CHAPTER XLIV.

As soon as it was possible, after his return to Percy-hall, Mr. Percy

went to pay his respects to Lord Oldborough. He found this great

statesman happy in retirement, without any affectation of happiness.

There were proofs in every thing about him that his mind had unbent

itself agreeably; his powers had expanded upon different objects,

building, planting, improving the soil and the people.

He had many tastes, which had long lain dormant, or rather which had

been held in subjugation by one tyrant passion. That passion vanquished,

the former tastes resumed their activity. The superior strength of his

character was shown in his never recurring to ambition. Its vigour

was displayed in the means by which he supplied himself, not only with

variety of occupation, but with variety of motive. Those, who best know

the human mind must be aware of the difficulty of supplying motive for

one accustomed to stimulus of so high a kind, as that to which Lord

Oldborough had been habituated. For one who had been at the head of

the government of a great nation, to make for himself objects in the

stillness and privacy of a country life, required no common talent and

energy of soul. The difficulty was increased to Lord Oldborough, for to

him the vast resource of a taste for literature was wanting.

The biographer of Sir Robert Walpole tells us, that though he had not

forgotten his classical attainments, he had little taste for literary

occupations. Sir Robert once expressed his regret on this subject to

Mr. Fox, in the library at Houghton. “I wish,” he said, “I took as much

delight in reading as you do; it would be the means of alleviating many

tedious hours in my present retirement. But, to my misfortune, I derive

no pleasure from such pursuits.”

Lord Oldborough felt, but never condescended to complain of that

deficiency of general literature, which was caused in him, partly by his

not having had time for the attainment, and partly by his having formed

too low an estimate of the influence and power of literature in the

political world. But he now took peculiar delight in recalling the

classical studies in which he had in his youth excelled; as Mr. Percy

sympathized with him in this taste, there was another point in which

they coalesced. Mr. Percy stayed with his old friend some days, for he

was anxious to give him this proof of attachment, and felt interested

in seeing his character develope itself in a new direction, displaying

fresh life and strength, and unexpected resource in circumstances, in

which statesmen of the most vigorous minds, and of the highest

spirit, have been seen to “droop and drowse,” to sink into indolence,

sensuality, or the horrors of hypochondriacism and superstition.

Lord Oldborough, on his first retiring to Clermont-park, had informed

Mr. Percy that he should wish to see him as soon as he had arranged

certain papers. He now reminded his lordship of it, and Lord Oldborough

put into his hands a sketch, which he had been drawing out, of the

principal transactions in which he had been engaged during his political

career, with copies of his letters to the first public characters of the

day in our own and in foreign countries. Even by those who had felt no

regard for the man, the letters of such a minister would have been read

with avidity; but Mr. Percy perused them with a stronger interest than

any which could be created by mere political or philosophical curiosity.

He read them with a pleasure which a generous mind takes in admiring

that which is good and great, with the delight which a true friend feels

in seeing proofs that justify all the esteem he had previously felt. He

saw in these original documents, in this history of Lord Oldborough’s

political life, the most perfect consistency and integrity, the most

disinterested and enlightened patriotism. When Mr. Percy returned

the manuscript to his lordship, he spoke of the satisfaction he must

experience in looking back upon this record of a life spent in the

service of his country, and observed that he was not surprised that,

with such a solid source of self-approbation, such indefeasible claims

to the gratitude of his countrymen, and such well-earned fame, he should

be, as he appeared, happy in retirement.

“I am happy, and, I believe, principally from the cause you have

mentioned,” said Lord Oldborough, who had a mind too great for the

affectation of humility. “So far I am happy.”

“Yet,” added he, after a considerable pause, “I have, I feel, a greater

capability of happiness, for which I have been prevented from making

any provision, partly by the course of life of which I made choice, and

partly by circumstances over which I had no control.”

He paused again; and, turning the conversation, spoke of his sister, an

elderly lady, who had come to pass some time with him. They had lived

separate almost all their lives; she in Scotland with her husband, a

Scottish nobleman, who having died about the time when Lord Oldborough

had resigned his ministerial situation, she had accepted his lordship’s

invitation to visit him in his retirement. The early attachment he had

had for this sister seemed to revive in his mind when they met; and,

as if glad to have some object for his affections, they were poured out

upon her. Mr. Percy observed a tenderness in his manner and voice when

he spoke to her, a thousand little attentions, which no one would have

expected from the apparently stern Lord Oldborough, a man who had been

engrossed all his life by politics.

On the morning of the last day which Mr. Percy meant to spend at

Clermont-park, his lordship, as they were sitting together in his study,

expressed more than common regret at the necessity for his friend’s

departure, but said, “I have no right to detain you from your family.”

Then, after a pause, he added, “Mr. Percy, you first gave me the idea

that a private life is the happiest.”

“My lord, in most cases I believe it is; but I never meant to assert

that a public life spent in noble exertion, and with the consciousness

of superior talent and utility, is not more desirable than the life

of any obscure individual can possibly be, even though he possess the

pleasure of domestic ease and tranquillity. There are men of eminent

abilities, capable of extraordinary exertions, inspired by exalted

patriotism. I believe, notwithstanding the corruption of so many has

weakened all faith in public virtue, I believe in the existence of such

men, men who devote themselves to the service of their country: when the

time for their relinquishing the toils of public life arrives, honour

and self-approbation follow them in retirement.”

