very severe ; you see these excellent institutions in a very false view. I suppose the saints have already been plying you with anonymous letters ; as Priest O'Callaghan tries to write down the doctor's *< Bible only" day schools — but [Enter footman who speaks] The archdeacon desires me to say, madam, that the carriage Vv^aits. [Mrs. Grindall makes a cold curtsey, and exit, accompanied by Galbraith.J MISS POLYPUS, (on the arm of Captain Blackacre.) Good day. Lady Emily. Your ladyship will find a little basket of trifles on the drawing-room table, — little works done at mamma's school for charity. They are all priced ; and if your ladyship would allow them to remain, they may be disposed of to advantage, for the benefit of some very distressed creatures. [Exit. The last of the visitors drive off; Mr. Sackville, Lord Fitzroy, Clarence Herbert, and Lady Julia, looking after them from the windows. Lady Emily seated, and leanin'g on the back of her chair, sighs deeply.] LORD FITZROY, (putting up his glass.) What a cargo of ignorance, pretension, and vulgarity ! MR. SACKVILLE. Yes ; it is a pretty specimen of the society of the country, of the higher classes, as they call themselves. What can be done for a people, whose destinies are committed to such hands ! MANOR SACKVILLE. 77 LADY EMILY, (sighing and in a faint voice.) And yet I must say, that there is something fearfully fine, in all which that inspired-looking man, Mr. Grimshaw, said ; and Lady Rosstrevor assures me that MR. SACKVILLE, (interrupting her.) Inspired humbug ! Emily, I am ashamed of you ! If this is the tone of mind you bring to the great work of improving the condition of the poor people committed to your care ; if every self-interested impostor is, in his turn, to gain your attention, the sooner you return to England the better; there, at least, you have less power to do harm, if you can do less good. Judgment here is more wanting than feeling. [Lady Emily bursts into tears. Mr. Sackville throws his arm round her.] Come, come; you are quite exhausted; you are nervous, and completely beaten down by all you have gone through to-day. You shall retire now and throw yourself on your bed : after a long, refreshing sleep, you will help us to laugh over the very ludicrous scenes of this morning, in which you have played a part rather beyond your physical forces. [He leads her out of the room, Lady JuHa attempts to follow,] MR. SACKVILLE. No, no ; leave her to me. LORD FITZROY, (yawning and moving towards the door.) Will you ride, Herbert ? CLARENCE HERBERT. Which way are you going ? LORD FITZROY. I shall visit my etat major at Mog-e-row, and reconnoitre the country, touching the progress of tithe pigs and still- hunting. CLARENCE HERBERT. Well, I'll follow ; or meet you, on your way home. We shan't dine till nine, I take it. 78 MANOR SACKVILLE. LORD FITZROY. I hope not, Belle Julie : follow your sister's example. To bed, to bed, to bed ; you are fairly done up. [Exit.1 CLARENCE HERBERT, (lingering behind.) I believe that it is good advice ; you must be a little weary of this day ; and may be g-lad to throw off your sack and system. LADY JULIA, (naively.) On the contrary, I have enjoyed the day particularly. I took so much less interest in what w^as going on, than Emily. CLARENCE HERBERT, (takes her hand and kisses it.) Julia ! if I dared interpret [The door opens. The servants enter to remove the things. He drops her hand in confusion, and looks at his watch.] Past five, by Jove — if your ladyship is disposed for a walk, the evening looks enchanting. LADY JULIA, (confused.) 1 should like it much. Perhaps we may prevail on Harry to accompany us — Pll try. [E-xit Lady Julia.] CLARENCE HERBERT, (to himself.) Well, 'tis an ill wind blows nobody good ! I came to this most wretched spot of all wretched Ireland, to be the most wretched of all fellows on the face of the earth ; and I have become the happiest of human beings ! 'Tis strange that the Julia of Almack's, and the Julia of the mountains of Mogherow, should be two such distinct women ! This is what is meant, I suppose, by being creatures of circum- stances. Well, no matter for the circumstances, the creature is divine. [Exit, slowly ascending the stairs to his own room.] MANOR SACKVILLE. 79 SCENE IV. The tap-room in the New Inn, or Rosstrevor Arms, (in Sally Nog- gin,) formerly the Cat and Bagpipes, but recently converted, with its mistress, the widow Fogarty, to a new-light destination. It exhibits an orderly appearance. A sheet of " Rules and Regula- tions" is framed over the chirjiney- piece. Over the door of an ad- joining room is inscribed, ""Temperance Society Coffee-room." Some tracts are scattered upon the tables. The windows command the main street, where the annual fair of Sally Noggin presents a very motley and busUing appearance, as contrasted with the quiet and rather Flemish interior. Mr. Sampson, the tithe-proctor, and Mr. Brady, the surveyor, (two brass-buttoned gentry,) are seated near the fire-side, busied over some accounts, which, with the air of Peachem and Lockit, they are winding up in a vigilant distrust of each other. Enter Mrs. Fogarty, a very comely, domestic- looking woman, in deep weeds. She is wiping a glass tumbler in an arduous manner. With downcast eyes and a mincing gait, she she approaches the demi-officials of Sally Noggin. MRS. FOGARTY. I thought you called, gintlemin. MR. SAMPSON, (gallantly.) Why thin, whither we did or no, the likes of you never comes amiss, Mrs. Fogarty. I'm sorry not to see the new Protestant inn better attended, ma'am, and this the fair day. MRS. FOGARTY, (affectedly.) O, sir, this isn't the pleece they like to be coming to. It's too quiet, intirely, and reg'lar ; — only for the genteels. But the Lord is good ! and Lady Rosstrevor, that took me out of the dark way, and th'ould Cat and Bagpipes, will not lave me a loser. What d'yez please to call for, gintlemin 1 MR. BRADY, (tying up the account-books.) What would you plaze to drink, Mr. Sampson ? — for we must handsell the new Protestant tap-room. 8* 80 MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. SAMPSON. With all the veins, sir. What do you advise us to take, Mrs. Fogarty, dear ? It's by your counsel, ma'am, I'd like to go, in more than a dhrop. MRS. FOGARTY. Why then, I'd advise ye, gintlemin, to take a dish of the Temperance Society coffee. It's strongly recommended by her ladyship, and Mr. Grimshaw, — and has saved the sowls of many a sinner : not all as one as the raw spurrets. MR. SAMPSON. Arrah, be aisy now, widow Fogarty ! Great a saint as you are, you musn't be afther going to the fair with us, that a way. MRS. FOGARTY. Is it me a saint, sir ? O, Mr. Sampson, I'm far from it ; though surely, my lady and Mr. Grimshaw have wrought wondhers in me, since I kept th' ould Cat and Bagpipes. MR. SAMPSON. Well, ma'am, the new light may do as they plaze ; but them eyes of yours. Widow Fogarty, were niver given ye, for the good of your sowl : the Lord pardon them 1 MRS. FOGARTY, (drawing up.) Lave off now, Mr. Sampson, if you plaze. Such dis- coorse doesn't become you, sir, to one of my state and call- ing. [Throws up her ei/es, and sighs.] MR. BRADY. Well, never heed him now, widow, honey ; you know Mr. Sampson's a wag, and will have his joke out. But in- stead of recommending us the timperance coffee,. A^-iiat would you think, ma'am, of a little of Father O'Leary's eye- wather 1 Kiln-dried a Protestant as I am, I'm always for the papist dhrop. Where the spirit is concerned, ma'am, there's nothing like the priest's direction. MANOR SACKVILLE. 81 MRS. FOGARTY, (raincingly.) As you plaze, gintlemin ; only not raw spurrets, if you plaze. MR. BRADY. Well, thin, a couple of tumblers, ma'am, let it be, with a dash of hot water, and a squeeze of lemon to qualify it. MRS. FOGARTY. It shall be attinded to, gintlemin. [As Mrs. Fogarty is going, enter Dan O'Leary and Darby O'LouGHLiv, two of the lowest class of farmers. They are wrapt in heavy frieze coats, and their caubeens are slouched. They look round the neat tap-room, with an air of humorous surprise and affected respect. Mrs. Fogarty draws up and looks coldly on them. The farmers take their seat at a box near the open window, out of which they lounge on their elbows, talking and laughing with the people in the fair. Exit Mrs. Fogarty.] DARBY O'LOUGHLIN, (looking after her, sings.) " Tho' mass was my motion, my dewotion was she." DAN O'LEARY, (taking a short shillelagh, from under his trusty, and laying it beside hira. He speaks in a low voice.) Why, thin, darby, wouldn't you be afther taking this for a methodist meeting-house, 'stead of th'ould Cat and Bag- pipes ? DARBY O'LOUGHLIN, (laughs ; then laying down a club, worthy of Hercules, beside him. He answers in a like under tone.) Why thin, by this stick in my hand, sir, the divil a know I'd know it, no more thin the Castle of Dubling, only in regard of its being the corner of Blarney Lane. Och ! lave Widdy Fogarty alone, sir. This isn't the first turn, and won't be the last she'll have yet. Well, great a pew-opener as she is, she'll be telling her padreens yet ; though she's above being civil to the likes of uz, now. Didn't she look murthur at us, sir, for coming into her fine parlour, at all at all ? She don't care a rotten potaty for the likes of uz, since that raal divil, Paddy Murphy, broke her coffee tay-cups to MANOR SACKVILLE. smithereens, and lighted his bit of a doodeen with her bible tracks, sir ; more power to him. Och ! its Paddy has the wire in him, and is a fine lump ov a boy, as you'd like to meet in a day's walk : it's himself up to snuff, and a pinch above it, by Japers. MR. BRADY, (who has been engaged with his papers, and has not noticed the new arrivers, hid out by the box.) Well, sir, it's all fair. Short reckonings makes long friendships, they say : and except that trifle of a differ about tithe pigs and the keg of whiskey ; — but sure, sir, the honest- est reckonings must have " errors excepted." MR. SAMPSON. To be sure, sir, it's true, for you ; — and so many little items ! [Enter Mrs. Fogarty, with a smart tray, laden with tumblers, pipes, and a lighted candle.] MRS. FOGARTY. There, gintlemin, if yez want any thing more, there's a bell in the corner, and there's a purty little book, sent by Lady Rosstrevor, to amuse the custhomers over their glass ; " The Sinner Saved," or the Life of S. S., they call it. MR. SAMPSON, (laughing.) Oh ! Mrs. Fogarty ! Mrs. Fogarty ! ye'll die with the wafer in your mouth yet ; for sure, ma'am have'nt you given us " bell, book, and candle light," after the fashion of your ould church ? Well, ma'am here's to your purty health ; and long may you prosper in your new undertaking ! MR. BRADY. And a good husband, and soon, to 3''ou, ma'am, MR. SAMPSON, (winking.) That's putting in a good word for himself, Widow Fogarty. MANOR SACKVILLE. 83 MRS. FOGARTY, (smiling demurely.) The Lord forgive you your innocent mirth, gintlemin. I'm glad, in troth, to see you plazed ; and thank you for your wishes and good custom. DAN. O'LEARY, (as she passes by the bo.x, taking offhis hat politely.) Mistress Fogarty, I hope I see you in good heahh, ma'am. Your ould custhomer, Dan. O'Leary, ma'am, a gossip of your good man's, poor Jemmy Fogarty ; God rest his sowl ! [Crosses himself.] Here's Darby O'Loughlin, a great crony of poor Jemmy's too. — and myself, stepped in from the fair, ma'am just to dhrink success to the new in, and handsell your undertaking. MRS. FOGARTY, (coldly, and with downcast eyes.) I'm obliged intirely to yez, gintlemin. But I don't sell raw spirits. I'm bound by my lace and indentures not to sell raw spirits, gintlemin. DAN. O'LEARY. Och ! it's just all the same, ma'am ; in regard of myself, being booksworn, till Christmas eve, again naked spirits of any sort or kind, to Father Phil ; and Darby, too, ma'am. So, we'll throuble you for a pint of parliament, dashed through a quart of Brazier's best, ma'am ; what Mr. Mac Dermot calls the pathriot's own, ma'am. MRS. FOGARTY. Ye shall be served, gintlemin. Luke attind the box, if you pleaze, at the Dublin window. [Exit Mrs. Fogarty, and presently enters a boy, who places a jug of strong ale, (' dashed' with a pint of strong whiskey,) and tumblers. Dan and Darby continue to drink, and talk, and shake hands with the passers-by under the window ; contributing largely to the hat of a bear-leader, whose " baste" moves a minuet to the time of Erin go Brach. Mersrs, Brady and Sampson sip their punch, and converse in close coloquy sublime.] 84 MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. BRADY. And so, sir, you tell me ye've never been up to the great house yet since the new English grandees arrived. MR. SAMPSON. Niver, sir ; nor niver saw Mr. Lumley Sackville, nor Lady Emily, nor any of the party, since they came into the country, barring at church on a Sunday. MR. BRADY. Why thin, what is Jerry Galbraith about, sir ? He used to be a good warrant, to do a good-natured turn for a friend. And one ought to have a face ticket on such a house as Manor Sackville, any how ; especially you, Mr. Sampson, who soils a plate, betimes, with the first in the country ; for they couldn't do without you, sir, and they know it well. There's no in- formation ever government gets like yours ; for the people trust you, sir. ]\IR. SAMPSON. Oh ! it's true for you, Mr. Brady ! and the late Mr. Fitz- gerald Sackville thought he could never make enough of me ; and when I went there on business, oh ! it was only " by this, and by that, you don't stir till you take your tumbler !" And if he was going out to dine himself, it's to good Mrs. Q,uig- ley I was handed over, and a dinner in the housekeeper's room fit for the high sheriff? But as to Jerry Galbraith, except to make the greatest of game of him, which I hear the ladies do, and dress him up, like a Christmas mummer, it's in little respect he's held, sir, by them. MR. BRADY. Do you tell me that, now ? He that's respected by the whole country round ; — that's the Protestants. MR. SAMPSON. Aye, sir ! and more betoken, they say, that when Captain Williams, (th' auditor, as they call him,) comes over, Jerry Galbraith is to get the turn out intirely ; and some young MANOR SACKVILLE. 85 Papist counsellor from Dublin is to have the agency, under the Captain ! Oh, Mr. Brady, mark my words ! It was a bad day for the country, that brought the liberal Mr Sack- ville (as he is called,) into the place ! MR. BRADY. So they say, sir ! — so they say. Sir Job Blackacre had it from the Honourable and Reverend, that a greater Papist, or a bigger rebel doesn't brathe than the new Mr. Sackville. He's the very revarse of th' ould gintleman, who wouldn't rest still in his grave, if he knew what was going on in Manor Sackville. What would he say, think ye, sir, to see Father Phil, and th' ould Jesuit, Mr. Everard, walking cheek by joul with my lady through the cabins, planning and plotting th' overthrov/ of the Protestant church ; and they dining every Sunday at Manor Sackville, to the great injury of the constitution of 1688. MR. SAMPSON. Aye, sir ! and as they tell me, Mr. Emerson, the Protes- tant curate, who flew in the bishop's face about the Kildare Street schools, is hand and glove with Mr. Sackville ; and aiding and abetting to have a school, where there's to be no religion at all, nor the Bible not so much as looked on by the papist brats, for fear they woudn't be sent to school at all at all. MR. BRADY. He ought to have his gown stripped over his ears, if there was law or justice to be had. Och ! but it was a black day, the day that Mr. Fitzgerald Sackville went into the church- yard of Mogherow, feet foremost. I'll drink his memory, sir, if you plaze ; for he was a great m.an, and a good ; and I had the honour to belong to his lodge for fifteen years; and it's often we drank "the glorious and immortal" on our bended knees, in the prisence of the rising sun. If ever there was a true and loyal Protestant gintleman, William Fitzgerald Sackville, you were the man ! so here's to your pious memory ! [They drink "in solemn silence." Mr. Sampson rings the bell, and orders two fresh tumblers.] 86 MANOR SACKVILLE. MF. SAMPSON. Well, sir, niver mind ; just wait a while. Sorrow long you'll be throubled with these English liberals. The place will be made too hot to hould them afore long. For though he has all as one as shaken off th' orange interest, divil a much the green care for him. He's not the sort they want, sir. There's no go in him. He's all for pace and quiet ; and the pathriots have found out that he has the two ways in him. Not a pinny has he come down to the rint, though he has given them ground for a new chapel. MR. BRADY. That's thrue for you, sir ; and besides, didn't he put his futt into it th' other day, by the spache at the great dinner given him by the pathriots at Mogherow, when he bid the people not to be unraisonable, nor to look for noonday at six o'clock in the morning. MR. SAMPSON. And Mac Dermott and O'Hanlon set their faces agen him for a Whig ; and will bring in Sir Job, or any other extrame Orange gintleman for the county, sooner nor he. Thin, sir, he has offended the Quality by giving a dinner without dis- tinction of creed or party ; though Mrs. Polypus, (I know for sartain,) sent a list to my lady of who ought, and who ought not, to be asked together ; and who was suspected, and who had friends hung in the rebellion of ninety-eight. And what does the hoity-toighty lady, but axes them the very first ; and, to finish the business, whom did she open the ball with, but young Mr. Harry Despard, whose father was hung at the bridge of Mogherow, by Sir Job's father in '98 ; and she made th' honourable Captain Herbert dance with Miss Mac- lane, whose uncle died in his way to America, where he went for his life ; and is now living on her friends like a poor cousin, about the barony. MR. BRADY. Oh, sir ; but sure that's nothing to what's talked about the country now, that Mr. Sackville is to carry over a bag of petitions against the tithes ; and that he is raally and truly MANOR SACKVILLE. 87 going to bring an action agin th' Honourable and Reverend for unlawful distraining. MR. SAMPSON, (changing colour.) Yes, sir, I did hear something of that ; but what did you hear, Mr. Brady ? MR. BRADY. Why, sir, the people of the wrong side say that you are a marked man, and will surely be prosecuted. MR. SAMPSON, (tosses offhis punch.) Persecuted, you mane, neighbour Brady ; but never you mind. We're too strong for the liberal Mr. Sackville yet ; and he'll find that out, ere long ; or my name's not William Sampson : and as for his action, I defy him. [Snaps his fingers and raises his voice.] Sure, it's that notorious Rockite and Whitefoot, Shane Sullivan, or Shane na Dhu, as they call him, who's up the mountains, and swore that he'd have the worth of his cow in blood, or money, because, sir, the poor garan died in the pound. And that, w^ith other little things done to bring him to his sinses, fairly dhrove him mad ; and it's on the say of that villain, that they'd bring a Protestant and loyal man into a court of justice ! and all^y a stranger in the country, that knows nothing of the ways of the place ! DAN. O'LEARY, (muttering.) Do ye hear that ? Why, tbin, if the great Mr. Sackville backs poor Shane Sullivan, he'll have the prayers of the poor with him. And long may he reign! for a greater piece of villainy than that of Shane's cow, and his woman in the straw, carted out into the road, and the bed sould from under her, niver was done under the sun ; [raises his voice,'] and so here's to the health of Mr.. Sackville,' DARBY O'LOUGHLIN. Wisht, man ! hold your wisht ! How long have you ped Mr. Sampson the tithe you owe him, yourself, that you'd go to offind him, or the likes of him ? and the dhrop getting into vour head^ Dam O'Leary ! 