“It is true, I am happy,” repeated Lord Oldborough; “but to go on with

what I began to say to you yesterday--I feel that some addition might

be made to my happiness. The sense of having, to the best of my ability,

done my duty, is satisfactory. I do not require applause--I disdain

adulation--I have sustained my public life without sympathy--I could

seldom meet with it--where I could, I have enjoyed it--and could now

enjoy it--exquisitely--as you do, Mr. Percy--surrounded by a happy

family. Domestic life requires domestic pleasures--objects for the

affections.”

Mr. Percy felt the truth of this, and could answer only by suggesting

the idea of Mr. Temple, who was firmly and warmly attached to Lord

Oldborough, and for whom his lordship had a strong regard.

“Mr. Temple, and my daughter Rosamond, whom your lordship honoured with

so kind an invitation, propose, I know, paying their respects to you

next week. Though I am her father, I may venture to say that Rosamond’s

sprightliness is so mixed with solid information and good sense, that

her society will become agreeable to your lordship.”

“I shall rejoice to see Mrs. Temple here. As the daughter of one friend,

and the wife of another, she has a double claim to my regard. And (to

say nothing of hereditary genius or dispositions--in which you do not

believe, and I do), there can be no doubt that the society of a lady,

educated as your daughter has been, must suit my taste. The danger is,

that her society should become necessary to me. For Mr. Temple I already

feel a degree of affection, which I must repress, rather than indulge.”

“Repress!--Why so, my lord? You esteem him--you believe in the sincerity

of his attachment?”

“I do.”

“Then why with stoicism--pardon me, my dear lord--why repress

affection?”

“Lest I should become dependent for my daily happiness on one, whose

happiness is independent of mine--in some degree incompatible with mine.

Even if his society were given to me, his heart must be at his home,

and with his family. You see I am no proud stoic, but a man who dares

to look at life--the decline of life, such as it is--as it must be.

Different, Mr. Percy, in your situation--and in mine.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the arrival of a carriage.

Lord Oldborough looked out of the window as it passed--then smiled,

and observed how altered the times were, since Clermont-park used to be

crowded with visitors and carriages--now the arrival of one is an event.

The servant announced a foreign name, a Neapolitan abbé, who had come

over in the train of a new ambassador: he had just arrived in England,

and had letters from the Cardinal . . ., his uncle, which he was desired

to deliver into Lord Oldborough’s own hand. The abbé was, it appeared,

personally a stranger to him, but there had been some ministerial

intercourse between his lordship and the cardinal. Lord Oldborough

received these political letters with an air of composure and

indifference which proved that he ceased to have an interest in the

game.

“He supposed,” he said, “that the abbé had been apprized that he was no

longer one of his majesty’s ministers--that he had resigned his official

situation--had retired--and that he took no part whatever in public

affairs.”

The abbé replied that he had been apprized that Lord Oldborough

had retired from the public office; but his uncle, he added, with a

significant smile, was aware that Lord Oldborough’s influence was as

great still as it had ever been, and greater than that of any ostensible

minister.

This Lord Oldborough disclaimed--coolly observing that his influence,

whatever it might be, could not be known even to himself, as it was

never exerted; and that, as he had determined nevermore to interfere in

public business, he could not be of the least political service to

the cardinal. The Duke of Greenwich was now the person to whom on such

subjects all applications should be addressed.

The abbé, however, repeated, that his instructions from the cardinal

were positive and peremptory, to deliver these letters into no hands but

those of Lord Oldborough--that in consequence of this strict injunction

he had come purposely to present them. He was instructed to request his

lordship would not put the letters into the hands of any secretary, but

would have the goodness to examine them himself, and give his counsel

how to proceed, and to whom they should, in case of his lordship’s

declining to interfere, be addressed.

“Mr. Percy!” said Lord Oldborough, recalling Mr. Percy, who had risen to

quit the room, “you will not leave me--Whatever you may wish to say, M.

l’abbé, may be said before this gentleman--my friend.”

His lordship then opened the packet, examined the letters--read and

re-directed some to the Duke of Greenwich, others to the king: the abbé,

all the time, descanting vehemently on Neapolitan politics--regretting

Lord Oldborough’s resignation--adverting still to his lordship’s

powerful influence--and pressing some point in negotiation, for which

his uncle, the cardinal, was most anxious.

Among the letters, there was one which Lord Oldborough did not open: he

laid it on the table with the direction downwards, leaned his elbow upon

it, and sat as if calmly listening to the abbé; but Mr. Percy, knowing

his countenance, saw signs of extraordinary emotion, with difficulty

repressed.

At length the gesticulating abbé finished, and waited his lordship’s

instructions.

They were given in few words. The letters re-directed to the king and

the Duke of Greenwich were returned to him. He thanked his lordship with

many Italian superlatives--declined his lordship’s invitation to stay

till the next day at Clermont-park--said he was pressed in point of

time--that it was indispensably necessary for him to be in London,

to deliver these papers, as soon as possible. His eye glanced on the

unopened letter.

“Private, sir,” said Lord Oldborough, in a stern voice, without moving

his elbow from the paper: “whatever answer it may require, I shall have

the honour to transmit to you--for the cardinal.”

The abbé bowed low, left his address, and took leave. Lord Oldborough,

after attending him to the door, and seeing him depart, returned, took

out his watch, and said to Mr. Percy “Come to me, in my cabinet, in five

minutes.”

Seeing his sister on the walk approaching his house, he added, “Let none

follow me.”