9 88 MANOR SACKVILLE. DAN. O'LEARY, (still raising his voice, and tossing off another glass.) If I were to go to jail this blessed night for it, I will say my say ; and that is just this,— that the pounding of Shane's cow was a mighty great villainy ; and if Mr. Sackville sees justice done him, there isn't a boy in the barony who wouldn't go to the world's ind barefoot for him, — aye, troth, and fur- ther ! MR. BRADY, (perceiving the men in the box, and lowering his voice.) Now I remimber me, a long time afore ould Sackville died, I oncet heard the Honourable and Reverend's brother tell young Captain Blackacre, whin they were up the moun- tains after the grouse, and I was looking to th' illicit stills, that this very Mr. Lumley Sackville was to have gone into parliament on the Catholic interest ; only some papist lord, as owned the borough, died, and so it went the right way. DAN. O'LEARY, (listening and filling his glass.) Thin here's better luck to him another time ! for there's nothing he does, but what's great and grand. MR. BRADY. Oh, sir ! there's them about us would pison the bread we ate ! Sure I intercepted an anonymous letter at the post- office, to Lady Emily, telling the story of Shane Sullivan's wife dying on the road. Och ! I knew the hand. It was the very same that sent me notice to quit, and give up the premises of Ballycondra, on pain of death, and of a sod in the thatch. MR. SAMPSON. Well, sir ; the woman would have died, any how, for she was given over ; and the cow was pounded according to law ; so I defy the liberal Mr. Sackville, if that's what he calls himself. But set a case it wasn't ; what then, sir ? Where will twelve raally loyal men be found in a jury-box to say that the Honourable and Riverend did wrong ? Sure the Honourable's cousin and agent. Sub-sheriff Jones, won't let a bad man on the pannel. MR. BRADY.' True for you, Mr. Sampson. It won't be the first time MANOR SACKVILLE. 89, Sub-sheriff Jones has stood your friend ; nor it won't be the last, plaze God. Here's to his good health ! DAN CLEAR Y, (raising his voice.) If there had been justice in Ireland, that nigger Jones would have been hanged long ago ; for a greater land-shark never braithed the breath of life ; and it's to him the murder of my uncle, in the skrimmage about the procession, is due intirely ; and his blood is on him and his to this day. So here's intire confusion to him ! DARBY O'LOUGHLIN, (getting warm and stout.) And didn't he turn my aunt's husband's sister, and all her little babies, on the Ligh road, selling the very thatch from over her head, and that ^gin all law and justice ? DAN 0'i.p;ARY. And didn't he force my own brofr.PT to quit the country, and go for a soldier, in regard of his threatening to transport him, for a thrifle not worth spaking of? DARBY O'LOUGHLIN. And didn't he make myself go down on my two bare knees, and dhrink confusion to the Pope — Jasus pardon me ! — and he standing over me all the while with his bagonet, and prodding me, as if I'd been a brute baste ? DAN O'LEARY, (aloud and standing up.) Why, thin, here's long life and glory to the new Mr. Sackville ; and the divil fly away with all land-sharks, tithe- proctors, and common informers, that takes the innocent boys at an amplush ! Whooh ! — Sackville for ever ! DARBY O'LOUGHLIN. Here's Misther Sackville's good health ! and the horse that throwed King William ! Hurrah ! and the O'Loughlins for ever ! [Mr. Sampson and Mr. Brady, overhearing the two men in the box, draw back their chairs, and take a view of them; and exhibit much surprise and stifled rage.] ^ MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. SAMPSON. It's well we're not talking traison, boys ; for we little knew we had eves-droppers on the scout ; but if ye are drunk, be- have yourselves, any how. Have a care, now ; mind what you are about. It would be better far for you to keep a civil tongue in your head, stout as you are, because your faction's in the fair. May be the Honourable and Riverend may be axing you, Dan O'Leary, after his own afore long ; and it's myself may be called on to give you a helping hand into the stone jug ; where I would inthroduce you, with all the plea- sure in life, for your uncommon insolence this day. Mind what I say — my mark is on ye ! DAN O'LEARY. Thin, it's yourself that need no^ mention the stone jug just now ; for if Mr. Sackville — ^-^'^ry be to his honour ! — takes up Shane Sullivan's cow p-^'-t wife, I know who'll be rubbing his nose agen cold iro'^^- afore long ; — and the divil's cure to them ! amen ! DARBY O'LOUGHLIN. Och, Musha, times are changed ; and it isn't all as one, as when ye shot the priest's mare on the twelfth of July : for Ae's in the place now will back us out ; and the Grangers won't have things their own way, like the fox in the farm- yard, as in th' ould times, gintlemin. DAN O'LEARY. Divil an orangeman will dare show his ugly face in the barony afore long ; and so here's confusion to the colour, by day and by night. MR. BRADY, (winks to Sampson to be quiet.) Aisy now, boj^s, aisy ; wait awhile, and you'll see whether this great philozover from England will be able to show his own face in the grand-jury room, or at the race-course ; and whether he'll stand by you, Dan O'Leary, in regard of your run in the mountains last summer ; and the barrel of poteen you flung into the bog, O'Loughlin. MANOR SACKVILLE. 91 DAN O'LEARY. Why then, Mr. Brady, if harm comes to me, or mine, for that same, it won't be the first honest boy you've sworn out of his liberty, and life too, you informing villain, you I DARBY C'LOUGHLIN. ^ If Mr. Sackville stands by uz, the blue smoke will be afther rising agin in the bogs, in spite of all the perjured excisemen in Ireland; and, moreover, here's confusion to the Polis^ who oh ! [Driaks.} DAN O'LEARY. Amen, whooh ! — \_Drinks.] MR. SAMPSON, (fumbling in his breast.) What is it ye'd be at now? You had better be quiet, and don't go on with your divilments here ; for the first man that raises hand or voice goes off to the police-station, were it Mr. Sackville himself; so now you're purchasers with notice. [Sampson and Brady edge towards the door; but Dan and Darby . guard the pass, and brandish their shillelaghs. Enters Mrs. Fo- garty.] MRS. FOGARTY, (in a whining tone.) Oh, gintlemin dear, quit now, and don't be making a ruction in my house ! Remember, yez are not in a common Shebmn, gintlemin, but the Rosstrevor Arms, but a genteel pleece ; so dhrink you dhrop in pace and quiet, like sinners and Christhians. — Mr. Sampson, I axe your pardon, sir; but never mind Dan O'Leary, sir, now. You see he is hearty ; and when the dhrop's in him, he has neither sinse or raison. Aisy now, Dan, dear, aisy. [Gets between them, and endeavouring to take Dan's shillelagh, which he brandishes in the air, while he keeps off Mrs. Fogarty with his left arm.] MR. SAMPSON, (behind Mrs. Fogarty.) Let him alone — let him do his worst, Mrs. Fogarty, It isn't the likes of them that I regard. They know very well 9* 92 MANOR SACKVILLE. that I'll have the hanging of them some of these days : and if I was to thrash them bkck and blue, the rebelly Papists, it's no more than they merit. DARBY O'LOUGHLIN, (struggling with Mrs. Fogarty.] Never mind, ma'am ; aisy now, Mrs. Fogarty. Divil a harm I'll harm your house, if it was made of glass. But, if it wasn't that you're a civil, dacent woman, by this and by that, I'd have the pleasure, for once in my life, of bating an exciseman throughout, in one day ; and it's not from out of this room he should go in a;whole skin, only in rispect of you, Mrs. Fogarty. DAN O'LEARY, (with a flourish of his shillelagh.) Whooh I It's myself would like to see the face of an Orangeman on this blissed floor, to say nothing of the Polis. [Calls from the loindoiv.] Hurrah ! for Mogherow, and the boys up the mountain ! — VOICES (from without the window.) Hurrah ! [Several men with orange badges enter from the inner apartment.] DAN CLEAR Y, (from the window.) - Are ye there, boys ? O'Leary abo ! [The mob near the window, responding to this cry, rush into the house. The Catholics and Orangemen separate into two hostile groups. Brady produces a bayonet, and Sampson draws a pistol.] MR. SAMPSON. Pace there, — pace in the king's name, I charge you. I'll be book-sworn but this is a consarted meeting of ribbon-men, and no Fair riot ; and you, Dan O'Leary, are at the bottom of it; and you, Darby O'Loughlin, are another. You have come into this place to circumvent us. DAN O'LEARY. De ye hear that, boys ? Och, murther f it's our lives hi'd swear away afore the judge, as soon as ate a potaty. [Mrs. Fogarty runs off, clapping her hands, and crying, " mille, murther !"] MANOR SACKVILLE. 93 MR. SAMPSON. Aye, and sooner ; and right well ye desarve it. But see here now, the first of yez that stirs hand or foot, I'll blow his brains out, to tache yez to behave like dacent people, for the rest of your lives. DAN O'LEARY, (to his friends.) Blood alive, boys, will ye stand to be shot like wood- cocks ? To the divil with his pistol ! It can go oft' but once ; so, Jlaugh na hallach ! — clear the way. — Here goes, by Japers ! [Knocks Mr. Sampson's pistol out of his hand: it goes off. A general uproar and engagement ensues ; the police rush in from the street.] SERJEANT DONOVAN, (throwing his party between the belligerents.) Clear the house — quit now, directly, and go home every man of yez. — Mr. Sampson ! Mr. Brady ! I hope no one has assaulted you, gintlemen. Shew me the villians, sir ! point them out ! MR. SAMPSON. Och, Serjeant Donovan, you're come in good time, sir. That rebelly thief there, (that's a common bog-skulker, sir,) talks of Mr. Sackville being come over to back the Papists and the Whitefeet. There's bad work going on, sarjeant — a regular conspiracy — a rebellion, sir, and revolution ;— '9S to the life, sir ! MR. BRADY. If we hadn't overheard their discourse, every Protestant of us all might have found ourselves murthered in our beds, when we woke to-morrow morning. The tow^n of Sally Noggin was to be fired and pillaged, and the church robbed and ransacked ; and every stand of arms taken from the station. SERJEANT DONOVAN, (to his men.) Surround these fellows ! I'll take them to the station, sir, for to-night ; and to-morrow you can have them up to Sir Job. 94 MANOR SACKVILLE. jMR. BKADY. Away with them, by all manes, th' infarnal rebels ! — Och, there's plenty enough to send them, every mother's son of them, to Botany Bay, if not to the gallows ; and a good riddance it will be. [The police take Dan and Darby prisoners, who make no resistance, and clear the house. The people rush confusedly into the street. The police then march their prisoners off, followed by Brady, Sampson, and the orange party, who take off their badges. Mrs. Fogarty and Luke close the doors in terror and dismay.] MANOR SACKVILLE. SCENE V. [Scene changes to the outside of the Rosstrevor Arms, a wide strag- gUng street, filled with a multitude of country people, who are attending the fair; beyond the extremity of the scattered mud cabins of Sally Noggin, the country is seen wild and mountainous. A rush from the house, followed by the police, with their pris- oners, &c. &c. Dan, after walking forward a few paces tranquilly, throws his hat in the face of the policeman on his right, his pipe m that of him on the left, and runs off The mob rescue Darby, and a general conflict commsnces. The cries of " O^Leary for ever ! " — ^'O'Loughlin for ever!" — "Hurrah for the Dorans!'^ — "Down with the Bradys!" — "Here goes for sport!" &c. &c. — show what various passions are engaged in the conflict. As the fight spreads, the confusion becomes more general. Tents are torn up, and their poles applied to the heads of their owners. Pedlars and packmen^ bear-leaders and showmen, are overturned. The piper's instru- ment is broken to smithereens. The blind fiddler is rolled in the mud — Pots, kettles, tables, chairs, jugs, and glasses, fly in all directions. The various hostile factions congregated in the towu have separate sets-to, " as fancy, or feeling dictate ;" till Serjeant Donovan and the police, by their interference, draw the general hostility on themselves. Dan and Darby, having rallied their fac- tions, try to seize Brady and Sampson, who *show fight.' The police concentrate to protect their arms. Several are wounded on both sides ; the police at length retreat from the town, pursued by the country people. A detachment of military, headed by Lord Fitzroy, are seen galloping down the hill. The country people draw up and receive them with stones and other missiles. Lord Fitzroy advances to address the mob, when a shot is fired from the crowd, which passes through his raised left hand. The assailant is cut down by a soldier — a drove of horned cattle are forced through the military ranks, when confusion becomes worse confounded. Many are laid prostrate of both parties. In the mean time, the thatch of the Rosstrevor Arms is set on fire. Women run about in fright and disorder ; or take part in the fight, flinging stones, &c. The military charge; the parties retreat, scatter, and disperse: a few prisoners are taken. Father Everard and Father Phil now appear in the crowd, and use strenuous efibrts to pacify the rioters ; the former by entreaties, the latter by a vigorous application of a long heavy horsewhip. The shades of evening fall gradually upon the battle-scene, which is strewn with the broken relics of the fair and fight. Peace is at length restored ; the troops and police march off" their prisoners. The thatch of the Rosstrevor Arms being burnt, the fire, having nothing better to do goes out. Mr. Brady awakens from something between a sleep and an apoplexy, dS MANOR SACKVILLE. into which he had been plunged by a sharp blow of Dan's shille- lagh, and picks himself out of the gutter and walks home. Mr. Sampson emerges from the stye of Mrs. Fogarty's pig, (who had hospitably received him, on his retreat before superior numbers,) and likewise effects his escape. Mrs. Fogarty herself seeks pro- tection in the housekeeper's room at Rosstrevor Park ; and lastly, Mr. Galbraith, who had witnessed the row from the garret window of Maryville, hastens to make his report of the transaction to the Honourable and Reverend, who, in his turn, furnishes a flaming article to the Evening Mail, headed, •' The slaughter of Sally Noggin ! ! i "] MANOR SACKVILLE. 9? SCENE YI. [The " shop" of Mogherovv, answering in importance to the "bottega" of an Italian country town, or the barber's shop of a Spanish one. Mr. Bralaghan, a sullen, sickly man, sits nitched behind the counter in a sort of stall ; his arms crossed, and his air idle and lack-a-daisical. Mrs. Bralaghan, a comely, "clever" lady of the " flaughoola" order, leans over the counter, with her arms folded in her white apron ; her countenance expressive of a deep and listening attention. Mr. M'Dermot, patriot to Mr. Brazier's brewery, and Mr. O'Hanlan, patriot to Mr. Dickon's distillery, (gentlemen who amuse their leisure hours in keeping the accounts, and the political reputations, of their respective employers,) are seated on the cross counters, with their legs dangling beneath. On the shop stool, in the centre, sits Mr. Phineas Finnigav, "agitator and pacificator itinerary," from Dublin, — one ready to make or to break the peace, as the occasion may require. He is reading, for the public benefit, a broad sheet, entitled, "Grand Letter from London." A bright stream of sunshine pours in, through the door of the shop, gilding the forms of the various articles which constitute the treasures of this " Physitecknicon" of Mogherovv, — rolls of ribbons and tobacco, muslins and mill- stones, broad-cloth and hardware, tea, coffee, and spices, cheese, " mouse-traps, and all other sweet-m( ats," pins, needles, tape, sugar-plums, spades, shovels, pitchforks, books, ballads, patent medicines, spirits, porter, and stamps. Mr. Phineas has just arrived at the marrow of his communication, addressed to the "eight tnillions of Irish slaves," when the veiling of the sunshine announces the interposition of some opaque body at the shop door. Mr. Phineas thrusts his paper into his bosom, descends from his rostrum, and retreats into the little parlour behind. Enter the Rev. Dr. Everard, the parish priest of Mogherovv, a venerable personage, of strikingly intellectual countenance, tall, thin, a little bent in the shoulders, partly by the early habits of a foreign con- ventual life, and partly by the advance of years. Mr. Bralaghan stands up respectfully. Mrs. B. keeps her position, and looks annoyed at the interruption.] FATHER EVERARD. Good evening^ — has my little venture of Macabaii arrived yet from Dublin, Mrs. Bralaghan ? MRS. BRALAGHAN. Why thin, I'm sorry to say it has not, your Riverince ; 9b MANOR SACKVILLE. and I expecting it every day this week, per coach — or any how, by the fly. FATHER EVERARD. I am sorry to observe, that little commissions have not lately been executed at your shop, with the same punctuality, they used to be, Mrs. Bralaghan. MRS. BRALAGHAN, (pertly.) Why thin, sir, I'm sure I don't know why ; for God, he knows we are in it, morning, noon, and night, toiling, broil- ing, and earning our bit and sup, more like galley-slaves than Christians. FATHER EVERARD. (shakes his head.) The season is fairly past, for sowing the flow^er seeds you promised three months ago to procure for me, from the nur- seryman's, Mrs. Bralaghan ! MR. BRALAGHAN, (comes from behind the counter and pushes for- ward a chair.) Won't your Riverince be plazed to rest awhile, sir. It's a good step yet to your own house. You were taking your evening's w^alk, I'll ingage, Dr. Everard. DR. EVERARD, (sitting down and leaning his head on his gold-headed cane.) I am a little weary ; I have been up the mountain, to see that poor dying creature, Pat Kelly, who was hit with a stone, at the disgraceful business at Sally Noggin the other day. MR. O'HANLAN, (coming forward.) Why then, begging your pardon, Dr. Everard, I thought it great fun. Good evening to your Riverince ! I saw the ind of the scrimmage, all lighting through other for the bare life. The tint-keepers and their Avives, making off with the crockery, the bacon and pullets flying in every direction, the thacJceens pow^ring like hail, and every where the sassenach bate to chaff*. MANOR SACKVILLE. QQ DR. EVERARD. What do you mean by the Sassenagh ? that's a new jar- gon ! In all that affair — the result of drunkenness, brutality, and party spirit — Irish blood, Irish temperament, and Irish names alone were concerned ; for the few military present, were peace-making, moderate, and patient, beyond example. Talk of Sassenagh indeed ! — talk of your own domestic vices ! your addiction to whiskey, and its frightful violence ! Talk of the mischievous agitation of all your parties and sects, all goading the unfortunate people for the worst of pur- poses, though by the most opposite means. MR. FINNIGAN, (comes forward.) Oh ! Dr. Everard, there's never smoke without fire ; and th' agitaytors would do little, if the people weren't ready to be agitayted. The people's minds, sir, are disturbed, — and with good raison. There's but one cure for all their griev- ances ; and till that comes, th' emerald gem will often have its fine brightness sullied, and its rays dimmed, DR. EVERARD. Don^t talk to me of gems, and rays, and brightness. What had the gathering at Sally Noggin to do with such trash ? It was all faction and drunkenness on both sides, and a dis- grace to the country. MRS. BRALAGHAN, (laughing.) I hear tell, that there was the greatest of fun going on, for all that, at that turn-coat, Widdy Fogarty's, sorrow mend her, for better luck she doesn't desarve I DR. EVERARD. Fun, do you call it, Mrs. Bralaghan ? children left father- less, mothers sonless, every feeling of humanity violated, every duty to heaven scorned ! [with a deep sigh] hopeless, hapless country ! MiR. M'DERMOT, (comes forward.) Not so hopeless. Father Everard; there are still those 10 100 MANOR SACKVILLE. Glimpses of glory ne'er forgot. That fall like gleams on a sunset satf. What once hath been, but now is n ot, but which may come round once more yet, sir, for all that- and wilL DR. EVERARD, (shading his eyes from the sun, and looking round.) Why, gentlemen ! You start forth from Mrs. Bralaghan^s back parlour, like the warrior's of Roderick Dhu from the heath ! Mrs. Bralaghan, this parlour of yours will become the Tims's of Mogherow. MR. M^DERMOT. The corn exchange, rather, sir, I should think* We*ve no Swadlera here.. DR. EVERARD. Oh I Mr. M'Dermot, I have miss'd you at mass so many Sundays, that the assurance might be wanting. In truth, I feared you had been knocked down by the prevailing epi- demic. MR. M'DERMOT. Thank your Riverince, I never was better : only I step up to town generally, from Saturday till Tuesday, to see what is going on, in the political world. DR. EVERARD. Humph I Then, you no longer '* give" to the brewery, " what was meant for mankind." But how can vour em- ployer spare you from his establishment I MR. M'DERMOT. Mr. Brazier knows very well, that private business must give way to public interests. Oh, sir, he's a raal pathriot. MR. O'HANLON, (emphatically.) And so is Mr. Dickson. Our distillery yields to no man in pathriotism. MANOR SACKVILLE. " 101 DR, EVERARD. So then, it is public interest, that carries you so often to Dublin ? MR. M'DERMOT, (in an oratorical manner.) Yes, sir, while the voice of an Irishman may yet brathe forth its complaints, and a muzzle is not placed upon the great organs of public opinion, I go to raise mine in behalf of the land of my love and my purtection. DR. EVERARD, (smiling.) Happy country, to be so protected ! And what public meeting has had the advantage of your eloquence and tal- ents ? MR. M'DERMOT. All, sir, in turn — I hurried up to town last, however, to join those great and glorious bands, the successors of the Volunteers of '82, who again rally upon the spot where th' immortal association triumphed ; and have the amazing moral courage to take that heroic and imposing name. DR. EVERARD. The amazing impudence, you mean. It is a sacrilege, a political sacrilege, to usurp such honored appellations, and for such purposes too ! MR. M'DERMOT, (oratorically.) Allow me, Father Everard, to say, that the great Irish national guard of the present day. . . . DR. EVERARD. Pooh ! pooh ! man. The little national blackguards of Mogherow there, who are rolling in the mud with the pigs, would laugh at such trash as this ! It would be well in you, sir, to be sparing of such comparisons and allusions. Are you not ashamed, for instance, to place your recent meetings at the Brian Borru, over the way, in the same line with 103 " MANOR SACKVILLE. that landmark of Irish pride and virtue, the Catholic Asso- ciations, as I see you have done, in your own report of your last speech ? Gracious heaven ! it makes one's gall rise, to hear that glorious assembly, (embodied for the best and wisest purposes, with motives so clearly defined, so deeply felt, and so wisely and so perseveringly acted upon, till it wrung its triumph from its oldest and bitterest enemies) thus mingled up with every gathering of the idle and the ignor- ant, the meddling and the mischievous. For my part, I never mention the term Catholic Association, without'feeling inclined to pay it bodily homage. [Touches his hat.] If to the Volunteers of '82, we own national independence and a free trade, to the Association we are indebted for our reli- gious freedom, and a reformed parliament ; with all the promised blessings which must eventually come along with it, even in spite of the exertions now making to avert them. The Catholic Association, sir, struggled openly with its open enemies, — the enemies alike of every civil, every religious right ; and it commanded the sympathies of all mankind. It did not enter into a base and unnatural alliance with its ancient oppressors, to make an ungrateful war on its oldest and longest-tried friends, till it had left itself without the countenance of one generous, one enlightened supporter. MR. M'DERMOT, (sneeringly.) Oh, Father Everard, the present government, I see, have a staunch friend and advocate in your Riverince. DR. EVERARD. And so they have, sir, as far at least as Ireland is concern- ed ; and so they shall have, until I find others to take their place, more able and more willing to serve the country, than either of the parties who are striving to displace them. I admit, they have not regenerated Ireland, by a comprehen- sive Act of Parliament ; they have not, by the stroke of a magician's wand, undone the work of centuries of misgovern- ment ; nor anticipated the course of nature, to reap an har- vest of moral and physical regeneration, before the ground can be prepared, or the seed sown. I admit, sir, that, sur- rounded with difficulties, encompassed by enemies, encum- bered alike with the ruins of the system they have them- selves overthrown, and by the raw, very raw materials of the MANOR SACKVILLE. 103 system which is to follow it, they have not yet done for Ire- land, all they might have effected. They have, I allow, kept in power and office too many of their worst enemies, — the worst enemies of Ireland ; while they have neglected the friends of both. But if the liberal Protestants, have cause to complain, it was not for us. Catholics and Irishmen, to be the first to detract from their merits, to revile their feelings, to distract their counsels, and to calumniate their intentions. " If guilty to others, they were still but too faithful " to us. Oh, Mr. M'Dermot, you have been playing an ungrateful, as well as a foolish game ! MR, M^DERMOT. Why, for the matter of that your Riverince the pathriots have but followed the same trusty leaders, any how, that showed them the v/ay to the victories you spoke of just now; and sure, sir, if ould Ireland is still denied justice, it makes little differ, whether the denial comes from friends or foes ; — if friends these false-hearted, false-mouthed, gagging min- istry are to be called. DR. EVERARD. I do not see, Mr. M'Dermot, how justice is denied, or (all things considered) even delayed to Ireland ; nor can I perfectly comprehend the " nothing-like-leather policy" of the Irish agitators, who apply their one eternal remedy to every malady which in turn besets the state. But this I will be bold to assert, that if every substantial justice were distributed among the various classes of citizens, which an amended legislation can in possibility effect, nothing would be gained for the unhappy land, as long as distrust and tur- bulence are voted permanent, — as long as the labouring classes are industriously taught to hate, fear, and despise all that are not of themselves ! After all, sir, our first and most urgent want is a breathing-time from faction — a moment of repose — a suspension of blood-spilling and destruction of property, — of the property of the poor, more than of the rich, — a leisure to think, to calculate to learn, and to labour. MR. O'HANLON. Oh yes, your Riverince, to be sure ! it would be a fine 10* M)4 MANOR SACKVILLE* thing if we were all to go to sleep and wait aivhile, and lave things to right themselves. Your Riverince has been taking a lafe out of the new Misther Sackville's book. Them Avere his very words at the meeting the other day. He's a great philozover for certain ; though no great friend to the clargy, after all, Dr. Everard, no more than to the parsons ; and I can tell 5^ou, he gave a death-blow to his popularity at the dinner given him by the pathriots of Mogherow, when he took part with the base Whigs, and talked of conciliaytion. He'll never be returned for the county, nor any of his sort, if there were twenty vacancies a year, for years to come. They'd sooner return Sir Job, or the greatest purple marks- man in the province. DR. EVERARD. So much the worse for us all. It proves how little princi- ple, and how much personal feeling, directs all your views and conduct. Mr. Lumley Sackville is precisely the sort of man the country wants. High-minded, uncompromising, unswayed by any personal want or ambition, and as much above lending himself to party in power, as to faction out, — his calm temperament, and profound sensibility, his great book-knowledge and travelled acquirements, singularly fit him for the task he has entered on, for benefitting the condi- tion of the poor, and pacifying the country. He has begun at the right end. He has lowered his rents, and raised wages ; — and in return for this, he is beset with anonymous letters, filled with the most brutal abuse of himself and his family. Ballads are made by the poets of Mogherow, and sung about the streets. MRS. BRALAGHAN. Och ! the Lord save us ! and who sowld them ballads, I wonder ? DR. EVERARD. You did Mrs. Bralagan. Your shop is the great centre of idleness, gossip, and faction, of the whole town. MRS. BRALAGHA]?^. I declare to the Lord, this blessed day .... MANOR SACKVILLE. 10^ DP.. EVERARD. Hold your tongue, woman, — you shall reply to these charges in another and more solemn place. But they have done worse ; they have houghed his cattle, burned his'barns, and even shot at him from behind a hedge, the barbarians ! MR. M'DERMOT. To be sure, your Riverince, that's all mighty bad ; but the craturs are maddened by oppression, and fairly ground to th' arth. And sure, sir, you Avouldn't stifle the free breath- ings of immortal liberty, as the bard says — Sublime was the warning when liberty spoke, And grand was the .... DR. EVERARD. Liberty ! do you call destroying life — murdering a man in cold blood for the taking of land, which another chooses to keep for nothing ! — libert}- ? Was it " liberty spoke" to the poor Phelans, when their house was burned over their heads? and was it liberty placed the lighted sod in the thatch of widow Murphy's cabin ? or shot out the eyes of pretty, inno- cent MaryHowlan? Is it liberty, which leaves no man to the exercise of his own industry, the master of his own con- duct, — which suffers him neither to hire, nor part with a servant, except according to the good pleasure of conspiring legislators, and midnight assassins ? — which interferes be- tween the husband and wife, father and son, and leaves no tie, no affection, unviolated or sacred ? This is the precious liberty that must subject us all to some law of unexampled coercion, suited to such unexampled vileness, — a liberty,, which will degrade us, to bless the hand that thus protects us. from ourselves. Gentlemen, I wish you a good evening :. but before I go, I apprise you that I mean to address the people from the altar to-morrow, I will read over all the slanders and calumnies printed and circulated against Mr. Sackville, — against one w^ho is able and willing to be our best friend. I will read them with my own notes ; and if possible, I will prevent one more absentee from being added to the list of Ireland's best and banished friends. — I will make one effort to avert that av^'ful moment, when such men as you, Mr. M'Dermot, and you, Mr. O'Hanlon, and Mr.. 106 MANOR SACKVILLE. Finnigan, may drive a friendly government into the fatal necessity of suspending the laws of the land, in order to protect the laws of humanity. [Exit.] MRS. BRALAGHAN. There's for you now ! — there's a parish priest ! — show me up at the ahar ! the ould furrin Jesuit ! Oh, these priests mistake themselves intirely. MR. BRALAGHAJ^, (in a passion.) Why thin, blood and nounter, will you hould your gab, Biddy Bralaghan ? Do you want to bring ruin alive on me and mine ? Is it the shop you want to see shut up, and the childer sint to beg the world ? What Father Everard says is true enough. Mr. Sackville's a fine gintleman, and a great frind to the people. And didn't Lady Emily take every skreed of stuff, linen, and ratteen the blessed day, out of the shop, without even axing the price ? MR, M'DERMOT, (emphatically.) Hold your tongue, sir, and take a friend's advice. Mr. Sackvillie may have the priests — that is, some of them, with him ; but the curates are against him, we know that : and it is not your furrin fine gintlemin that the people Avill listen to ; them who take state on themselves, and are never " hail fel- low well met" Avith the likes of us — but hould their heads high, and rade great moral lessons, forsooth, as the news- papers call it, — like his Riverince, who is just gone ; and who'd sell us all for a dinner at Manor Sackville. God for- give me for saying that of the clargy. But there's them, Jemmy Bralaghan, who is more powerful than either priests or curates, and who will send Mr. Sackville back to Avhere he came from. Let him go to his athiest friends, the Frinch liberals, and the political econom}^ feelosophers of Edinburgh. He's not wanted here at all at all ; and go he will, surely, afore long. Remimber, thin, James Bralaghan, that you are a thriving man, and was so before this Mr. Sackville came here, and Avill be still, plaze God, when he is gone. - For them is here, and amongst ourselves, who can make you, and break you, and will be here to the ind of time. So take an hint — -mind your business, and be aisy ; and as for your par- MANOR SACKVILLE. 10*7 lour, name your terms, sir, and you shall haA^e them for the use of it. Mrs. Bralaghan dear, good evening to you. You are a good Irishman, anyhow, and an honour to your sex and country, ma'am. MRS. BRALAGHAN. Good evening, sir ! and I am intirely obligated to you for the great compliment. JMR. O'HANLON. I say ditto to Mr. M'Dermot, ma'am, as the poet has it. Good evening, Mr. Bralaghan. [Exeunt patriots— nianent Mr. and Mrs. Bralaghan.J MRS. BRALAGHAN, (turning on her husband with a mixture of con- tempt and anger.) You dirty Omadaun, ye ! Is this the way you drive raal gintlemin out of the place, you turn-coat, orange papist, — and bring ruin on us intirely ? Is it denounced you'll have us, to the pathriots of Dublin, like Pat Karney of Sally Noggin, that had to shut up his shop, and go to prison, with six helpless childer, because not a good Irishman in the barony dared dale with him. It's thrue enough what Misther M'Dermot said, that they can break you, or make you ; and if the pathriots set their face agen ye, sorrow ounce of tay or shugar, or as much as a penny watch-light, ever ye need think of selling. MR. BRALAGHAN. Hould your tongue, Biddy Bralaghan ; and don't purvoke me to lay my mark on ye. It's you ma'am, that brought all these idlers about the place : and what good are they, only to ride my counter, and ate the sugar-candy, and take patterns of waistcoats they never pay for ; keeping the dacent ould custhomers out of the place intirely ! MRS. BRALAGHAN. Get out of that, you concaited bosthoon. Was it I that sent you up to town to make spaches, Avhen you got yourself laughed at in the Dublin Evening, ye never-do-good, you ? 108 MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. BRALAGHAN, (a little sore.) By the powers, if you say another word, I'll lay my mark on you, Biddy Bralaghan. MRS. BRALAGHAN. You bate me, you dirty Orange papist ? — do then, do. [Takes up a mop and strikes him. A contest ensues, in which the lady has the advantage, and beats her husband to her own perfect satisfaction.] MR. BRALAGHAN. Och ! Murther, murther, murther — mille murther ! [Enters Father Phil.] _ FATHER PHIL. Hulloa ! why what's the matter here, my dear Mrs. Bra- laghan ? MRS. BRALAGHAN, (drops the broom and bursts into tears.) Oh Father Phil, your Riverince is heartily welcome, och hone ! you've saved my life, sir ; you're just come in time — it's only for your Riverince, I'd be a dead woman, this bless- ed evening. MR. BRALAGHAN, (wiping the blood from his nose.) Och, father Phil, it was God sent you, sir. Only for you, that terrible woman, there, would have had my life, sir, and ray poor fatherless children be left desolate this day. FATHER PHIL. This is all very bad. I am sorry to see so handsome and so superior a woman as you, Mrs. Bralaghan, conduct her- self this way. What's all this about ? [Mrs. Bralaghan sobs violently.] MR. BRALAGHAN. Why then politics — sir, it's all about politics. That weary woman, there, gives me neither pace nor quiet. MANOR SACKVILLE. 109 MRS. BRALAGHAN, (interrupting him.) Och ! you'd swear my life away, you ruffian, you would. Plaze your Riverince, just step into the parlour, and take a cup of tay, sir, and I'll tell you all, as if it was before your face. This way, your Riverince, — this way, Father Phil. [She wipes her eyes, settles her cap, and follows Father Phil into the parlour, slapping the door after her. Mr. Bralaghan washes his face, looks after them, and sighs.] MR. BRALAGHAN. Well, there's no use in saying a word. There's no use in making a deffince. There's an ould saying, that a priest and a woman will bate the divil out of Luttrel's town. [Puts on his hat, looks in the glass, and goes to the shop door. Looks about him ; draws the half door after him— sallies out— meets a friend from Sally Noggin, who offers to treat him to a tumbler — turns mto " the ould White Horse," where he remains till morning. Comes home very drunk, and beats Mrs, Bralaghan within an inch of her life, and then falls asleep.] 