When the five minutes were over, Mr. Percy went to Lord Oldborough’s

cabinet--knocked--no answer--knocked again--louder--all was silent--he

entered--and saw Lord Oldborough seated, but in the attitude of one just

going to rise; he looked more like a statue than a living person: there

was a stiffness in his muscles, and over his face and hands a deathlike

colour. His eyes were fixed, and directed towards the door--but they

never moved when Mr. Percy entered, nor did Lord Oldborough stir at

his approach. From one hand, which hung over the arm of his chair, his

spectacles had dropped; his other hand grasped an open letter.

“My dear lord!” cried Mr. Percy.

He neither heard nor answered. Mr. Percy opened the window and let

down the blind. Then attempting to raise the hand which hung down, he

perceived it was fixed in all the rigidity of catalepsy. In hopes of

recalling his senses or his power of motion, Mr. Percy determined to try

to draw the letter from his grasp; the moment the letter was touched,

Lord Oldborough started--his eyes darting fiercely upon him.

“Who dares? Who are you, sir?” cried he.

“Your friend, Percy--my lord.”

Lord Oldborough pointed to a chair--Mr. Percy sat down. His lordship

recovered gradually from the species of trance into which he had fallen.

The cataleptic rigidity of his figure relaxed--the colour of life

returned--the body regained its functions--the soul resumed at once her

powers. Without seeming sensible of any interruption or intermission of

feeling or thought, Lord Oldborough went on speaking to Mr. Percy.

“The letter which I now hold in my hand is from that Italian lady of

transcendent beauty, in whose company you once saw me when we first

met at Naples. She was of high rank--high endowments. I loved her; how

well--I need not--cannot say. We married secretly. I was induced--no

matter how--to suspect her fidelity--pass over these circumstances--I

cannot speak or think of them. We parted--I never saw her more. She

retired to a convent, and died shortly after: nor did I, till I received

this letter, written on her death-bed, know that she had given me a son.

The proofs that I wronged her are irresistible. Would that they had

been given to me when I could have repaired my injustice!--But her pride

prevented their being sent till the hour of her death.”

On the first reading of her letter, Lord Oldborough had been so struck

by the idea of the injustice he had done the mother, that he seemed

scarcely to advert to the idea of his having a son. Absorbed in the

past, he was at first insensible both to the present and the future.

Early associations, long dormant, were suddenly wakened; he was carried

back with irresistible force to the days of his youth, and something of

likeness in air and voice to the Lord Oldborough he had formerly

known appeared to Mr. Percy. As the tumult of passionate recollections

subsided, as this enthusiastic reminiscence faded, and the memory of the

past gave way to the sense of the present, Lord Oldborough resumed his

habitual look and manner. His thoughts turned upon his son, that unknown

being who belonged to him, who had claims upon him, who might form a

great addition to the happiness or misery of his life. He took up the

letter again, looked for the passage that related to his son, and

read it anxiously to himself, then to Mr. Percy--observing, “that the

directions were so vague, that it would be difficult to act upon them.”

“The boy was sent when three years old to England or Ireland, under the

care of an Irish priest, who delivered him to a merchant, recommended by

the Hamburg banker, &c.”

“I shall have difficulty in tracing this--great danger of being mistaken

or deceived,” said Lord Oldborough, pausing with a look of anxiety.

“Would to God that I had means of knowing with certainty _where_, and

above all, _what_, he is, or that I had never heard of his existence!”

“My lord, are there any more particulars?” inquired Mr. Percy, eagerly.

Lord Oldborough continued to read, “Four hundred pounds of your English

money have been remitted to him annually, by means of these Hamburg

bankers. To them we must apply in the first instance,” said Lord

Oldborough, “and I will write this moment.”

“I think, my lord, I can save you the trouble,” said Mr. Percy: “I know

the man.”

Lord Oldborough put down his pen, and looked at Mr. Percy with

astonishment.

“Yes, my lord, however extraordinary it may appear, I repeat it--I

believe I know your son; and if he be the man I imagine him to be, I

congratulate you--you have reason to rejoice.”

“The facts, my dear sir,” cried Lord Oldborough: “do not raise my

hopes.”

Mr. Percy repeated all that he had heard from Godfrey of Mr.

Henry--related every circumstance from the first commencement of

them--the impertinence and insult to which the mystery that hung

over his birth had subjected him in the regiment--the quarrels in

the regiment--the goodness of Major Gascoigne--the gratitude of Mr.

Henry--the attachment between him and Godfrey--his selling out of the

regiment after Godfrey’s ineffectual journey to London--his wishing to

go into a mercantile house--the letter which Godfrey then wrote, begging

his father to recommend Mr. Henry to Mr. Gresham, disclosing to Mr.

Percy, with Mr. Henry’s permission, all that he knew of his birth.

“I have that letter at home,” said Mr. Percy: “your lordship shall see

it. I perfectly recollect the circumstances of Mr. Henry’s having

been brought up in Ireland by a Dublin merchant, and having received

constantly a remittance in quarterly payments of four hundred pounds a

year, from a banker in Cork.”

“Did he inquire why, or from whom?” said Lord Oldborough; “and does he

know his mother?”

“Certainly not: the answer to his first inquiries prevented all further

questions. He was told by the bankers that they had directions to stop

payment of the remittance if any questions were asked.”

Lord Oldborough listened with profound attention as Mr. Percy went on

with the history of Mr. Henry, relating all the circumstances of his

honourable conduct with respect to Miss Panton--his disinterestedness,

decision, and energy of affection.

Lord Oldborough’s emotion increased--he seemed to recognize some traits

of his own character.

“I _hope_ this youth is my son,” said his lordship, in a low suppressed

voice.

“He deserves to be yours, my lord,” said Mr. Percy.

“To have a son might be the greatest of evils--to have _such_ a son must

be the greatest of blessings,” said his lordship. He was lost in thought

for a moment, then exclaimed, “I must see the letter--I must see the

man.”

“My lord, he is at my house.”

Lord Oldborough started from his seat--“Let me see him instantly.”

“To-morrow, my lord,” said Mr. Percy, in a calm tone, for it was

necessary to calm his impetuosity--“to-morrow. Mr. Henry could not be

brought here to-night without alarming him, or without betraying to him

the cause of our anxiety.”

“To-morrow, let it be--you are right, my dear friend. Let me see him

without his suspecting that I am any thing to him, or he to me--you will

let me have the letter to-night.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Mr. Percy sympathized with his impatience, and gratified it with all the

celerity of a friend: the letter was sent that night to Lord Oldborough.

In questioning his sons more particularly concerning Mr. Henry, Mr.

Percy learnt from Erasmus a fresh and strong corroborating circumstance.

Dr. Percy had been lately attending Mr. Gresham’s porter, O’Brien, the

Irishman; who had been so ill, that, imagining himself dying, he had

sent for a priest. Mr. Henry was standing by the poor fellow’s bedside

when the priest arrived, who was so much struck by the sight of him,

that for some time his attention could scarcely be fixed on the sick

man. The priest, after he had performed his official duties, returned

to Mr. Henry, begged pardon for having looked at him with so much

earnestness, but said that Mr. Henry strongly reminded him of the

features of an Italian lady who had committed a child to his care many

years ago. This led to farther explanation, and upon comparing dates and

circumstances, Mr. Henry was convinced that this was the very priest

who had carried him over to Ireland--the priest recognized him to be the

child of whom he had taken charge; but farther, all was darkness. The

priest knew nothing more--not even the name of the lady from whom he had

received the child. He knew only that he had been handsomely rewarded by

the Dublin merchant, to whom he had delivered the boy--and he had heard

that this merchant had since become bankrupt, and had fled to America.

This promise of a discovery, and sudden stop to his hopes, had only

mortified poor Mr. Henry, and had irritated that curiosity which he had

endeavoured to lull to repose.

Mr. Percy was careful, both for Mr. Henry’s sake and for Lord

Oldborough’s, not to excite hopes which might not ultimately be

accomplished. He took precautions to prevent him from suspecting any

thing extraordinary in the intended introduction to Lord Oldborough.

There had been some dispute between the present minister and some

London merchant, about the terms of a loan which had been made by Lord

Oldborough--Mr. Gresham’s house had some concern in this transaction;

and it was now settled between Mr. Percy and Lord Oldborough, that his

lordship should write to desire to see Mr. Henry, who, as Mr. Gresham’s

partner, could give every necessary information. Mr. Henry accordingly

was summoned to Clermont-park, and accompanied Mr. Percy, with his mind

intent upon this business.

Mr. Henry, in common with all who were capable of estimating a great

public character, had conceived high admiration for Lord Oldborough; he

had seen him only in public, and at a distance--and it was not without

awe that he now thought of being introduced to him, and of hearing and

speaking to him in private.

Lord Oldborough, meanwhile, who had been satisfied by the perusal of

the letter, and by Mr. Percy’s information, waited for his arrival with

extreme impatience. He was walking up and down his room, and looking

frequently at his watch, which he believed more than once to have

stopped. At length the door opened.

“Mr. Percy, and Mr. Henry, my lord.”

Lord Oldborough’s eye darted upon Henry. Struck instantly with the

resemblance to the mother, Lord Oldborough rushed forward, and clasping

him in his arms, exclaimed, “My son!”

Tenderness, excessive tenderness, was in his look, voice, soul, as if he

wished to repair in a moment the injustice of years.

“Yes,” said Lord Oldborough, “_now_ I am happy--_now_, I also, Mr.

Percy, may be proud of a son--I too shall know the pleasures of domestic

life. Now I am happy!” repeated he,

“And, pleased, resigned

To tender passions all his mighty mind.”

_March 26th, 1813._

END OF PATRONAGE.

COMIC DRAMAS.

LOVE AND LAW

A DRAMA.

IN THREE ACTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

MEN.

MR. CARVER, of Bob’s Fort . . _A Justice of the Peace in Ireland._

OLD MATTHEW McBRIDE . . . . _A rich Farmer._

PHILIP McBRIDE . . . . . _His Son._

RANDAL ROONEY . . . . . _Son of the Widow Catherine Rooney

--a Lover of Honor McBride._

MR. GERALD O’BLANEY . . . . _A Distiller._

PATRICK COXE . . . . . _Clerk to Gerald O’Blaney._

WOMEN.

MRS. CARVER . . . . . _Wife of Mr. Carver._

MISS BLOOMSBURY . . . . . _A fine London Waiting-maid

of Mrs. Carver’s._

MRS. CATHERINE ROONEY,

_commonly called_

CATTY ROONEY . . . . _A Widow--Mother of Randal Rooney._

HONOR McBRIDE . . . . . . _Daughter of Matthew McBride, and

Sister of Philip McBride._

A Justice’s Clerk--a Constable--Witnesses--and two Footmen.