110 MANOR SACKVILLE. SCENE VII. [An apartment at the seat of Sir Job Blackacre, something between a study and a public office. — Sir Job Blackacre, (high sherifl^) Mr. Jones, (his Sub,) seated, writing at a table.] SIR JOB. So then, during my absence, a pardon came down for Cornelius Brian, and a sharp letter from the Secretary's office, desiring magistrates to look closer into the police ap- pointment. By -, if things are to go on in this way, the game is up. What is the use of our getting dangerous char- acters convicted, if government is to listen to every repre- sentation in their favour, and grant pardons because there may be something irregular in the proceeding ? JONES. The power of the landed interest is not what it w^as, sir. They stand, at the Castle, too much in awe of what is said in parliament ; and thus the Catholics contrive to rule the land through their own members. SIR JOB. Let the Lord-Lieutenant keep the people down, then, him- self; for we will not hold the commission, to be reprimanded for acting on our own views, who are on the spot, and able to judge for ourselves. Besides, how do they expect the policemen to do their duty with zeal, if they are to be dis- missed for every trifling mistake or overt act of loyalty? JONES. Very true, sir? This pardon of Corney Brian*3 will make men cautious how they swear. It is a direct insult upon the magistrates, who took such pains to bring the fellow to trial. MANOR SACKVILLE. HI SIR JOB. This is Mr. Sackville's doing. I had an intimation in Dublin of what was going- on. That man will not be easy, till he gets a message from some of his brother justices. But I will try and get round him, and show him how much he is mistaken. There is no governing the country, if the gentry do not pull together. This pardon will make Sackville the most popular man in the country ; and that, I suspect, is what he is aiming at. MR. JONES. Never fear, Sir Job ; I have taken care of that, nately. I have *' frustrated his politics " there, sir. SIR JOB. As how, Jones, — as how, I pray ? MR. JONES. You were not at home when the pardon came. l^yo% knoWy could not open it, and so there it lay ; and in the mane time, the sentinel was somehow removed from Corney's side of the strong house — you understand ? and he is off, without waiting for the government's permission. SIR JOB, (chuckling.) By Jove, you're a clever fellow, sir. So Mr. Sackville takes nothing by his interference ; and his pardon and popu- larity are swamp'd together— ha ! ha ! ha ! MR. JONES. Exactly, sir ; and what's more, Mrs. Honor Brian thinks Mr. Sackville was humbugging, just to take Corney out of the hands of M'Dermot of Mogherow, who was going up with a memorial to the Lord-Lieutenant to be presented by the Liberator in person. She swears that he has sowld the mass, and threatens that she will have his life. She is a powerful woman, I can tell you, and one that will keep her word. 11 112 BIANOR SACKVILLK. SIR. JOB. Tut, tut, a poor mad creature — I'll send her to the tread- mill, if she is troublesome. We must not go too far. MR. JONES. Well, if gentlemen won't be comformable and hold each other up, they should be made to suffer a little. It would be a mighty good plan, not to pass the liberal Mr. Sackville's presentments. Nothing has been done to the roads on the Sackville part of the country for these two years, owing to the late man's illness ; and the way to the demesne is hardly passible on this side. If he should break his carriage, or his neck, owing to his obstinacy, why he might learn better another time. SIR JOB. He deserves it richly : but the example would be a bad one. No gentlemen's presentments ought to be questioned. MR. JONES. It would be as well, then, if I spoke to the going judge, just to let him know what sort of a person we have gotten amongst us. Judge Blunderjoke always consults me, in his chamber, on the state of the country, before he ventures into court. [Enter a servant.] SERVANT. Sarjeant Donovan, Sir Job, desires to speak a v/ord with you. SIR JOB. Show him in. [E7iter Sarjeant — servant goes out.] What is the matter now ? SARJEANT DONOVAN, (breathlessly.) Och, sir, I beg your honour's pardon, but there's great work below in the town, Sir Job ; quite a ruction down in Sally Noggin. MA.NOR SACKyjI,I,j;. 113 SIR JOB. Again ! why what the devil^s the matter now ? SARJEANT. Why, plaze your worship, this is a grand lodge day ; and Sarjeant Mulrooney and I w^ere just taking a pint of beer, sir, at the Rosstrevor Arms, at the little window that looks down Blarney Lane, when the widow Fogarty runs into the room in a great flusteration ; and says she, gintlemin, says she, there's a great ruction in the main street. The lodge is up, says she, and every loyal Protestant in the town, says she, in regard of Mr. Sackville's riding with the boys, and the pardon for Corney Brian, who is all as one as a dead man, says she, that is Mr. Sackville, running for his life, and stones flying like kites after him, and his white hat that be- trayed him. Only for Musther Galbraith, who rides beside him for purtection, says she, in his own gig, divil a hat, white or black, iver he'd put on again ; so with that, your worship, I takes the short cut, and .... SIR JOB (rising in great perturbation.) The blockheads ! the cursed, mischievous, meddling block- heads ! How unlucky and ill-timed ! I hope you flew to Mr. Sackville's assistance. Where is he? Is he coming here ? SARJEANT. Plaze your honour, we had no orders; but was delegated to keep quiet; and so I came off to tell your honour; and if Mr. Sackville is not a dead man afore this, he is on his way here. SIR JOB, (with increased emotion.) Order my horse immediately. Jones, you must come with me. This is the very thing I wanted to prevent. [The door opens. The servant announces Mr. Sackville, who enters, preceded by Mr. Galbraith, and followed by two policemen. Mr. Sackville is covered with mud ; the crown of his hat is beaten in ; his face is much flushed, but his manner is cool and collected.] 114 MANOR SACKVILLE. SIR JOB, (with marked deference.) Mr. Sackville, I am most flattered by the honour of this visit. I had purposed anticipating tliis courtesy. [Pushes an arm-chair.] Pray allow me. I hope her ladyship has received some game, which Lady Blackacre sent her this morning. My good Galbraith, how do you do ? [Gal- braith botes obsequiously.'] Mr. Sackville, this is Mr. Jones, my Sub-sheriff and particular friend. MR. SACKVILLE, (sits much fatigued. After coldly acknowledging Sir Job's civilities, and introduction of the Sub-sheriff, he turns to Mr. Galbraith.) Pray be so good, Mr. Galbraith, as to see whether my horse is much injured. It is Lady Emily's favourite. I am convinced he is hurt. The stone hit him on the right shoul- der and rebounded on mine. \_Rubs his shoulder.] If you see any necessity, pray send for a veterinary surgeon ; and despatch some one to Manor Sackville for the phaeton : — but first look to the groom, who, I fear, has not escaped scot- free. [Galbraith winks at Jones, who follows him out of the room.] SIR JOB, (with affected emotion.) God bless me, Mr. Sackville ! — a stone, did you say, thrown at you ? Has any thing happened ! You, who have done so much for the ungrateful villains. This is Father Phil's doing, and the patriots of Mogherow. Did they way- lay you, sir, or how ? MR. SACKVILLE. Thy waylaid me after an Irish fashion, by attacking me when my back was turned ; but it was not Father Phil, nor the persons you style patriots. SIR JOB. God blgss me, sir ! Where — how— who was it then ? MR. SACKVILLE. Xt was an orange r^pb, §ir Job, assembled by some of the MANOR SACKVILLE. 115 orentlemeii of the county, in defiance of the government and the law of the land. I was on my way to your house ; and, by Mr. Galbraith's advice, took the short cut, as he calls it, through Sally Noggin ; though my groom assured me it was the longest way. In passing through the town, I was struck by the extraordinary manifestations of party feeling and insubordination. The windows were hung with orange flags ; a procession of men, women, and children, tricked out with orange badges, and preceded by a drum and fife, playing party tunes, were parading the streets, and shout- ing offensive party cries most vociferously. I saw, too, a few meagre ragged, and desperate-looking wretches, peering with their dark, scowling faces from behind the mud hovels, on the skirts of the town, the doors of which (a rare occur- rence in Ireland) were closed. A party which followed us through the town, ordered us to take off our hats to an effigy of King William, stuck over the pot-house, called the Ross- trevor Arms. I turned about in spite of Mr. Galbraith's remonstrance, to address the ringleaders, who actually hung upon my horse's flanks ; when I was saluted with a shower of stones and mud. Galbraith, in his mistaken kindness, whipped on my horse, who, frightened by ihe noise, and hit more than once, became unmanageable. The wretched, drunken people pursued me with shouts and execrations ; and what was more effectually annoying, with stones. My groom, [ fancy, is injured ; and so is my horse. Mr. Gal- braith alone escaped : he was in his gig, and was frequently cheered by the populace. SIR JOB, (apparently much shocked.) I am really much distressed. These loyal little festivals usually pass over in such perfect harmony, though always misrepresented by the demagogue press. You were mis- taken, my dear sir, for some unpopular person, who had out- raged their feelings. MR. SACKVILLE, (laughing.) Oh, no ! — not I indeed ! I was saluted with the cry of popish Sackville ! — Judas Iscariot, — castle-hack, — Protestant persecutor, — and the first Sackville that ever turned traitor to the good cause. 11* 116 MANOR SACKVILLE. SIR JOE, (shaking his head, and looking pathetic ) Oh, Mr. Sackville I you don't know this country. This is a popish plot, sir, and the priests are at the hottom of it. MR. SACKVILLE. For heaven's sake, no more of this, Sir Job. I am sick at heart of plots and counterplots. This is a wretched country, take it which way you will. But I have come to you on par- ticular business, and have no time to lose in further discussion now. I expect some friends from Dublin at dinner, and must be at home by seven. SIR JOB, (eagerly.) You surely will not leave us this evening ? I hope to have the honour of your company at dinner ; my honourable and reverend friend. Dr. Polypus, and a few distinguished per- sons, whom you ought to know, Mr. Sackville, fortunately, happen to dine here to-day. Allow me to press on you the necessity of knowing ...... MR. SACKVILLE, (interrupting him.) Gluite impossible. Sir Job ! The fact is, 1 expect the Lord- Lieutenant at Manor Sackville, and only heard of the honour he intends me by last night's post. He is in this part of the country, and will arrive by seven ; and I Avish to be in the way. The business, sir, that brought me here, is ... . SIR JOB. The Lord-Lieutenant here ! impossible ! I beg your pardon a thousand times, Mr. Sackville ; but, many as are the indiscreet things the Lord-Lieutenant has done, he surely will not venture into this disturbed county, — at this fearful moment, too ! MR. SACKVILLE, (eoolly.) Yes, he will. SIR JOB. And for what unlucky purpose, sir ! What new insult is MANOR SACKVILLE. 117 to be perpetrated on the loyal gentlemen of this ill-treated county. He comes, I suppose, at the head of an army, at least ? MR. SACKVILLE. Not exactly ; — I think he mentions that he brings an aide- de-camp. He drives over in his own phaeton, with his groom. He is simply coming to grouse in the mountains for a day or two, and returns by his yacht, which is anchored behind the rocks that shelter your pretty, but rather obstrep- erous village of Sally Noggin. [Sir Job exhibits the greatest amazement and confusion.} But my visit. Sir Job, relates to the most important part of his Excellency's letter, by which it appears that a pardon, I wrote about some time since, for one Cornelius Brian, came down from the Castle three days ago. It is about that I have ridden over here this morning, Sir Job. Every day, every hour is of consequence, where the life and liberty of a human being are at stake. SIR JOB, (confused, but affecting great carelessness.) Indeed, sir ! I did not know that you were — that you could be interested for that notorious ruffian and outlaw, Corney Brian, the most dangerous of the Whitefoot gang. It is fly- ing in the face of the magistracy of the county, Mr. Sackville : but I will inquire. [Rings the bell and a servant e7iters.] Send Mr. Jones here. [Enter Mr. Jones.] Oh ! Mr. Jones, has any pardon come down from govern- ment for Cornelius Brian, during my absence ? MR. JONES. Yes, sir ; it arrived three days ago. MR. SACKVILLE. Then how comes it, the prisoner is not discharged ? To- morrow was appointed for his execution. SIR JOB. Aye, Mr. Jones, how comes it ? Answer Mr. Sackville. 118 MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. JONES. Why, Sir Job, the prisoner has discharged himself. As- sisted by his wife, it seems, he burst the iron bars of his prison window, and has escaped. They are now up the mountains, at the head of a new gang, called the Redfeet ; and have thus feloniously anticipated Mr. Sackville's effort in their favour. MR. SACKVILLE. Then has he been driven to one desperate action more, sir, by your neglect ? He had not escaped the day before j^ester- day ; for I myself saw him, in his damp, dark dungeon, lying in a state of feverish excitation, which fitted him for any act of violence. His miserable wife was never away from his grated window. Unfortunate wretch ! had his pardon reached him three days ago, he might have been restored to his family, to industry, and reformation. I had work, and a cottage prepared for him. I can well under- stand his impatience, so long detained in prison, so narrowly escaping the gallows ! convicted, too, on the oath of a noto- rious perjurer ! Our own precipitate credulity, also so much in fault ! Gracious God ! is there a country in the world where human life is at so low a price, as in this unhappy Ireland ! SIR JOB, (shaking his head.) You have yet a long lesson to learn, sir, with respect to this country. We all give you credit for your good intentions, Mr. Sackville ; but regret you are not a more practical man. Your English notions are very amiable ; and what you call the philosophy of politics sounds very well in an Edinburgh Review, or a national novel ; but such views and principles are utterly inapplicable to this country. For instance, sir, the verdict against Brian might not be strictly borne out by the evidence ; but the whole family are dangerous persons, and ringleaders of the most rebellious and disturbed peas- antry in Ireland. A little hanging Avould have done him, or any of them, no harm, (right or wrong,") by way of exam- ple. But as he has now escaped with his life, a few days more or less in gaol could have made no difference to him. It is a fate they are all prepared for. MANOll SACKVILLE. 119 MR. SACKVILLE. My English notions, as you call them, Sir Job, do indeed make me regard some things in this country in a light which I am told is thought rather extraordinary. For instance, I cannot think my rector, Dr. Polypus, quite justified in bringing his pauper parishioners into the ecclesiastical courts, and ruining them with law costs, upon dues of sixpences and shillings. Neither do I hold it very Christian conduct, when, upon my undertaking to defend a tenant whom he most grossly injured, the same reverend gentleman set up a figure of himself in a window to be shot at, in order to make the world believe it was an act of revenge in my unfortunate protege, not wholly unsanctioned by myself. SIR JOB. Mr. Sackville, I must crave the liberty of ^n old friend of your family — of the name and house of Sackville at least — to remind you that you are a stranger as yet to Ireland. My honourable and reverend friend is a most estimable character, and an ornament to the church. You are w^rong to believe all you hear against him. Besides, when you know^ the people better, you will yourself, be obliged to practise a little innocent ruse, every now and then, to meet their cunning, and to keep them down, — to keep them in any thing like peace and subordination. MR. SACKVILLE, (earnestly.) Never, Sir Job ; you majr depend upon that. Honour and honesty are the best policy in all countries ; and permit me to remark, that you Irish gentlemen set the very worst example to your tenantry, when you swerve from fair deal- ing with them. In wresting the law aside, to violate natu- ral equity, your "poisoned chalice" will infallibly be " com- mended to your own lips " in the end. SIR JOB, (with astonishmerrf.) Why, Mr. Sackville, this is pure radicalism ; — an open preaching of rebellion ! You can know nothing of the state of Ireland, sir, to broach such doctrines ; and let me, in all friendship, advise you to keep your politics to yourself, if you wish to live on good terms with the loyal gentlemen of this county. 120 MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. SACKVILL^. Politics, Sir Job, — such mere paltry, local politics as agi- tate Ireland, — are very little to my taste ; Irish politics, in- deed, I despair of ever understanding. So, the country gen- tlemen and I are not likely to quarrel on that score ; though, were I disposed to side with any party in the state, it would not be the fear of any man's displeasure that would prevent me. These, however, are questions of com.mon morality ; and I cannot believe that any gentleman would knowingly uphold either fraud or cruehy. STR JOB. Nay, sir, I mean no offence ; but the fact is, Mr. Sack- ville, (to tell you candidly the truth,) you have, in the few weeks you have passed on your estate, contrived to render yourself an object of suspicion, if not of absolute distrust, to many persons of the first consideration. Word has, I am told, gone to higher powers than those vested in the Castle of Dublin, that you are agitating the country by your inter- ference between the magistracy and the people : for we have agitators of all colours, religions, and ranks, here, Mr. Sack- ville. MR. SACKVILLE, (pointedly.) So I perceive, sir ; but allow me to say that this is form- ing rather a hastjr judgment upon the conduct of a stranger. Pray, Avhat may be the grounds of this vigilant dilation ? — that is, if the persons of consideration have trusted you with the secret. SIR JOB. I know nothing directly on the subject ; but can form a tolerable guess. Did 3'ou not take informations of a fellow, w^hom a brother Magistrate had refused to listen to, because he knew they were against a loyal man ; and have you not supported your tenantry againt the incumbent, and thus drawn the whole parish into a conspiracy to withhold his dues ? Then, again, your employment of that notorious Cox, the architect, whose father was hung in the rebellion ; — who is know-n to attend the ante-tithe meetings, — and against whom, by-the-by, a secretary's warrant has just ar- rived by express. MANOR SACKVILLE. 121 MR. SACKVILLE. Of that intriafiie I was aware, and have already traced the matter to the bungiing mistake of one of the subaltern pre- tenders to exchisive loyaky in the next town, which has been uro-ed forward in Dublin by professional jealousy. Mr. Cole is a highly-talented, and extremely ill-used gentlemen ; and if he cites me as a witness into court, I shall be able to lay bare a most villainous conspiracy against him. SIR JOB. The Attorney-general will not thank you for any such inter- ference ; and, between ourselves, if Cox should be arrested at your house, it will be a mark of government displeasure, that will for ever stamp your character in the country, even though your friend, the Lord-Lieutenant, were your guest at the time. MR. SACKVILLE. Arrive que peut^ fais ce que doit, is my motto. Sir Job. But really Ireland is a pleasant country to live in. Pray look at this anonymous letter. It is a notice to take care of my- self ; for that my life will be in danger, if I prosecute " the boys" who gave the police a bating at Sally Noggin slaugh- ter. It advises me to keep clear of my Orange connexions, or Manor Sackville will be burnt over my head. SIR JOB, (aside.) (The Honourable and Reverend's hand writing, by hea- vens ! How can he be so indiscreet ?) [Aloud.'] You see, sir, in what an unsettled condition this country is ; and hov/ necessary it is to protect the loyal against the disaffected, at all hazards. MR. SACKVILLE. Nay, Sir Job, I laugh at anonymous communications. None but a scoundrel would make them. But still, is it not whimsical, that while I am set down by your friends as no better than a Jacobian, and a Papist, I should be accounted by my poorer neighbours an Orangeman, and an oppressor : and this, too, merely for endeavouring to keep clear of all 123 MANOR SACKVILLE. your local politics, and doing my duty without favour or affection ? SIR JOB. Keep clear of politics ! Ha ! — ha ! — ha ! Pardon me, Mr. Sackville, for laughing. But, is it possible that you can expect to keep clear of politics in Ireland? Every thing 3^ou say or do, here, is politics. The food you eat, the colour of your coat, the friends you see, and the servants you employ, are all badges of party. It is sufficient that you do not join any one faction heartily, to be suspected and hated by all. We are all heaven -born politicians in Ireland. MR. SACKVILLE. Heaven-born, indeed ! for never was there less sound poli- tical knowledge, or more ignorance of all that is passing in other countries ! How miserable you make each other by your factious feuds and narrow views, is but too evident. Philosophy and philanthropy are alone without partizans in Ireland. Mr. Jones, I will thank you to trust me with the pardon. MR. JONES. It is here, sir. [Gives the- paper. Mr. Sackville puts it into his breast pocket.