LOVE AND LAW

ACT I.

SCENE I.

_A Cottage.--A Table--Breakfast._

_HONOR McBRIDE, alone._

_Honor._ Phil!--(_calls_)--Phil, dear! come out.

_Phil._--(_answers from within_) Wait till I draw on my boots!

_Honor._ Oh, I may give it up: he’s full of his new boots--and singing,

see!

_Enter PHIL McBRIDE, dressed in the height of the Irish buck-farmer

fashion, singing,_

“Oh the boy of Ball’navogue!

Oh the dasher! oh the rogue!

He’s the thing! and he’s the pride

Of town and country, Phil McBride--

All the talk of shoe and brogue!

Oh the boy of Ball’navogue!”

There’s a song to the praise and glory of your--of your brother, Honor!

And who made it, do you think, girl?

_Honor._ Miss Caroline Flaherty, no doubt. But, dear Phil, I’ve a favour

to ask of you.

_Phil._ And welcome! What? But first, see! isn’t there an elegant pair

of boots, that fits a leg like wax?--There’s what’ll plase Car’line

Flaherty, I’ll engage. But what ails you, Honor?--you look as if your

own heart was like to break. Are not you for the fair to-day?--and why

not?

_Honor._ Oh! rasons. (_Aside_) Now I can’t speak.

_Phil._ Speak on, for I’m dumb and all ear--speak up, dear--no fear of

the father’s coming out, for he’s leaving his _bird_ (i.e. beard) in the

bason, and that’s a work of time with him.--Tell all to your own Phil.

_Honor._ Why then I won’t go to the fair--because--better keep myself to

myself, out of the way of meeting them that mightn’t be too plasing to

my father.

_Phil._ And might be too plasing to somebody else--Honor McBride.

_Honor._ Oh, Phil, dear! But only promise me, brother, dearest, if you

would this day meet any of the Rooneys--

_Phil._ That means Randal Rooney.

_Honor._ No, it was his mother Catty was in my head.

_Phil._ A bitterer scould never was!--nor a bigger lawyer in petticoats,

which is an abomination.

_Honor._ ‘Tis not pritty, I grant; but her heart’s good, if her temper

would give it fair play. But will you promise me, Phil, whatever she

says--you won’t let her provoke you this day.

_Phil._ How in the name of wonder will I hinder her to give me

provocation? and when the spirit of the McBrides is up--

_Honor._ But don’t lift a hand.

_Phil._ Against a woman?--no fear--not a finger against a woman.

_Honor._ But I say not against any Rooney, man or woman. Oh, Phil! dear,

don’t let there be any fighting betwixt the McBride and Rooney factions.

_Phil._ And how could I hinder if I would? The boys will be having a

row, especially when they get the spirits--and all the better.

_Honor._ To be drinking! Oh! Phil, the mischief that drinking does!

_Phil._ Mischief! Quite and clane the contrary--when the shillelah’s up,

the pike’s down. ‘Tis when there’d be no fights at fairs, and all sober,

then there’s rason to dread mischief. No man, Honor, dare be letting the

whiskey into his head, was there any mischief in his heart.

_Honor._ Well, Phil, you’ve made it out now cliverly. So there’s most

danger of mischief when men’s sober--is that it?

_Phil._ Irishmen?--ay; for sobriety is not the nat’ral state of the

_craturs_; and what’s not nat’ral is hypocritical, and a hypocrite is,

and was, and ever will be my contempt.

_Honor._ And mine too. But--

_Phil._ But here’s my hand for you, Honor. They call me a beau and a

buck, a slasher and dasher, and flourishing Phil. All that I am, may

be; but there’s one thing I am not, and will never be--and that’s a bad

brother to you. So you have my honour, and here’s my oath to the back of

it. By all the pride of man and all the consate of woman--where will you

find a bigger oath?--happen what will, this day, I’ll not lift my hand

against Randal Rooney!

_Honor._ Oh, thanks! warm from the heart. But here’s my father--and

where’s breakfast?

_Phil._ Oh! I must be at him for a horse: you, Honor, mind and back me.

_Enter Old McBRIDE._

_Old McB._ Late I am this fair day all along with my beard, that was

thicker than a hedgehog’s. Breakfast, where?

_Honor._ Here, father dear--all ready.

_Old McB._ There’s a jewel! always supple o’ foot. Phil, call to them

to bring out the horse bastes, while I swallow my breakfast--and a good

one, too.

_Phil._ Your horse is all ready standing, sir. But that’s what I wanted

to ax you, father--will you be kind enough, sir, to shell out for me the

price of a _daacent_ horse, fit to mount a man like me?

_Old McB._ What ails the baste you have under you always?

_Phil._ Fit only for the hounds:--not to follow, but to feed ‘em.

_Old McB._ Hounds! I don’t want you, Phil, to be following the hounds

at-all-at-all.

_Honor._ But let alone the hounds. If you sell your bullocks well in the

fair to-day, father dear, I think you’ll be so kind to spare Phil the

price of a horse.

_Old McB._ Stand out o’ my way, Honor, with that wheedling voice o’ your

own--I won’t. Mind your own affairs--you’re leaguing again me, and I’ll

engage Randal Rooney’s at the bottom of all--and the cement that sticks

you and Phil so close together. But mind, Madam Honor, if you give him

the meeting at the fair the day--

_Honor._ Dear father, I’m not going--I give up the fair o’ purpose, for

fear I’d see him.