^ [Enter Galbraitb.] MR. SACKVILLE, (rising eagerly.) Well, Galbraith, how is poor James ? and the horse too — is it injured, or not ? MR. GALBRAITH. Nothing to signify, Mr. Sackville, only just a little bruised in the shoulder ; but the people in the stables think the poor baste had better be left alone for a day or two where it is. James Gernon is brave and hearty too, after losing a little blood ; and w^ill be as well as ever, before he is twice married, the apothecary says. MANOR SACKVILLE. 123^ MR. SACKVILLE, (shocked.) Was it necessary, then, to bleed him, poor fellow ? MR. GALBRAITH. It was a good precaution, as he got a hit on the head; and th' apothecary hard by, convanient. And as you are going to remain here all night .... MR. SACKVILLE, (interrupting him.) I am not going to remain here, sir ; I must return, though I should walk home ; but I can ride the groom's horse. The evening is falling, and we shall have rather a dreary ride over the mountains ; but I will not again risk my life in Sally Noggin. MR. GALBRAITH, (with earnestness.) It is, indeed, mighty dreary ; and I'm thinking, sir, that if you left your groom's horse for my man, and came your- self back in my gig, (since you are determined on going, sir,) there is a head to it, in case of the storm coming down, that's brewing above there, in them divil's own black clouds. The gig will skim along like a curlew, sir. MR. SACKVILLE. With all my heart. My arm feels a little stiff and sore. SIR JOB, (earnestly.) But surely you will take some refreshment, Mr. Sackville, before you start ? MR. SACKVILLE. Thank you, Sir Job, I never eat before dinner. I will see my groom and the horse ; and then, Mr. Galbraith, if you please, we must start. [^Looks at his tvatch.] It is near five already. Sir Job, you will do me a favour, by letting me see you as early as possible at Manor Sackville — to-mor- 12 124 MANOR SACKVILLE. row if convenient ; for I am so hurried now, that I cannot say all I wish. SIR JOB. Certainly, sir ; I shall have great pleasure in waiting upon you, and paying my respects to his Excellency. I really am very sorry that you must go ; hut if you would change your mind .... MR. SACKVILLE, (bows coldly.) I am very sorry ; it is impossible you see. Good even- ing. [Exit.] [Mr. Galbraith shakes Sir Job's hand, (who follows Mr. Sackville,) winks at Jones, and looks after Mr. Sackville with an expressioji of annoyance and anxiety.] ^ ^ u MR. JONES. Cannot you let him go by himself? I don't like T/our crossing the mountains. These are no times for such daring. MR. GALBRAITH. It would be as much as my place is worth. With that mighty mild face of his, he is the divil's own tyrant. But I say, Jones, Avhile he is looking to his horse and groom, do you slip out to the back stable, and order my man, Tom Reynolds, to gallop away on the groom's horse before us, to the police station at Mogherow, and meet us with a small party at the foot of the military road. [Sighs.] My mind misgives me to-night. There is a weight on my heart like a bar of iron. The Lord protect us. Amen ! MR. JONES, (laughing.) Oh ! you are worth two dead men yet. Besides the fire is burnt out ; the row in the town has settled the place for to- night. The military too are in the mountain barrack since yesterday. You will have a fine drive home by moon-light. And then, sir, you are going to meet the Lord-Lieutenant ; and I'll be afther asking you for a place, one of these odd- come-shortlies. MANOR SACKVILLE. 125 MR. GALBRAITH, (rallying and smiling.) Well, it's a great honour, surely. I'd better be off, and make no demur. So Jones, dear, off with you and do the needful. Tell Reynolds to lose not a moment. Let them meet us at the back road, behind the ruins of Kilnailly. It's a bad spot by day or night ; [sighs ;] but that's the safer side, and not at all as one, as th' ould kiln. [Exeunt by different doors. J e 126 MANOR SACKVILLE. t SCENE VIII. [A dreary sweep of country, making part of a wide, shelving slope, that descends into a billowy plain, at the foot of the barrier moun- tains of two counties. The distant summit of Sleive-an-jaroin is seen rising in lofty grandeur, above a circlet of dense vapours, and catching the last red gleam of the setting sun. The new mountain military road winds in a zig-zag direction, till it reaches the lowest declivity, and is lost in the grey, gloomy heath beneath. Another less distinct road winds by a small, still lake, darkened by the sha- dows of the black mountains, which appear almost to surround this' part of the scene. The horizon is obscured by thick drifting clouds. Emerging from the latter road, Mr. Sackville appears, walking with a quick, firm step. His arms are folded in his cloak. He is followed by Mr. Galbraith, muffled up to the eyes, who leads down his horse and gig from the steep and rutty declivity. The lake road, at a particular point, opens sharply, between the rocky jutting of the nether hills, into a wild heath, on which the track of a bridle way is scarcely visible, in the increasing shadows of the evening. In the perspective, lies a large mass of solitary ruins, cutting darkly against the red horizon. Nearly opposite to these ruins stands an old lime-kiln. The dashing of the ocean against the iron-bound shore is heard in the distance, echoing like remote thunder.! MR. SACKVILLE. What awful sublimity ! what savage desolation ! The last touch of a moral interest, too, is given by that fine ruin before us, — the monument of a past and povrerful superstition ! [A short pause.] What is the name of those picturesque ruins, which lie on the edge of that gloomy water ? MR. GALBRAITH, (with impatient peevishness.) u^.-I see no ruins, sir ; the sharp w^ind has blinded me intirely. 'Tt's a great pity we did not stay quietly at Sir Job's, Mr. Sackville. We should be now sated at an iligant good din- ner, with a roaring fire at our backs, instead of perishing alive, in this wild place. MANOR SACKVILLE. 127 MR. SACKVILLE. Well, and so you will soon be seated at a good dinner. But do you not see those ruins before us to the left ? Look at that hig-h, pointed belfry, — at that fine gothic arch, with its beautiful stone-belted window, so delicately defined upon the fading light of the west. MR. GALBRAITH, (obliged to see, as he approaches the spot.) Why, sir, I suppose it's the ruins of the Abbey of Kil- nailly. I know of no other in this wild savage place. We might as well have come by Sally Noggin; especially, as I now see that I took the ould military pass, which was cut in the '98, instead of the new military road to the mountain bar- rack, which is newly-finished, and Lord Fitzroy's men sta- tioned in it. MR. SACKVILLE, (cheeringly.) Come, come ; we have done very well. We have arrived nearly at the point, where you said we were to descend ; though by another, and more romantic road. MR. GALBRAITH. Not at all, sir. I meant to have come down on the say- shore, where there is a Martello tower, and an out-station of police. MR. SACKVILLE. Well, it was a mistake, certainly. But the line of country is new to me ; and could scarcely be seen under more favour- able lights. The drifting of those dense clouds, and the struggles of that young, watery moon through them, change the aspect of the mountains every moment. 'Tis quite mag- nificent ! — the scenery of Macbeth ! How nobly that ruined abbey gains on us as we advance ! What perfect forms ! It is curious that so extensive a monastery should have been placed in so wild a situation ! In general the monks seem to have constituted themselves into farming societies, and to have chosen the most fertile situations, for their agricultural pursuits. 12* 128 MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. GALBRAITH, (bitterly, but gradually cheering.) And do you know, sir, Avliy the monks of Kilnailly chose this murdering spot ? Because they were Carthusians, and never touched flesh-meat ; and because that donny little lake produced thin, and produces to this day, the finest black trout, of any lake in the country. It's often the late Mr. Fitzgerald Sackville and myself spint a long summer's day here, fishing them up, from the size of a pinkeen to twenty pounds weight. And look, Mr. Sackville, that little rivulet, that sparkles in the moonshine, and flows ofT the lake, under the abbey arch. Well, sir, when the trout would refuse the bait or fly elsewhere, it's in basketsful we'd catch them, just at the mouth of that strame, Avhere the monks had weirs, within a few feet of their own kitchin. Oh ! they knew what they were about, I'll ingage. MR. SACKVILLE. What a discovery for Clarence Herbert ! the most inveter- ate fisher, since the immortal Isaac Walton. I'll have a tent piched here, and a cold dinner sent out, the first favour- able morning. We'll have a delightful gipsey party ! Lady Emily is so fond of a gipsey party ! She is quite a child, in her young, fresh tastes. MR. GALBRAITH, (emphatically.) No, sir, you'd better not ; the place is changed now. I'd be sorry to see Lady Emily here, by night or by day. It is |tio place for her. It has a bad name, Mr. Sackville. The last tithe-proctor of Mogherow, (a worthy fellow, and father of a fine family,) was murthered under that very window, you admire so much. It was autumn twelvemonth, about this time, sir. He was taking the short cut, poor man ! as we have done on his way home to Mogherow, when the murderers rushed from the hills, behind the abbey, dragged him to the ruins, murdered him, and threw his body into the lake, where it was food for the trout, many a day. \Sighs convulsively. \ MR. SACKVILLE, (with horror.) Good God ! Is every scene of this magnificent, this ro- mantic country, to be the historic site of some crime, — of some atrocious deed, to blunt the hopes, and darken the ima- gination of Ireland's best friends ! MANOR SACKVILLE. 129 MR. GALBRAITH, (looking round timidly.) Since thin, no nobody has fished in the little lough of Kil- nailly. But wouldn't you like to step into the gig, sir? MR. SACKVILLE. We had better walk on a little further, until we get into a smoother road. From the aspect of Sleive-an-jaroin, we can- not be very far from the neAV lodge of Manor Sackville. MR. GALBRAITH. About three miles, sir. But now, sir, that you have open- ed a new drive through the park, on the mountain side of your demesne, and that you are building that iligent fine gate, Avhich, Mr. Cox says, is the grandest ever raised in the province, I hope you will get a presentment for this road. MR. SACKVILLE. I will lay down one at my own expense : for as it will be an accommodation to no one but myself, it would not be quite fair to lay it upon the county. MR, GALBRAITH. As you plaze, sir, surely. But sure, sir, hasn't every gintleman a road round his demesne wall, (and wherever else may shoot his convanience,) presented for him as a matter of coorse ? But \looking round him anxiously^ it's a wonder I don't see an idaya of my man, Tim Reynolds ! I sint him on afore us, to pick up a little party of police, to meet us before night-fall. He has missed us, I fear, sir. MR. SACKVILLE. You did very wrong to part with him. I have more ap- prehension of the breaking of your light gig, or the stumbling of your horse, than of any thing, from which the police can save us. All is calm here — silent and solitary, even to deso- lation ; save only those shrill gusts from the mountain, which sweep down through the glens, with such melancholy, but fine effect. We are safer here, Mr. Galbraith, than in your pet colony of Sally Noggin. These pauses in the storm are very fine ! 130 MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. GALBRAITH. Why, thin, I'd rather hear all the drums in the province, bating a travaillee about my ears, this blessed moment, than one of those banshee blasts. The Lord bless us ! what noise was that ? Didn't you hear a whistle, Mr. Sackville, from behind the kiln, to the right ? Christ preserve us ! Amen ! [Fumbles in his breast, and gets to the other side of the horse, to leave his right-hand free.] MR. SACKVILLE, (listening.) I did hear something through that blast. I believe we have flushed some curlews among the heather — aye, there they go. How shrill their scream is repeated by the moun- tain echoes I How Emily would enjoy this — I almost wish she were here ! MR. GALBRIATH. Lady Emily here, sir ! I'd rather see a stout party of po- lice. I'd take my oath, I heard a whistle, again. \_Li ter- ror.'] Och ! I know that whistle ! [They walk on in silence ; Galbraith still leading his horse ; Mr. Sackville a little in advance. They arrive at that part of the road, which becomes broader, and clearer; and at a spot, exactly be- tween the ruins and the kiln, a mass of vapours clears from behind the Abbey, and discovers a rugged range of hills, forming the back- ground. A gothic stone cross also appears, close to the road side, Mr. Sackville pauses for a moment, to examine it; and Mr. Gal- braith to pat and caress his panting horse ; — having now reached the level.] MR. SACKVILLE. This is a curious monument ! [Mr. Galbraith starts, and increases the rapidity of his movements.] MR. GALBRAITH. We had better get on, sir — Look, Mr. Sackville ! Do you see nothing under the Abbey wall, to the left ? MR. SACKVILLE, (in an encouraging tone.) I see a few miserable sheep grazing in the long rank grass. MANOR SACKVILLE. l-Sl MR. GALBRAITH, (trembling excessively.) And do you see nothing else, sir ? I would advise you to get into the gig. MR. SACKVILLE, (putting up his glass.) Yes, I see some poor wretch, guarding those sheep, and sheltering himself from the coming storm, under the arch- way. What a dreary station ! MR. GALBRAITH, (hurrying on, and speaking over his shoulder to Mr. Sackville, who is now in the rear.) Humph ! you had better get into the gig, sir. [The figure appears to move forward.] MR. SACKVILLE. Why, Mr. Galbraith, you are haunted by imaginary ter- MR. GALBRAITH, (fumbling in his breast.) Who goes there? \_I}i a low voice] Mr. Sackville, you have your pistols about you, I take for granted. MR. SACKVILLE, (laughing.) What ! to shoot the poor shepherd, and his sheep ? No, I never carried arms about me, in my life. [The figure clears ihe ruins, and springing over a deep dyke on the roadside, follows the gentlemen.] MR. GALBRAITH, (afl^cting a stout manner.) Who goes there ! Have a care, friend — no nearer, if you plaze : we are armed — pass on. A SULLEN AND DEEP VOICE. You had better pass on yourself, Mr. Galbraith. [Mr. Galbraith, keej)ing his right hand in his breast, seizes the reins with the left.] 133 MANOR SACKVILLE. MR. GALBRAITH. Och, Shane Sullivan is that you ? {aside — I know him, Mr. Sackville, the ruffian !) (aloud) Is that you Shane dhu, my man ? SHANE SULLIVAN, (walks abreast the gentlemen, with his hands behind his coat.) It is Jerry Galbraith ! MR..GALBRAITH, (in a soothing accent.) What are you doing here at this time of the evening, Shane, my boy ? SHANE, (doggedly.) My master's business. — Every man to his calling. What brings yourself here, Mr. Galbraith ? MR. GALBRAITH. Don't be offensive, don't be offensive, Shane dhu : take a friend's advice now, and go home. There's a storm arising ; so go to your cabin, man. It's time for you to be at home. SHANE. My home ! my cabin ! What home have you, and your friend, Mr. Sampson, left me Jerry Galbraith ? — Not so much as a shed to die under ; nor a blanket to wrap the wife in, that ye turned into the high road ! MR. GALBRAITH. Oh Shane, you know w^ell, that was not my doing, any how\ I give you my word, Shane, I'm sorry for w^hat has happened, and will go and see your wife and bring the dis- pensary doctor to her, to-morrow% if you'll call on me at Manor Sackville. SHANE, (with fierce bitterness.) See her ! yes, you will meet her any how, afore long, ^. MANOR SACKVILLE. 133 sure enough. She lies there, among them ruins, in holy- ground, now. The sod's green that's above her. MR. GALBRAITH, (with a loud voice, and affected carelessness.) Hem ! Mr. Sackville ; the road is now smooth and pass- able. If you plaze, sir, we'll get in the gig. I see the lights of Manor Sackville quite plain now. [Shane steps forward, and pushes himself between the gentlemen. He looks earnestly at Mr. Sackville, who returns his look with composure and calmness.] SHANE. And this is the great Squire Sack^nlle, is it ? the kino- of the country ! Troth and faith, then, Galbraith, better pur- tection you can't travel with. I'd advise your honour, how- somedever, to drive on a bit. For there is a storm coming down the mountain, that you mayn't like, sir. \_Signifi- cantly.l MR. GALBRAITH, (in great agitation.) Shane, don't forget yourself intirely. I see, you've the drop in you, boy. Remember I'm a magistrate and chief constable. SHANE. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! I wish you joy of your office, Jerry Galbraith. This is a fine time and a great place, to be a magistrate and a constable in. It will sarve you greatly now, sir. — Mr. Sackville, I'll throuble you to step an. Take the gig and drive home to your lady, God bless her. She has the blessing of the poor of the country with her. Mr. Galbraith and I have an ould bit of a reckoning togither, and the fewer witnesses the bether. MR. SACKVILLE, (firmly but mildly.) Sullivan, you must be a brave fellow, for you are an Irish- man, and your's is not the country of cowardice. But it is the act of a coward, of the basest of cowards, to waylay an unprotected man ; and it is the act of a fool, for purposes of hellish vengeance, — in requital of supposed, or real wrongs, 134 MANOR SACKVILLE. to commit a crime, which forfeits your life, to the laws of your country in this world, and, according to the religion you profess, loses you for ever, in the world to come. SHANE, (furiously.) My country ! — a country to starve and perish in ! What laws are there for me ; if, when labouring to support a wife and five children, out of sixpence a day, paid me by that land-shark there, for twelve hours' work, I was unable to pay him his rint ! and when I saw my wife turned to die on the road, and my childer driven for shelter to that ould kiln ? — Forfeit my life ! Oh ! Mr. Sackville, is it joking you are? Why thin, it's a great forfeit, surely ; and long ago, I would hav(? forfeited it by the murther of that villian there, and other villians like him ; only that I should live to earn the childer their potatie. But it's a folly to talk, Mr. Sackville move an, if you plaze — I'm not a murtherer, Mr. Sackville, but I'm a man, God help me ! — and so, there's no murther in the case. But look ye, sir. The last of my childer lies dead of the typhus, in that kiln, without so much as a candle to wake her with : but I've frinds and cronies at hand, to wake her grandly before the moon sets, behind Sleive-na- jaroin, there : so, sir, there's no time to lose in parley. [Sullivan draws a blunderbuss from under his coat — Galbraith stands aghast.] MR. SACKVILLE, (in great emotion.) Sullivan ! for God's sake ; for your own, for mine — I cannot, will not, stand by and see a fellow-creature mur- dered ! If money, if employment, and protection . . . Speak ! what will satisfy you ? SULLIVAN, (passing his arm through Mr. Sackville's and leading him on a little.) It's too late, sir — what's money to me ? The mother, the wife, the childer, are all there ! [Pointing to the rui?is, with, a wild laugh.] Och ! there's that, far sweeter now than mon^y, Misther Sackville ! — but, naboclish move an, sir, — there's the horse and gig, and the lights of Manor Sackville dancing before ye, and a fine house, and a fine wife waiting for you, and .... Ha ! A pistol-shot is fired close to his ear. He catches hold of Mr. SackvilWs arm.] Well done, MANOR SACKVILLE. 135 Galbraith, you murthering traitor ! — but you are in the toils. Ha ! ha ! ha !— [Drops his blunderbuss, which goes off. A shrill whistle is heard. The blast of many horns responds to the echo of the gun. Gal- braith springs into his gig, and endeavours to disentangle the reins. Mr. Sackville is dragged to the earth by the murdered man, who grasps him fast ; but forgetful of himself, he endeavours to raise Sullivan, and to staunch his blood, that flows in torrents from his wound. A rush of men, from the ruins and lime-kiln, now pours upon the spot. Galbraith is seized. The fierce, wild multitude, armed in various ways, surround the dying man. A shrill cry is set up of" Down with the Sassenach .'" — " To the lake with the land- shark ."'— " Doicn with Galbraith .'" Cornelius Brian, a man of gigantic stature, and the leader of the party, stalks forward.] CORNELIUS BRIAN. Halt, I say, and pace. [They draiv up deferentially.] Let no man spake a word, nor raise an hand, till Shane Dhu Sullivan has said his last say. Honor, my vourneen, Pll take that musket from ye, now ; and take this pike yourself. You may want it before moon set. [Honor, (a tall, powerful woman, with long, dark, streaming hair,) exchanges arms with her husband. Meantime, Dan O'Leary with- draws Sullivan from Mr. Sackville's support, and holds him in his arms, while two fierce-looking men, at a movement from Brian, seize Mr. Sackville. Honor kneels down, and presents a wooden crucifix, suspended from her neck, to Sullivan's lips, but they move not. His eyes are turned towards the kiln.] DARBY O'LOUGHLIN, (leaning on his pike, and looking mournfully at SulHvan.) There's no use in waiting ; Shane Dhu's gone — so up, and to work, boys, you know well, there's no time to lose, and all's ready. The Polls is on the shaughran, and th' army will soon get the word. PAT DORAN. O'Loughlin's right — Avhat use in talk? Down with the English traitor ; and this for his man Jack. [Takes aim at Galbraith, who raises a shriek. Cornelius Brian strikes up the gun, which goes off in the air.'] CORNELIUS BRIAN, (savagely, and in a commanding voice.) By him that made and saved me, the first of yez that moves a finger, till yez have your orders, from me, or only 13 136 MANOR SACKVILLE. touches an heir of the Sassenach's head, till Sullivan spakes, is a dead man. What call have you to him, Pat Doran ? Did he dacaive you ? Kill a Sassenach for yourself, and lave me my own. His blood be on my head, as mine is, or would have been, on his — but for God's providence. And now, make way, boys : give a little air to Shane Dhu ; see hovv^ he gasps ; but he is as good as two dead men, yet. What bloody rag is that round his throat ? DAN O'LEARY. 'Tis the gintleman's handkerchief, I suppose. [Draws it off) and Honor snatches it.] CORN. BRIAN. Give it to me. Honor. {He holds it up.] Look, boys ; this is the flag of the night. It's dyed with the blood of the truest poor boy, that iver was hunted to ruin. Sullivan, my man [sloops over him,] what's your last will and wish ? Spake, if ye can ; and it shall be done. Name who has murdered you, Shane Dhu Machree. Don't let us shed in- nocent, blood, any how ; but let justice be done — who is the murtherer ? SEVERAL VOICES. Aye, aye — who is the murtherer ? [Sullivan opens his eyes, and looks anxiously round ; makes a con- vulsive elfurt to spe'ak ; and then with a hoarse and rattling voice, nanies Galbraith, and dies. Several shots are fired. Galbraith falls lifeless at the bottom of his gig. A shower of stones is flung at the body. The horse takes fright, and runs off, taking the road to Manor Sackville. During the transaction, Brian withdraws Mr. Sackville from his keepers and seizes him firmly in the iron grasp of his left hand ; while he holds his musket with his right.] PAT DORAN. Corney Brian, there is great work to be done yet. And what use of dragging the Boddah Sassenach,* afther us ? You're sworn, Corney. Down with him, and away. It's well known that he's a raal traitor. Mr. M'Dermot said so, at the fair of Sally Noggin ; and tould the boys of Kilcash- meeting, that he is no thrue friend to Ireland. * English churl. MANOR SACKVILLE. 137 CORN. BRIAN, (grimly.) I know bether what he is than you, Pat Doran, or Mr. M'Dermot either. But if he were the divil from hell, he's mine. So Pat Doran, up with your own men to the kiln ; and you, Mich. Gaffney. Kelly and Delaney, down to the heather with you. The party will soon be here, that was to purtect Squire Galbraith and his honour. Padreen did his message well, Pll ingage, as well as Mr. Tim Reynolds would, for the life of him ; and sorrow the message that murthuring informer will ever go agin. Now, boys, to your posts. I think I hear the trot of a horse ; and there's a dust rising on the road. Here, James Dolan ; give us an helping hand with Mr. Sackviile. — Gintlemin's not used to leap dikes by moonlight, Pll ingage. [Dolan seizes Mr. Sack- rille's left shoulder.] Honor, you'll guard the rare, my vourneen. I'll just step over the way to show O'Rouke's altar to my frind and purtector, here ; — who got me my re- praive the day afther I was hanged, and ped me a visit in the black cell, with tears in his eyes, and traison in his heart. Now, my boys, to your bushes. Pll be back in a gifFy — sorrow long, Pm iver about a job, that my heart's in. Take off Sullivan's body to the kiln. Pace to his sowl ! [A pause j the men take off their hats, and cross themselves.] BRIAN, (in a low and feeling voice.) We'll wake him to-night with his child. We may have more to carry with thim to th' abbey before our work is done. [The men depart silently to their several posts, following, bare- headed, for a short distance, the body of Sullivan, which is borne away by Dan O'Leary and Darby O'Loughlin. Meantime, Corney Brian and James Dolan drag Mr. Sackviile along with great vio- lence and rapidity. They are closely followed by Honor, who, at every halt, or attempt to speak on the part of Mr. Sackviile, pushes him on with her pike. They drag him over the dike, and along the banks of the lake, towards the ruins of Kilnailly.] CORN. BRIAN, (halting.) Whuisht — I hear the sound of horse's feet. Here, Dolan, take this bloody handkerchief, and off with you, across the ruins there, to the scout-post, near the stone of Kilcash, Give it to Shamus Brian, my brother who is on the look- 138 MANOR SACKVILLE. out. Tell him the pass-word is Manor Sackville — and my hid-quarters for the night, the abbey of Kilnailly. [Dolan resigns his post to Honor, whose grasp is not less fixed and firm than his own. He bounds along with the celerity of a hound, on his mysterious mission, and is soon out of sight. Brian, Honor, and Mr. Sackville move on with a more deliberate and steady pace. Mr. Sackville shows great nerve and presence of mind. He is aware, that whatever are the intentions of Brian, all resistance is fruitless ; and his last hope reposes on moral influence. He binds up every corporeal faculty to meet with fortitude the awful event, which now appears almost inevitable. The Brians proceed in si- lence, diverging from the lake ; and plunge with their victim, into the most gloomy part of the ruins.] END OF VOL. I. DRAMATIC SCENES FROM REAL LIFE. BY LADY MORGAN. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL II. NEW-YORK: PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY J. e verandah blooms with exotics,] [Enter, as from riding, Mr. Wentworth, flushed, heated, and lan- guid. He looks about, with the air of a man, who wants something to find fault with. MR. WENTWORTH. Those eternal windows ! [Shuts them all with violence.'] — Emily doesn't care in the least who suffers, if she enjoys the fresh air, — as she calls the roast-beef odours of a Bloomsbury atmosphere. And then, when one comes in, heated from a long ride, with this current of air rushing by one, like a tornado, it's no wonder if one catches cold ! She " lives in the air, and never gets cold." Women are such selfish animals ! [Flings his hat, whip, aud gloves, on the table, among the knick-knacks, and oversets a vase of flowers. The water streams over a, volume of French caricatures. He laughs.] — I am delighted ! Emily will never be cured of stuffiing every table with expensive trash, until every thing is spoiled or broken. Not to reserve a place even to put one's gloves on — 'tis too ridiculous ! What a slavery is fashion ! what fools are women ! [He throws himself on an ottoman, flings his dusty boots on a silken couvre-pied, and yawns repeatedly. He then suddenly starts up ; and drawing down all the blinds, breaks the springs, and sinks again on his couch.] TEMPER. 107 How I hate a square, with its rank churchyard grass, and dust-coloured trees ; its eternal children, and children's maids ! — above all, Russell Square ! I would as soon live in one of Owen's parallelograms, as in such a square as this. Croker was quite right : his terra iHcognita was famous ! Alas ! he was too happy, in not happening to know any thing of it. / have known nothing else, — Eton, Cambridge, and my trips to the continent excepted. [Sighs.] Well, this shall be my last year. I'll let this odious house— purchase Judge Fitzherbert's place in Surrey — take lodgings for myself in the Albany — and settle my wife and the children in the country. [Enter the Housemaid, with her shawl and bonnet on, who begins to close the shutters.] MR. WENTWORTH, (sharply.) What are you about, there ? HOUSEMAID. Oh, dear me, I beg pardon, sir. Please, sir, I thought you and my mistress had gone out to dinner over the way, at Mrs. Godfrey's, as it is Sunday, sir. [He frowns awfully at her ; she escapes in a fright.] MR. WENTWORTH. Because it is Sunday ! — Sunday in London is a day set apart for every species of bore, annoyance, ejmui, and vul- garity. The house is to be shut at noon-day, because it is Sunday, and the housemaid must go and walk. I am to dine at Mr. Godfrey's, " over the way," because it is Sunday; and since the servants all expect to go out, and Mrs. Godfrey- chooses to keep holy the seventh day, by gathering all her family around her, as a hen does her chickens, I am obliged to endure every species of vexation and privation, because it is Sunday ! Sunday in England is the head and front of all melancholy and misery, — especially in London ! The drear- iness of one's own dull, silent house, is insupportable, and even the parks are detestable on that day ; at least they were so to me this morning. The heat, the dust, the burning sun, and the chilly east wrnd, — the vulgar bustle of the cocknies, and the overbearing insolence of the fashionable aristocracy in Kensington, were quite insufferable! And then, the Bloomsbury and the Bedford Square gentry are certainly the most absurd of all ; with their competition of new carriages and flaming liveries ; and their lilac bonnets and laburnum 108 TEMPER. flowers ! The middle classes in England are odious : tliey are neither fish nor flesh. Their place is not sufficiently de- fined, like that of the Bonne Bourgeoisie of Paris. I would rather be a pastrycook in the Palais Royal, or a shoemaker in Holborn, than a man of good fortune in Bloomsbury. Were I not saddled with a wife, encumbered with children, tied to the stake of my property in Bloomsbury, and pegged down, like Gulliver, among the Liliputians, by the interfer- ence of my Avife's famil}^, and her mother's domineering spirit, I would sell off every thing, and settle on the continent this very summer. [Enter William, the Butler, with his hat in his hand. WILLIAM. The hot water is ready, sir, in your dressing-room. [A pause.] If you do not particularly want me, sir, my mistress has given me leave to go as far as Paddington, to see my mother ; as it is Sunday, and the family dines over the way, at Mrs. Godfrey's. ]VIR. WENTWORTH. Go ! go ! go ! go ! to the wherever your mistress chooses. [WiUiam gives a significant shake of the head : and avails hinaself of the permission, with singular promptitude.] MR. WENTWORTH. I cannot get over the disgust of the Park to-day. Every body, I wanted to address, seemed disinclined to acknowl- edge me ; and every body I wished to cut, fastened on me like so many barnacles ! I never shall forget Sir William Fitzharding's look, when that good-natured, but obtrusive Dixon, drove up in his rum touch of a tilbury with his usual " How goes it, my boy?" and proposed my " steaming it" to Richmond, to Bob Wisdom's dinner-party of Dick, Tom, and Harry. [Enter Mrs. Wilson in a smart walking-dress, looking for something.] MRS. WILSON. Keys are the most tiresome things l—[Ru?nages about, till she sees Mr. Wejitworth.] Oh dear, sir, I beg pardon ; I thought you were in your dressing-room. It is not far from six. Mr. Godfrey dines punctually at six, for the sake of the children, sir, on a Sunday. TEMPER. 109 » MR. WENTWORTH, (angrily.) Have you found what you want ? MRS. WILSON. Yes, sure, sir — my mistress's small keys ! MR. WENTWORTH. Then you may leave the room. [She looks at him^ shakes her head, and goes out.l Vulgar, pert creature ! she rules my wife with a rod of iron. I hate her ! [He rises, takes a book, and throws himself again on the ottoman. Re-enter Mrs. Wilson.] MRS. WILSON. Please, sir, my mistress desires me to say she is dressed. [He takes no notice.^ Mr. Godfrey, you know, sir, always dines at six, on Sundays, because it is a family dinner [Apart, perceiving the gradual knitting of his brow, and deepening of his colour.] Oh! the storm is brewing. Well, I'll be off before. my leave of absence is recalled. But first, to tell Mrs. Godfrey, according to promise. ^She turns away and leaves the room,] MR. WENTWORTH, (throwing by his book, and pressing his temples.) I have got such a confounded headach ! I am a pretty subject for a family dinner ; to listen to the wise saws of my clever mother-in-law ; play small plays with the young ladies, and their cousins Irom Friday Street ; and look amazed for the hundred and fortieth time, when the plum- cake comes on at tea, to give the children a surfeit ! I won't go, that's flat. [Walks to the window.] What a lovely evening ! I wish I had accepted Dixon's invitation ; we should have had some fun at Wisdom's. Talking over our gay Cambridge days is quite as good as listening to Mr. God- frey's journey to Scotland for the hundredth time — as tedious as Bozz}^, but not as entertaining. [Enter Mrs. Wentworth, elegantly dressed in demi-toilette, drawing on her gloves, and with her shawl on her arm.] MRS. WENTWORTH, (gaily.) Not dressed yet love ! I sent Wilson to tell you the hour. [She looks in the glass, and settles a flower in her cap.] You know my father is so particular about dining, to a moment, 23* 110 TEMPER. at six, on Sunday ; on account of the young folks. We are to have such a congress to-day ! Don't you hear me, Frederick ? MR. WENTWORTH. I must be very deaf else. I think. Emily, your voice gets shriller every day. 'Tis quite unpleasant. MRS. WENTWORTH, (turning round, and looking at him.) Why what is the matter? Has any thing happened, dearest ? MR. WENTWORTH, (bitterly.) Happened ? — No, no such luck. This Sunday is a fac- iimile of all the blessed Sundays we have passed since our marriage — eight years yesterday. Heigh ho ! MRS. WENTWORTH, (with anxious surprise.) You are not well, surely ? What is the matter ? MR. WENTWOTH. Never better in all my life ; so you are quite out there ! MRS. WENTWORTH. My cousin William said he saw you riding to-day in the Park, with your new friend, Sir William ; and that you were in high spirits. MR. WENTWORTH. Yes ! your " cousin William" was enchanted to see me; I thought he would have hugged me. Pray tell him not to ask me " how my mother is" always. MRS. WENTWORTH, (laughing.) Oh ! men of fashion have no mothers. MR. WENTWORTH. At least, they don't issue bills of health for every member of their family, to all they meet, on the highways and by- ways. MRS. WENTWORTH, (smiling.) Come now ; you are out of humour. You frequently are TEMPER. Ill of late ; particularly before dinner, I. observe. You will be all the better for your soup and sherry. MR. WENTWORTH. Nonsense ! that's one of your mother's cut and dry phrases. [She smiles, and caresses him.li Pray don't tease me. [Hejlings off her arm.] MRS. WENTWORTH, (impatiently.) Tease you ! Why 'tis six o'clock ! Pray go and dress. You know my father's hour for a family dinner. MR. WENTWORTH. Oh ! for heaven's sake, spare me the eternal ding dong of the family dinner, and your father's hour. Cannot you go without me ? MRS. WENTWORTH. Well, but my sweet love, if you are to go, there's no time to lose. I have given the coachman leave to go and see his family, and mean to walk to my father's. MR. WENTWORTH, (petulantly.) Well, — walk — who the deuce prevents you ? MRS. WENTWORTH. Without you ! This is really too unkind Frederick. You outrage the indulgence, with which I bear your caprices and humours. MR. WENTWORTH. Not go without me ? ha ! ha ! ha ! now that is too child- ish ! You can potter up and down Oxford Street, shopping, with your footman, all day ; and yet you cannot walk with your footman to the opposite side of the Square, without me ! [Ri7igs the bell violently — rings again and breaks the bell.] Is there no one at home ? [TVirows himself on the sofa.] Is every body gone out, because it is Sunday ? MRS. WENTWORTH. John has walked to my father's with the children, and William is gone out ; but Denis is at home. 112 TEMPER. MR. WENT WORTH. Denis ! Is it possible you have committed your house to the care of that Irish ass ? that idiot ? MR>S. WENTWORTH. He is honest, and stay-at-home, and trust-worthy ; but never mind him : surely you mean to go with me, dear Frederick — go as you are : we are to be quite a family party. [Enter Denis half asleep.'] Oh, Den'is, bring a brush and some warm water, and a towel, or MR. W^ENTWORTH, (rising in a rage, shaking his clenched hand tt Denis.) If you show your d d Irish face here again to-day, I'll turn you out of the house that instant. DENIS, (not quite awake, but quite amazed.) Lord Jasus preserve us ! [i/e runs out and is heard ium* bling down stairs.'\ MRS. WENTWORTH, (stifling her resentment.) Are you not ashamed to expose yourself thus, to your ser- vant ? Your temper is becoming quite insupportable. What am I to say to my father ? MR. WENTWORTH. What you please. MRS. WENTWORTH. The fact is, then, that you are unwell, and unfit for society. MR. WENTWORTH. If you say that, you will tell a what is not true : I never was better in my life. MRS. WENTWORTH, (impatiently.) Mr. Wentworth, this is ungentlemanlike, unmanly — I really cannot go on, enduring for ever — [She bursts into tears'] not to be borne ! MR. WENTWORTFI, (relenting, but peevishly.) Then why are you so devilish provoking 1 . TEMPER. 