_Old McB._ (_kissing her_) Why then you’re a piece of an angel!

_Honor._ And you’ll give my brother the horse?

_Old McB._ I won’t! when I’ve said I won’t--I wont.

[_Buttons his coat, and exit._

_Phil._ Now there’s a sample of a father for ye!

_Old McB._ (_returning_) And, Mistress Honor, may be you’d be staying at

home to--Where’s Randal Rooney to be, pray, while I’d be from home?

_Honor._ Oh! father, would you suspect--

_Old McB._ (_catching her in his arms, and kissing her again and again_)

Then you’re a true angel, every inch of you. But not a word more in

favour of the horse--sure the money for the bullocks shall go to your

portion, every farthing.

_Honor._ There’s the thing! (_Holding her father_) I don’t wish that.

_Phil._ (_stopping her mouth_) Say no more, Honor--I’m best pleased so.

_Old McB._ (_aside_) I’ll give him the horse, but he sha’n’t know it.

(_Aloud_) I won’t. When I say I won’t, did I ever?

[_Exit Old McBRIDE._

_Phil._ Never since the world _stud_--to do you justice, you are as

obstinate as a mule. Not all the bullocks he’s carrying to the fair the

day, nor all the bullocks in Ballynavogue joined to ‘em, in one team,

would draw that father o’ mine one inch out of his way.

_Honor._ (_aside, with a deep sigh_) Oh, then what will I do about

Randal ever!

_Phil._ As close a fisted father as ever had the grip of a guinea! If

the guineas was all for you--wilcome, Honor! But that’s not it. Pity of

a lad o’ spirit like me to be cramped by such a hunx of a father.

_Honor._ Oh! don’t be calling him names, Phil: stiff he is, more

than close--and any way, Phil dear, he’s the father still--and ould,

consider.

_Phil._ He is,--and I’m fond enough of him, too, would he only give me

the price of a horse. But no matter--spite of him I’ll have my swing

the day, and it’s I that will tear away with a good horse under me and

a good whip over him in a capital style, up and down the street of

Ballynavogue, for you, Miss Car’line Flaherty! I know who I’ll go to,

this minute--a man I’ll engage will lend me the loan of his bay gelding;

and that’s Counshillor Gerald O’Blaney. [_Going, HONOR stops him._

_Honor._ Gerald O’Blaney! Oh, brother!--Mercy!--Don’t! any thing rather

than that--

_Phil._ (_impatiently_) Why, then, Honor?

_Honor._ (_aside_) If I’d tell him, there’d be mischief. (_Aloud._)

Only--I wouldn’t wish you under a compliment to one I’ve no opinion of.

_Phil._ Phoo! you’ve taken a prejudice. What is there again Counshillor

O’Blaney?

_Honor._ _Counshillor!_ First place, why do you call him _counshillor_?

he never was a raal counshillor sure--nor jantleman at all.

_Phil._ Oh! counshillor by courtesy--he was an attorney once--just as we

_doctor_ the apotecary.

_Honor._ But, Phil, was not there something of this man’s being

dismissed the courts for too sharp practice?

_Phil._ But that was long ago, if it ever was. There’s sacrets in all

families to be forgotten--bad to be raking the past. I never knew you so

sharp on a neighbour, Honor, before:--what ails ye?

_Honor._ (_sighing_) I can’t tell ye. [_Still holding him._

_Phil._ Let me go, then!--Nonsense!--the boys of Ballynavogue will be

wondering, and Miss Car’line most.

[_Exit, singing,_

“Oh the boys of Ball’navogue.”

_HONOR, alone._

_Honor._ Oh, Phil! I _could_ not tell it you; but did you but know how

_that_ Gerald O’Blaney insulted your shister with his vile proposhals,

you’d no more ask the loan of his horse!--and I in dread, whenever

I’d be left in the house alone, that that bad man would boult in upon

me--and Randal to find him! and Randal’s like gunpowder when his heart’s

touched!--and if Randal should come _by himself_, worse again! Honor,

where would be your resolution to forbid him your presence? Then there’s

but one way to be right--I’ll lave home entirely. Down, proud stomach!

You must go to service, Honor McBride. There’s Mrs. Carver, kind-hearted

lady, is wanting a girl--she’s English, and nice; may be I’d not be

good enough; but I can but try, and do my best; any thing to plase the

father.

[_Exit HONOR._

SCENE II.

_O’BLANEY’S Counting-house._

_GERALD O’BLANEY alone at a desk covered with Papers._

_O’Bla._ Of all the employments in life, this eternal balancing of

accounts, see-saw, is the most sickening of all things, except it

would be the taking the inventory of your stock, when you’re reduced to

_invent_ the stock itself;--then that’s the most lowering to a man of

all things! But there’s one comfort in this distillery business--come

what will, a man has always _proof spirits_.

_Enter PAT COXE._

_Pat._ The whole tribe of Connaught men come, craving to be _ped_ for

the oats, counsellor, due since last Serapht[1] fair.

[Footnote 1: Shrovetide.]

_O’Bla._ Can’t be ped to-day, let ‘em crave never so.--Tell ‘em

_Monday_; and give ‘em a glass of whiskey round, and that will send ‘em

off contint, in a jerry.

_Pat._ I shall--I will--I see, sir. [_Exit PAT COXE._

_O’Bla._ Asy settled that!--but I hope many more duns for oats won’t

be calling on me this day, for cash is not to be had:--here’s bills

plenty--long bills, and short bills--but even the kites, which I can fly

as well as any man, won’t raise the wind for me now.