113 MRS. WENTWOUTH. What have I said ? What have I done ? You know my poor dear father has no pleasure, since my brother's death, but in getting us all about him on a Sunday. [Mr. Wenlvvorth takes up his book and reads.] MRS. WENTWORTH, (after pausing and looking at him.) You ivonH come ? MR. WENTWORTH. How can I ? I'm not dressed. MRS. WENTWORTH I will bring you down your things, if that is all. I will be your valet — now then, dear. [She runs out.'] MR. WENTWORTH. What a fool I was to refuse Dixon and Wisdom — I should have been spared all this bore. Oh ! this periodical family party ! To be affectionate once a week — what an idea ! And after all, perhaps, to meet in cordiality, and part in a huff, if the old one happens to be out of temper. Besides, I go for nothing. They have so many things to say in common — old scenes and old friends ! — Pshaw ! I am a mere make-weight, " my daughter's husband," as Mrs. Godfrey calls me. She makes personal propcity of me. I am not the least consider- ed for myself, '* Well Emily, don't be late on Sunday. Mr. Wentworth comes of course.''^ I am asked, " of course ;" or rather, I am not asked at all^I never was asked since my marriage ! never formally invited ! Everston quizzed me about it the other day. He calls me " the family man," "the mother's own." [Re-Enter Mrs. Wentworth.] MRS. WENTWORTH. Every thing is ready in your dressing-room ; but I couldn't manage to bring you the details, and dared not call poor Denis into the service. MR. WENTWORTH, I really will not go, Emily. 114 TEMPER. MRS. WENTWORTH. For heaven's sake why, F 'ederick ? MR. WENTWORTH. Because I am not invited. MRS. WENTWORTH, (laughs.) Not invited ! This is too pleasant. Not invited to my father's, where you have dinned every Sunday for the last eight years, except when we were abroad, or in the country. MR. WENTWORTH. That is the very reason, why I will not dine there again, on a Sunday. I am perhaps the only married man in Lon- don of a certain rank, (or fortune at all events,) who is week- ly served up, with the roast beef and plum-pudding, at the family Sunday dinner. Besides, if you will know the truth, Mrs. Godfrey is becoming quite insupportable ! MRS. WENTWORTH. Mamma ? to you, Frederick ? You, who were always so amused, so delighted with her? who said the other day, that she is handsomer than her daughters, and wittier than her sons ! MR. WENTWORTH, (sneering.) A rather equivocal compliment. But if she were a tenth muse, and a fourth grace, I would not — will not — longer stand her domineering manner, her overpowering fluency. I see her object is to make the same fool of me, that she has done of your eldest brother, and your weak submissive father. MRS. WENTWORTH, (weeping.) This is past all endurance. [Apart.] What shall I do t To give way for ever to this temper, is vreakness, folly ; and yet to leave him thus ! I could bear it myself; but I will not insult my poor father and mother, even for him ! [Aloud.] As you have wreaked your ill-humour on me, I shall leave you to enjoy the consciousness of having sent me, unoffend- ing as I am, miserable and wretched, to a circle, where, un- til I married you, I always brought pleasure and happiness, [She draws on her shawl, wi[)es aM'ay her tears, and after a moment*g hesitation, departs, drawing the door after her with some violence.) TBHFBR. 115 MR. WENTWORTH. What a violent temper ! just like her mother, who with all her apparent gaiety, is . . . is . . . what a curse a vio- lent temper is ! Well, I am quitte pour la peur. One calm, quiet evening I shall have, at least ; that is something. '[Lies down and reads. '^ But where the devil shall I dine ! Looks at his watch.'] Half-past six. It will be time enough to think of that, this half-hour. I'd go to the University Club ; but I hate going, even to the club, undressed : it is so very bourgeois. Yet, I wouldn't take the trouble of dressing now, to dine with the Earl of ... . The manner, by-the-bye, in which Sir William shirked introducing me to-day to that lord, was too obvious. It was he himself, that proposed it at dinner, here, yesterday. Oh ! the great, the great ! — I hate the world, 'tis all false, hollow. [Reads ; arid after a long pause^ rises.] I'll have a cutlet here, and some of the cold turbot of , yesterday ; and I'll send in for young Fitzherbert to come, and read his eternal poem on " Time" to me, over our coffee ; — that's a famous idea ! He has been boring me this age to hear it, thanks to my own prize poem at Cambridge. This will flatter the poor old judge, who thinks lis son another Byron — I owe them so much. [Goes to his secretaire and writes.] There, that's in Fitzherbert's own :)lue-stocking style — " Dear Fitz — Alone and head-achy — tome and charm away melancholy and low spirits — divine rerse, as Horace says — coflee at eight." That wall do. [While he writes and reads this note, Denis O'Dowd is heard singing on the stairs. J I am a rake, and a rambling boy, Aly lodffing, it's in Auchnacloy ; A rambling boy, dear, altho' I be, I'll forsake my home, love, and follow thee. Fal lal la, fal lal lal la. [Enter Denis, with the watering-pot, and waters the plants in the verandah ! Not seeing Mr. Wentworth, and supposing all the fam- ily out, he continues singing, outside the balcony.] I wish I was a little fly, On my love's buzzom I would lie ; Then, all the wor-ald might plainly see, That I loved a girl, and she loved not me. Fal lal la, fal lal lal la. Well, sorrow more throublesome thing there is in the 116 TEMPER. house, than my mistress's posies and flower-pots ; for give 'em as much to drink as yez will, to-day, like ould Terry Magill of the upper lake, its dhryer they'd be to-morrow. [Sings, and lays down his water-pot, to tie up a flower.] My fader being out very late one night, He called sorely for his heart's delight ; He went up stairs, and the door he broke, And he found her hang-ging by a rope. Fal lal la, fal ial lal la. There then ; my mistress will be plazed intirely, to say the scarlet kidney banes tied so iligantly. I'd do more than that for her ; for she's mighty quiet ; and she's that taking way wid her. " Denis, (says she,) what would smell sweet and look purty, says she, in my balcowny ?" *' Why then, innions, ma'am," says I ; and she laughing so pleasantly, and not all as one as the masthur. Well, he's the devil, God bless us ! MR. WENT WORTH, (having sealed his note.) Denis ! [Denis, who is carrying offa flower-pot, by mistake for the watering- pot, lets it drop in consternation. The earth falls about the hand- some carpet. Denis rushes out, and tumbles down stairs.] MR. WENTWORTH, (with returning ill-humour.) So there are thirty pounds' worth of damage done ! A carpet only laid down yesterday ! Emily's eternal flower-pots, and her man Denis ! By all that's sacred [Rings the remaining hell violently — no body answers. He resumes his seat, and heats a tatoo ivith his footl — Denis ! Denis ! [roaring.'\ Den — n — is ! [Enter Denis, walking in backwards.] DENIS, (in a tremulous tone, and with his back still turned.) Sure, I'm here, plaze your honour ! MR. WENTWORTH, (looking up.) What do you mean by that, you ridiculous blockhead? Why don't you turn round your stupid face ? DENIS. Sure, your honour swore sir, you'd turn me out of it, if TEMPER. 117 ever I'd show my damned Irish face in the dhrawing room agen, sir. MR. WENTWORTH, (almost subdued by his obedient stupidity, and in a more encouraging tone.) Well, you may turn round your stupid face, Denis, for once. Now, mind me, send the housemaid up, to sweep the carpet and repair the mischief you have done. DENIS, (frightened.) I shaul, sir. MR. WENTWORTH. Next, desire the cook to send me up a dish of the cold tur- bot, d la mattre (Thotel. DENIS. I shaul, sir. MR. WENTWORTH. And, thirdly, take this note into Judge Fitzherhert's. It's for young Mr. Fitzherbert ; and mind — wait for an answer, [Denis takes the letter ; but stunned by the multiplicity of his orders, remains open-mouthed.] MR. WENTWORTH, (kindling.) Well, why don't you go? Don't you understand me, blockhead ? DENIS, (starting.) Is it understand a blockhead? I do sir. MR. WENTWORTH, (^vvith a sudden burst of temper.) Well, then, what have I desired you to do ? What orders have I given you ? DENIS, (trembling.) To . . . to . . . sweep up the housemaid . . . send . . . Major Turbot from the hotel, to dine with you ; and to give young Mr. Fitzherbert the Jidge's letter, sir, for the cook next door. MR. WENTWORTH, (throws himself into the chair, struggling with his temper, and suddenly affecting calm.) Denis, I don't wish to be violent. But listen to me ; for 23 118 TEMPER. I am resolved you shall do what I desire you, and that there shail be no mistake, no blunder. Take — that — note — next door — to Judge Fitzherbert's ; and wait an answer. DENIS, (recovering himself, and quite aufait.) I shaul, sir. Take that note to the Jidge's, and wait for an answer. MR. WENT WORTH. Very well : — and send — the — cook— to — me. DENIS. And send the cook to me. I shaul, sir. [Going, — he re- iur7is.] The cook's gone out, plaze your honour. MR. WENT WORTH. So — the cook's out too ! — well — Tell the kitchen-maid to broil me a mutton cutlet. DENIS, (in some confusion.) The fire's gone out too, plaze your honour : but I'll tell her, when she comes in, sir. And it's to the Jidge, next door, I'll take this letter, and wait for an answer ? I shaul, sir. [Goes out with pleasod alacrity.] MR. WENTWORTH, (walks up and down the room.) That fellow is more knave than fool. I have the worst opinion of him. So ! every one making holiday, but me. The mistress of the house, — the children, — the servants, — even the very fire goes out, as Denis says. Impossible to get so much as a cutlet broiled ; and this, too, in my own house ! I might actually famish for want of a morsel to eat, or means to dress it. Well, I will send that Irish Menichino to order tea and cofliee from the next coffee-house. I. ...order from a coffee and in my own house too. [He stops at the window.] How the carriages are rolling ! Every body giving dinners, or going to them ! What cant about Sun- day ! Every body dines out on a Sunday (but me !) Rus- sell Square is a pays de cocagne. Every chimney smokes— but mine. / cannot get a cutlet broiled ! No matter. And Emily's unkindness — her neglect. The indifference of every human being ; the abandonment ! But it is well ; it is of no consequence. [He nods to a cab which passes the window.'\ There he goes too, Harry Everston, the most enviable of all TEMPER. 119 men. He has neither wife, children, nor servants ; and yet every comfort, every luxury is his ! What a capital set-out, too — going to dine with some of his fine friends, at the west end of the town ! What a miserable thing it is to be left without a profession, as I was ! What an advantage for a man of city connexions to get into the Guards ! Deuce take it, he is turning back? What a bore ! What shall I do, or say? This is the finish; and no one to open the door, but a greasy kitchen wench ! Am I unlucky ! [The cab is heard rattling up to the door — Mr. Everston enters.] MR. EVERSTON. Why, Fred, my boy ! only think of my finding your door open, and you at home, too, on a Sunday ! Before this, I thought you must have been up to your eyes in gravy soup, on t'other side, there. I am going to do poojah to my gover- nor. Always go to church, and visit the govenor on Sun- days. It's proper, you know. What are ynu going to do with yourself? You look as if you wanted hock and soda water, eh ! MR. WENTWORTH. As to my open door, that's my Irish blockhead's doing ; who is gone on a message, and has left it ajar after him, that the house may be robbed ; and as to myself, I have a bad head-ach ^ ai.ci so, stay at home, to write letters, and dine on a grille. Mrs. W. dines with her family. MR. EVERSTON. A grille — nonsense ! You shall dine with me, on a tur- tle and saumon aux capres, and a delicious little party into the bargain, at the Crown and Anchor. I would have pro- posed it to you yesterday, but I took it for granted you dined — " at my father-in-law's across the Square ;" ha ! ha ! ha! MR. WENTWORTH, (mortified.) Thank you very much. But I really cannot go out to- day. MR. EVERSTON. Oh ! afraid of offending the old ones ! Or do you give up dining out on Sunday, and let your hair grow, to qualify for the saints 1 But never mind ; come, by all means ; they'll 120 TEMPER. never find you out, over the Avay. It's just such a party, as would have made you jump, before you married all the God- freys? You know Hamilton of the Lancers, and la belle des belles, with her pretty sister, Mrs. Mordaunt ? MR. WENTWORTH. I have seen them at the opera. They are very pretty ; but rather equivocal, I suspect. MR. EVERSTON, (smiling.) Oh ! not the least — equivocal. But I suppose you are afraid of your wife hearing of your escapades, — or are you grown prudish, or pious, or what ? Do you refuse to d[ine with a pretty woman because she was o?ice — equivocal? This beats the shutting the Zoolological Gardens hollow ! MR. WENTWORTH, (affecting to brighten up.) Nonsense ! If you will wait till I dress, I am your man. MR. EVERSTON. I'll give you half an hour, while I step off to the governor. But what o'clock is it now ? Seven ! Egad ! it is too late for that. My people have got as far as gooseberry pie by this. Well, I'll wait : so come, my boy, don't lose time. MR. WENTWORTH, (much provoked.) And yet, I cannot ! I had quite forgotten — 'tis impos- sible — I have this moment sent to young Fitzherbert to take coffee ; and read his cursed poem on Time to me. You know how I stand with the excellent Fitzherberts. MR. EVERSTON. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Why, this is worse than going to evening prayers ! Send him an apology, and say you have no time to read his poem. MR. WENTWORTH. Quite out of the question. The Judge was my guardian ; and I have put off his boy so often. Besides, the proposition is my own — and .... MR. EVERSTON, (interrupting him conceitedly.) Oh ! no explanations, pray. Yes, or no. One — two — three — TEMPER. 121 MR. WENTWORTH, (with great mortification.) Well, then — no ! MR. EVERSTON. Then, D. I. O. Goodbye! [Mr. Everston hurries out of the room, and is heard singing, as he bounds down the stairs. The door closes, and his cab rattles off.] MR. WENTWORTH, (looking after him from the window.) There he goes ! — the happiest of the happy. Light of head, heart, and purse ; while I, with five thousand a-year, better looking, better connected, more respectable, and per- haps more respected, am the most miserable of human beings. \_Walks up and down with a heavy measured tread.] " Re- mote, — unfriended, — melancholy, — slow !'* Without a hu- man being to speak to,— without a morsel to eat ! — tempted, too, with two delightful parties — with youth, beauty, fashion, gaiety ! — and for whom ? — for what ? Oh ! Emily ! Emily ! I have not deserved this. [Presses his fingers on his eyes. Takes up his book and re ads ^ or tries to read for half an hour.'] So, no answer yet from Fitzherbert ! and that block- head not returned ! Half an hour going to the next door ! [Another pause. He rings his bell repeatedly. It is not answered ; but a loud ringing is heard at the street-door. He looks out at the balcony.] DENIS, (from below.) Plaze your honour, it's me ! and the house is out, sir. MR. WENTWORTH. Then there is actually no one at home ! Emily has given all the servants leave to go out ; or they have taken it. [After some hesitation, and doubtful whether he will let Denis in at all, he descends to open the door, and returns, followed by Denis.] MR. WENTWORTH, (seating himself.) So, there was actually no one left in the house, but you ? DENIS. Sorrow Christian, sir ! only the little kitchin-maid, that's just slipped out to the dairy, sir, for a little crame for her tay, and will be back in a jiffey. That's Jane, sir, the cratur ! 23* 123 TEMPER. MR. WENTWORTH, (violently.) That's a lie ! and you know it's a lie ; but no matter. What answer from Mr. Fitzherbert ? [Denis presents him a letter, which he opens.'] Why, this is my own note ! DENIS. It is, plaze your honour ! MR. WENTWORTH, (in a rage.) And why is it ? DENIS, (frightened and confused.) Sorrow know, I know, sir ! MR. WENTWORTH, (with increasing violence.) Why, you infernal, stupid — Irish — bull ! — Where have you been all this while ? DENIS, (agitated.) In the Jidge's airy, sir, with little Kitty, the cook. MR. WENTWORTH. Then you did not deliver my letter ? DENIS. 1 did nat, sir. MR. WENTWORTH. And why, pray ? DENIS. Becaise, sir, he wasn't in it. Kitty said, sir, that the family is gone on a party of pleasure, sailing down the Thames in a boat ; and it's what Kitty's brother says, who has just come from Killarney — as how .... MR. WENTWORTH. D n Kitty ! — D n her brother ! So I've given up Everston's dinner, and Fitzherbert not coming after all ! Gone boating ! — gone on a party ! But as for you, Mr Denis, — for your stupidity — for your staying out an hour, when you knew I was alone, without any one to open the door for TEMPER. 123 you, — or worse, leaving it open, for your gang to enter and rob the house — you shall not sleep another night under my roof, you shall not stay an hour — a moment ! — you shall turn out this instant ! DENIS, (rallying, his honour being touched.) For what, sir, should I be turned out of the place, this blessed Sunday night, 'bove al] the days of the year, sir 1 MR. WENTWORTH. For being an incorrigible blockhead, a mitcher, and an idiot ; whose brogue, bulls, blunders, and negligence, no temper can stand. So go, sir, and finish your evening with *' Kitty in the airy ;" but first take off my livery, and come to-morrow for your wages. I cannot afiord to pay you se- venteen guineas a-year, for making my wife and family laugh at your absurdities, — the only thing that you are fit for. DENIS, (cooly and sulkily.) Troth, axing your honour's pardon, sorrow better money, then, ever you paid : for in regard of making the family laugh, I'd be worth my weight in gold, if . . . . MR. WENTWORTH, (vehemently.) Leave the room, you insolent scoundrel ; or I'll send for a constable to take you to the watch-house. DENIS, (his Irish blood rising at the indignity.) Och ! no ; — plaze your honour, you will not. For what would you be afther taking myself to the watch-house ? MR. WENTWORTH, (piqued by Denis's coolness, and in a great rage.) Do you dare to stand arguing with me, you Irish ruffian ? [Pushes him out of the door, Denis, as usual, tumbles down stairs. Mr. Wentworth slams the door, and continues to pace up and down in considerable emotion. The shadows of evening gradually fall; and a profound silence reigns, both in the house and the square. He bursts out into a loud soliloquy.] MR. WENTWORTH. Yes, I have now made up my mind ! I will not live another day with Emily ! Careless of the misery she has occasioned, she is enjoying herself, in the midst of her 124 TEMPER. happy, joyous family, the soul and spirit of her circle. She has dined ; — her children are playing at her feet ; — pa- rents, relations, friends, serrants, all devoted to her plea- sure and amusement : while I ! on this evening, so especially consecrated to family enjoyment and domestic felicity .... Gracious heavens ! what and where am I ? Alone, on my desolate hearth, abandoned by all — by wife, children, friends, servants ; left in sadness and in darkness ; in the power, too, of a blood-thirsty villain, to whom murder is, doubtless, as familiar as to the rest of his savage nation. The papers are full of nothing but Irish atrocities. [He passes into the inner room, brings out a small writing-desk, unlocks it, opens a secret drawer, and takes out a pocket-pis- tol ; — examines it, and lays it on the table.] And am I re- duced to this ? I will leave this country forever, to-morow — leave this house, to-night. Emily and her family shall feel at last. I will scratch out a codicil, write a few lines, and then . . . .