_Re-enter PAT._

_Pat._ Tim McGudikren, sir, for his debt--and talks of the sub-sheriff,

and can’t wait.

_O’Bla._ I don’t ax him to wait; but he must take in payment, since he’s

in such a hurry, this bill at thirty-one days, tell him.

_Pat._ I shall tell him so, plase your honour. [_Exit PAT._

_O’Bla._ They have all rendezvous’d to drive me mad this day; but the

only thing is to keep the head cool. What I’m dreading beyant all is,

if that ould Matthew McBride, who is as restless as a ferret when he has

lodged money with any one, should come this day to take out of my hands

the two hundred pounds I’ve got of his--Oh, then I might shut up! But

stay, I’ll match him--and I’ll match myself too: that daughter Honor of

his is a mighty pretty girl to look at, and since I can’t get her any

other way, why not ax her in marriage? Her portion is to be--

_Re-enter PAT._

_Pat._ The protested note, sir--with the charge of the protest to the

back of it, from Mrs. Lorigan; and her compliments, and to know what

will she do?

_O’Bla._ What will _I_ do, fitter to ax. My kind compliments to Mrs.

Lorigan, and I’ll call upon her in the course of the day, to settle it

all.

_Pat._ I understand, sir. [_Exit PAT._

_O’Bla._ Honor McBride’s portion will be five hundred pounds on the

nail--that would be no bad hit, and she a good, clever, likely girl.

I’ll pop the question this day.

_Re-enter PAT._

_Pat._ Corkeran the cooper’s bill, as long as my arm.

_O’Bla._ Oh! don’t be bothering me any more. Have you no sinse? Can’t

you get shut of Corkeran the cooper without me? Can’t ye quarrel with

the items? Tear the bill down the middle, if necessary, and sind him

away with a flay (flea) in his ear, to make out a proper bill--which I

can’t see till to-morrow, mind. I never pay any man on fair-day.

_Pat._ (_aside_) Nor on any other day. (_Aloud_) Corkeran’s my cousin,

counsellor, and if convanient, I’d be glad you’d advance him a pound or

two on account.

_O’Bla._ ‘Tis not convanient was he twenty times your cousin, Pat. I

can’t be paying in bits, nor on account--all or none.

_Pat._ None, then, I may tell him, sir?

_O’Bla._ You may--you must; and don’t come up for any of ‘em any more.

It’s hard if I can’t have a minute to talk to myself.

_Pat._ And it’s hard if I can’t have a minute to eat my breakfast, too,

which I have not. [_Exit PAT._

_O’Bla._ Where was I?--I was popping the question to Honor McBride.

The only thing is, whether the girl herself wouldn’t have an

objection:--there’s that Randal Rooney is a great _bachelor_ of hers,

and I doubt she’d be apt to prefar him before me, even when I’d

purpose marriage. But the families of the Rooneys and McBrides is at

vareance--then I must keep ‘em so. I’ll keep Catty Rooney’s spirit up,

niver to consent to that match. Oh! if them Rooneys and McBrides were

by any chance to make it up, I’d be undone: but against that catastrophe

I’ve a preventative. Pat Coxe! Pat Coxe! where are you, my young man?

_Enter PAT, wiping his mouth._

_Pat._ Just swallowing my breakfast.

_O’Bla._ Mighty long swallowing you are. Here--don’t be two minutes,

till you’re at Catty Rooney’s, and let me see how cliverly you’ll

execute that confidential embassy I trusted you with. Touch Catty up

about her ould ancient family, and all the Kings of Ireland she comes

from. _Blarney_ her cliverly, and work her to a foam against the

McBrides.

_Pat._ Never fear, your honour. I’ll tell her the story we agreed on, of

Honor McBride meeting of Randal Rooney behind the chapel.

_O’Bla._ That will do--don’t forget the ring; for I mane to put another

on the girl’s finger, if she’s agreeable, and knows her own interest.

But that last’s a private article. Not a word of that to Catty, you

understand.

_Pat._ Oh! I understand--and I’ll engage I’ll compass Catty, tho’ she’s

a cunning shaver.

_O’Bla._ Cunning?--No; she’s only hot tempered, and asy managed.

_Pat._ Whatever she is, I’ll do my best to plase you. And I expict your

honour, counsellor, won’t forget the promise you made me, to ask Mr.

Carver for that little place--that situation that would just shute me.

_O’Bla._ Never fear, never fear. Time enough to think of shuting you,

when you’ve done my business. [_Exit PAT._ That will work like harm, and

ould Matthew, the father, I’ll speak to, myself, genteelly. He will be

proud, I warrant, to match his daughter with a gentleman like me. But

what if he should smell a rat, and want to be looking into my affairs?

Oh! I must get it sartified properly to him before all things, that

I’m as safe as the bank; and I know who shall do that for me--my worthy

friend, that most consequential magistrate, Mr. Carver of Bob’s Fort,

who loves to be advising and managing of all men, women, and children,

for their good. ‘Tis he shall advise ould Matthew for _my_ good. Now

Carver thinks he lades the whole county, and ten mile round--but who is

it lades him, I want to know? Why, Gerald O’Blaney.--And how? Why, by

a spoonful of the universal panacea, _flattery_--in the vulgar tongue,

_flummery_. (_A knock at the door heard._) Who’s rapping at the

street?--Carver of Bob’s Fort himself, in all his glory this fair-day.