[He lights the lamp with a briquet, seats himself at his desk, a?id writes with vehemence and rapidity. The pen- dule strikes nine, and plays slowly, " Home, sweet home !" He sighs, pauses, and again lorites. A slight rustling is heard on the landing-place — the lock of the door is gently turned. He starts up, listens, but the door is not opened; and all again is silent : he sits down again.] What was that ? Could that villain ? — It is, however, but man to man. — But at this moment there may be a oranof of villains under my roof. [He lays his pistol at his right hand, and after a pause, continues to write. Some time after, a noise is again heard on the stairs, as if some one was steahng up. He rises, fixes his eye on the door, and takes his pistol. The door opens slowly. An apparently large body, covered with white drapery, so as to conceal the face and figure, appears at the half-open door. Mr. Wentworth raises his pistol ; which accidentally brushing against his open coat, goes off The intruder fulls, with a crash and a loud groan. Mr. Went- worth stands unnerved, speechles.?, and petrified. Denis rises, in part, from under the fragments, of plates, covers, glasses, &c. &c. which lie scattered on the floor.] DENIS. Och, murther, murther ! I'm kilt intirely. [Mr. Wentworth flings away the pistol, rushes to the door, and throws himself beside the victim of his rash movement, whose face is seemingly bathed in blood.] MR. WENTWORTH, (trembling violently.) Denis ! my poor Denis ! If you can speak, speak to me ! TEMPER. 125 look at me ! If you would not drive me mad — if you would not drive me to suicide, say you are not hurt — not wounded — not mortally wounded at least. Here — lean on my shoulder. Thank God ! thank God ! you live, you DENIS, (sitting bolt upright, and wiping his face with the table-cloth.) Och ! ochone ! The murthur of the world ! MR. WENTWORTH, Whence comes this torrrent of blood ? DENIS. Why then, sorrow know, I know, sir ; if it isn't from the little cruiskeen of iligant ould currant whiskey, which is broken to smithereens. I was making- bould to trate your honour with it ; in regard of the butler not leaving out a sup of wine afther him, (nor never does.) MR. WENTWORTH, (with great feeling.) Thank God ! I am not a murderer ! I am not the miser- able and wicked wretch I might have been ! [He rises, covers his face unth his hands ; and then turns, after some time, to Denis.l But, Denisj are you hurt ! speak, dear Denis! DENIS, (rises, picks up the broken things, and replaces bread, potatoes, meat, &c. &c.) Why then, sorrow much, your honour, only in regard of the little cruiskeen of currant whiskey, sir : and sure, your honour, it was my mother sent it me, all the way from Killar- ney, by Tim Macgillicuddy, and came to see his wife Kitty, at the jidge's, sir. And it was that, plaze your honour, kept me waiting in the airy, for the answer to the letter. [Mr. Wentworth assists in picking up the contents of the tray, with great humility ; but, overcome by exhaustion and by emotion, he totters to the ottoman, and falls back on a pile of cushions. Denis runs out, and returns with a glass of water, which he mixes with a little whiskey, remaining at the bottom of his broken bottle, and lakes to his master.] DENIS. Just taste it, your honour ; sorrow harm it will do you, but all the good in life. [Mr. Wentworth sips from the glass.'] Sure, plaze your honour, it's what it's wake at the heart you was, wid the hunger. Oh ! not a thing else. And sure it's 126 TEMPER. little Jenny, the kitchen-maid, and I got the thray between us ; and I believe, this blessed moment, it was the fine, long, damask, dinner table-cloth, that thripped me up, and not at all at all the pistol-ball whizzing by, like shot. [Mr. went- worth shudders.) Och ! Mush ! but the cruiskeen's smashed to smithereens, and only a dhrop at the bottom left. But sure, don't fret, your honour! Isn't it well it's no worse? — aye, in troth, not all as one, as young Mr. Rooney of Kilmanny. [Mr Wentworth remains with his fare buried in his handkerchief. Denis takes his station behind his master, with an air of affection- ate anxiety, but evidently presuming on his new position.] DENIS. Well, plaze your honour, sir, sure it's all over and sor- row harm done ; and thai's just the way the gun went off wid young Mr. Cornelius Rooney, I was telling you ov ; and he all as one as playing with it, and lodges it in the heart of his elder brother, the captain, who had just come home, in regard of the pace ; and a brave heart it was. MR. WENTWORTH, (sti 1 horror-stricken.) Give me a glass of water, Denis. [Denis flutters about, in a fright ; gets a glass of water, and presents it. Mr. Wentworth puts it to his hps ; his teeth chatter against the vessel.] DENIS, (in great agitation.) Och ! musha, musha, what's this for ; will I qualify it, plaze your honour, with a dhrop of the sp^urrets ? Och ! musha, there's not a taste left. Well, well, sure I said to Jinny, sorrow thing, says I, ails the masther, only just your honour being so long without the ating and the dhrinking ; and your heart sick, I'll ingage. Ochone ! it was often the way whh myself; and so, plaze your honour, says I, to Jane, the little kitchen-maid, says I, and we all alone by ourselves, says I, there's the masther above, in the biggest of passions, ever I seed him since I came to the place, in regard of the hunger ; and what is it, says I, that makes the wild bastes roar ? only the hunger, says I. And thrue for you, Mr. O'Dowd, says she, (for she's a mighty 'cute cratur, plaze your honour, when the cook's not in it ;) and what is it makes all the murthur in Ireland ? says I, only the hunger. Sorrow 'ruction would ever be in the province of Munster, says I, only for the hunger. For hunger will cut through TEMPER. 127 stone walls, though the gallows stood in the gate, says I. Lord save us ! says she. And every poor Irishman, says I, Jane, honey, (in regard of being her fellow-servant, arid having more to do with Jane than any man in the place, in respect of the plates and dishes,) Jane, honey, says I, if ever poor ould Ireland had plinty of potatoes in the pot, and a dhrop of the comforter in the cruiskeen, just to keep the could from the heart, says I, it's little yez would hear of the murthering, and the burning. And though the masther kicked me down stairs, says I, afther frightening the life out of me, and sending me to the watch-house, I'll ingage,says I, if he'd take his dinner, instead of writing thim letters, himself would be sorry, and make it up with me, one way or other. And so, plaze your honour, as the cook had the kay of the larther, and the butler always takes the panthry along with him, Jenny and myself bethought of us the rash- ers and eggs, and the pickled cuckumbers, and the currant whiskey, and wished it was wine, for your honour's sake. So, afther gostering a bit about the lobbies, just to see if your honour was getting quiet a taste, I ran down for the thray, and was bringing it in, when, Christ save us ! what should I feel fire down on me, but the bullet, and I all as one as a dead man! and the murther of the plates and the daycanthurs, and the putty soapay. Och ! musha, the sight left my eyes : and thought I saw Captain Rooney standing all over blood afore me, and put up my hand and thought it was my brains, but it was only the currant whis- key. MR. WENT WORTH, (who has remained in a deep reverie during this tirade, awaking to the sense of externals, and hearing only the few last words.) For God's sake, Denis, say no more about it. The pistoPs going off was an accident, I assure you, upon my honour it was. Here, send this to your mother, in return for her present to you of the whisky. [Gives him a purse."] And now, take away all those things, and bring me a chamber candle. [Sighs.] I'll go to bed, Denis. DENIS (stands a moment looking at the purse, and then at Mr. Went- worth, till the tears gush into his eyes.) Och ! its too much intirely, plaze your honour. See here, sir, if your honour would divide it into two halves, and give uz the smallest half, it would be too much still ; and the poor 128 TEMPER. ould woman, down in the bog, sir, and it's my little earnings keeps the life in her .... and a purse, sir ... . [Bursts into a passion of tears, and drops on his knees. A loud •knocking at the door. Denis starts up, and wipes his eyes.] MR. WENTWORTH, [in great agitation, and putting the pistol into his bosom. J I am not at home, not to any human being ; and, Denis, find me the pistol-ball. [Denis picks it up: Mr. Wentvvorth puts it in his pocket. A second knock, after which, Mrs. Godfrey is heard speaking on the stairs.J MRS. GODFREY. There, that will do, Jane, thank you. I can see my way perfectly. Is there no one at home but you ? Where is Denis ? [At the threshold of the door.] Why what the deuce is all this ? What a mess ! what a smash ! [Mrs. Godfrey enters with a quick, light step. Mr. Wentworth is seated on the sofa, with a book in his hand, apparently reading, but flushed and agitated. Denis is drawn up, in an attitude of surprise and confusion, v\ith his mouth open, his head erect. He hides the broken cruiskeen under the skirts of his coat.] MRS. GODFREY, (in a clear, rapid, and emphatic tone.) My dear Wentworth, what is the matter? I have ran from over the way, between coffee and tea, unknow^n to all, but poor Emily, who is miserable. Her excuse of your bilious headach did not satisfy 7}ie. Something must have happened to cause this unusual want of kindness and respect to us, to whom you are so rarely wanting in either. [Pauses, looks earnestly at him.] How ill you look ! Perhaps ! — Good God I — but still it must be met w^th firmness — an affair of honour, I suppose. MR. WENTWORTH. No, I assure you, madam — nothing whatever. MRS. GODFREY, (firmly.) Frederick, I know that such things must sometimes be, in the present semi-barbarous state of society. But every evil may be lessened, retarded, and, perhaps, avoided altogether, by sound and dispassionate conduct, by quickness of apprehension, and promptitude of action. Upon more than one occasion I have Stood your friend — stood between you, and the consequences TEMPER. 129 of your vehement temper. A woman's zeal is all but om- nipotent. MR. WENTWORTH, (in a low voice, and subdued manner.) You have been often very kind, and very useful, and very forbearing-. My dear Mrs. Godfrey, I am fully aware of all your merit, your friendship, your superior mind, and your indulg-ent disposition. But I assure you, in the present in- stance, your are quite wrong. I have not a quarrel with any human being ; except, perhaps, — with — myself. MRS. GODFREY, (after a deep respiration.) Thank God, — m.y child — her children are spared that. [She remains a moment in silence ; her hands and lips com- pressed. Then brushing away her tears, she continues, with great cheeriness and animation.^ Come, all is well then, except you, Wentworth ; you are not well. I know that nothing but illness could have prevented you from joining a circle, of which you are the pride and the delight, — when you are not out of. ... . [Draws up her mouth into a grimace of extreme comic humour ; and gradually imitates a countenance gloomed by sulkiness, and dis- torted by passion.] MR. WENTWORTH, (faltering and smiling.) Temper. Exactly. MRS. GODFREY, (smiling.) MR. WENTWORTH. Weil, I assure you ma'am, that is not the case now — I am ill. \JPvbts his hand to his forehead, and sighs convulsively. '\ MRS. GODFREY. But what is ill-temper, but ill-health, — a spring loose somewhere or other, — uneasy sensations venting themselves in jarring actions, — the first step towards insanity ? The patient mistakes his own internal sense of suffering for some- thing wrong in externals. Oh ! my dear Frederick, how often does the poor, long-enduring wife sustain the inflictions of ill-humour, ill-language, and insolent treatment, because you lords of the creation have eaten truffles, instead of pota- toes, (as you did yesterday,) and drank strong port when you 24 130 TEMPER. should have taken only water-gruel ! I really believe this malady of ill-ternper occasions more frequent domestic mise- ry, than all the gallantry of France, or the corruption of Ger- many. \_Mrs. Godfrey takes his hand and feels his pulse.'\ Good heavens ! what a pulse ! — you seem suffocating, too ! I was quite right. Now don't be angry, you know I saved you once from a typhus fever, by a little precaution and prompt- ness. I have brought our good old friend, Mr. Reynolds, as my cavalier across the square. Pray see him. MR. WENTWORTH, (much shaken.) Indeed, madam, I cannot, at this moment, see any one. I did think, did hope, that Emily but she is amus- ing herself, I suppose acting proverbs, and charming every one at the harp or piano. MRS. GODFREY. Emily, poor love ! alas ! no. She has spent the evening in my dressing-room, in tears and misery. I would not suffer her to return home. Once in a way, I thought it was best to let you have your fit out, and do your worst. MR. WENTWORTH, (shudders.) My worst ! ! MRS. GODFREY. But to return to my cavalier. — You can have no reasonable objection to see Reynolds. Come in, Mr. Reynolds. [Enter, Mr. Reynolds, from the back drawing-room.] MR. REYNOLDS. Objection to see me ! why one female jobation is worse than a consultation of doctors. Come, Avhat is the matter ? [He shakes Mr. Wentworth's hand, and feels his pulse.] MR. WENTWORTH, (hurt.) You treat me like a child ! MRS. GODFREY. And are not all invalids children? Creatures of deficient power, without self-possession or self-control ! Human na- ture is, altogether, a bad business ; but we must make the best of it ; and bleed when we cannot reason. TEMPER. 131 MR. REYNOLDS. To be sure! A true morcilist should never go without his lancets ; and legislators would do well to prescribe calomel and straight waistcoats, in a thousand cases, where they order gaols and pillories ! So tell some one to bring cups and ban- dages. [tie takes out his instruments. Mr. Wentworth exhibits signs of dishke and resistance.] MRS. GODFREY, (in a whisper.) Insist, insist ! [Re-enter Denis with a tray, replenished, and smelling strongly of eggs and bacon. J MRS. GODFREY, (in astonishment.) What have you there, Denis ? DENIS. It's a taste of bacon and eggs, maram, and the pickled cuckcumbers ; in regard of the masther's never tasting bit nor sup this day, since breakfast. MRS. GODFREY,' (taking the tray out of Denis's hand ; and, to his amazement and mortification, sending it out of the room.) Bacon and pickles ! nonsense. Go, bring up two cups, and some linen bandages ; and order quantities of hot water to be got ready. Your master must be bled. DENIS, (with a supplicating look.) Asking your honour's pardon, Mrs. Godfrey, maram, sure, you wouldn't be afther murthuring him, maram, intirely? Bleed a man that's starving wich the hunger, and kilt with the wakeness ? MRS. GODFREY, (peremptorily.) Don't talk, but obey. [She turns to Mr. Wentuwrth.'] — Come now, I know I am a bore ; but you must be bled all the same. I'll go to your room, and see that all is right. MR. WENTWORTH. After what has passed, I believe, my dear madam, I ought to indulge you in your theory ; and the fact is, that I do feel exceedingly unwell ; but I think Mr. Reynolds will agree so 132 TEMPER. far with Denis, as not to prescribe loss of blood to a man in my situation. However, I don't much care what you do with me. [Sighi?ig.'\ MR. REYNOLDS, (casting a momentary look of intelligence at Mrs. Godfrey.) His pulse, madam, are not quite as rapid as they were ; and I am now disposed to try what rest, and a good night's sleep, if he can get it, will do for him. To-morrow, if he is not better .... MRS. GODFREY. You know best, sir, and in your own art, it would not be wise to contradict you. But 1 still hold my opinion that a little . . . pulling down would ... do him no harm. MR. WENTWORTH, (in great but suppressed vexation.) Mrs. Godfrey, where is Emily ? I will do nothing, con- sent to nothing, till .... [Mrs. Wentworth and hor children (who have been for some time in the adjoining room) rufh in. He springs forward to meet them. The pistol drops from his breast. Mrs. Wentworth shrieks and falls.] MR. WENTWORTH, (raising her in his arms.) Emily, Emily, forgive me — hear me. Look up. I swear by all that's sacred, it was merely a fit of my cursed temper, indulged to my uttermost selfishness. [He holds her and his children in a strict embrace.] MRS. GODFREY, (apart to Mr. Reynolds, who picks up the pistol.] That weapon in his breast too ! What may we not have prevented ! — 'tis too horrible to think upon ! One moment longer, perhaps, and how many might have been made miserable, and all because .... MR. REYNOLDS. A man inherits a particular fibre, or lives in idleness and luxury, to the promotion of bile and bad humour. But whatever may be appearances, I am certain that nothing very tragic was likely to occur. Mr. Wentworth is not quite so bad as that : he will tell you all about it to-morrow, TEMPER. 133 if the ridicule be not too great, to admit of a frank confession. The sublime and the ridiculous, you know . . . MRS. GODFREY, (thoughtfully.) After all, man is a pauvre Sire^ and humanity a pretty business. MR. REYNOLDS. Very : society should be considered as one great lunatic asylum ; and the patients be kept low by temperance, while we of the faculty should always be prepared with the rem- edies, in case of a break out. It is the sane who are shut up, (says somebody that writes books, which nobody reads but you and I,) and the mad are all abroad. MRS. GODFREY. One would think so. But I am vexed we have not punished him a little more severely. He wants a perma- nent impression, to prevent a relapse. The fact is, Wilson and I have been in a conspiracy against him, since the fit broke out ; and have been watching the catastrophe. I dare not trust Emily ; her dotage of her husband deprives her of all the powers of her naturally strong mind. [She turns to the Wentworths, who are still engaged loith each other.'] Come, come, Emilj^ enough. Children, to-bed, to-bed. [She kisses them.] There, " stand not on the order of your going, but go at once." Take them, Emily ; their maid has not yet returned. [Mrs. Godfrey/ leads Mrs. Wentivorth to the door, and whispers.] Only this once, dear Emily — leave him to us. Remember this is not the first nor the hundredth scene of the same kind. [She leads out Mrs. Wentworth and the children. Mr. Reynolds leaves the room unobserved.] MR. WENTWORTH, (alone.) So then, here is an agreeable day lost ! friends and rela- tions, mortified and insulted ! a life risked ! and humiliation the most profound endured ! and all for what ? For the un- controlled indulgence of a fit of temper. [Takes a candle, and exit.] 134 TEMPER. DENIS, (who had been busy, about nothing, at the bottom of the room.) Why then, it's a pity of him, the cratur ; hit, or sup, never passed the threshold of his lips this blessed day ; barring a taste of toast at breakfast. Musha, then, the docthors may say what the)'- plaze ; but it's the rashers and whiskey would have cured him, intirely,* in regard of keeping the wakeness out of his heart. * Tho caneoiis of this little drama will be found in Monsieur Le Clerc's charming Proverbs. THE END. r!^VV /^ / / TJW^ M H,iSi ¥Wi m