See then how he struts and swells. Did ever man, but a pacock, look so

fond of himself with less rason? But I must be caught deep in accounts,

and a balance of thousands to credit. (_Sits down to his desk,

to account books._) Seven thousand, three hundred, and two pence.

(_Starting and rising._) Do I see Mr. Carver of Bob’s Fort?--Oh! the

honour--

_Mr. Carv._ Don’t stir, pray--I beg--I request--I insist. I am by no

means ceremonious, sir.

_O’Bla._ (_bustling and setting two chairs_) No, but I’d wish to show

respect proper to him I consider the first man in the county.

_Mr. Carv._ (_aside_) Man! gentleman, he might have said.

[_Mr. CARVER sits down and rests himself consequentially._

_O’Bla._ Now, Mr. Carver of Bob’s Fort, you’ve been over fartiguing

yourself--

_Mr. Carv._ For the public good. I can’t help it, really.

_O’Bla._ Oh! but, upon my word and honour, it’s too much: there’s rason

in all things. A man of Mr. Carver’s fortin to be slaving! If you were a

man in business, like me, it would be another thing. I must slave at the

desk to keep all round. See, Mr. Carver, see!--ever since the day you

advised me to be as particular as yourself in keeping accounts to a

farthing, I do, to a fraction, even like state accounts, see!

_Mr. Carv._ And I trust you find your advantage in it, sir. Pray, how

does the distillery business go on?

_O’Bla._ Swimmingly! ever since that time, Mr. Carver, your interest at

the castle helped me at the dead lift, and got that fine took off. ‘Tis

to your purtiction, encouragement, and advice entirely, I owe my present

unexampled prosperity, which you prophesied; and Mr. Carver’s prophecies

seldom, I may say never, fail to be accomplished.

_Mr. Carv._ I own there is some truth in your observation. I confess I

have seldom been mistaken or deceived in my judgment of man, woman, or

child.

_O’Bla._ Who can say so much?

_Mr. Carv._ For what reason, I don’t pretend to say; but the fact

ostensibly is, that the few persons I direct with my advice are

unquestionably apt to prosper in this world.

_O’Bla._ Mighty apt! for which rason I would wish to trouble you for

your unprecedently good advice on another pint, if it, would not be too

great a liberty.

_Mr. Carv._ No liberty at all, my good Gerald--I am always ready to

advise--only to-day--certainly, the fair day of Ballynavogue, there are

so many calls upon me, both in a public and private capacity, so much

business of vital importance!

_O’Bla._ (_aside_) Vital importance!--that is his word on all occasions.

(_Aloud_) May be then, (oh! where was my head?) may be you would not

have breakfasted all this time? and we’ve the kittle down always in this

house, (_rising_) Pat!--Jack!--Mick!--Jenny! put the kittle down.

_Mr. Carv._ Sit down, sit still, my worthy fellow. Breakfasted at Bob’s

Fort, as I always do.

_O’Bla._ But a bit of cake--a glass of wine, to refrish and replinish

nature.

_Mr. Carv._ Too early--spoil my dinner. But what was I going to say?

_O’Bla._ (_aside_) Burn me, if I know; and I pray all the saints you may

never recollect.

_Mr. Carv._ I recollect. How many times do you think I was stopped on

horseback coming up the street of Ballynavogue?--Five times by weights

and measures imperiously calling for reformation, sir. Thirteen times,

upon my veracity, by booths, apple-stalls, nuisances, vagabonds, and

drunken women. Pigs without end, sir--wanting ringing, and all squealing

in my ears, while I was settling sixteen disputes about tolls and

customs. Add to this, my regular battle every fair-day with the

crane, which ought to be any where but where it is; and my perputual

discoveries of fraudulent kegs, and stones in the butter! Now, sir,

I only ask, can you wonder that I wipe my forehead? (_wiping his

forehead_).

_O’Bla._ In troth, Mr. Carver, I cannot! But these are the pains and

penalties of being such a man of consequence as you evidently are;--and

I that am now going to add to your troubles too by consulting you about

my little pint!

_Mr. Carv._ A point of law, I dare to say; for people somehow or other

have got such a prodigious opinion of my law. (_Takes snuff._)

_O’Bla._ (_aside_) No coming to the pint till he has finished his own

panygeric.

_Mr. Carv._ And I own I cannot absolutely turn my back on people. Yet

as to _poor_ people, I always settle them by telling them, it is my

principle that law is too expensive for the poor: I tell them, the poor

have nothing to do with the laws.

_O’Bla._ Except the penal.

_Mr. Carv._ True, the civil is for us, men of property; and no man

should think of going to law, without he’s qualified. There should be

licenses.

_O’Bla._ No doubt. Pinalties there are in plinty; still those who can

afford should indulge. In Ireland it would as ill become a gentleman to

be any way shy of a law-shute, as of a duel.

_Mr. Carv._ Yet law is expensive, sir, even to me.

_O’Bla._ But ‘tis the best economy in the end; for when once you have

cast or non-shuted your man in the courts, ‘tis as good as winged him in

the field. And suppose you don’t get sixpence costs, and lose your cool

hundred by it, still it’s a great advantage; for you are let alone to

enjoy your own in pace and quiet ever after, which you could not do in

this county without it. But the love of the law has carried me away from

my business: the pint I wanted to consult you about is not a pint of

law; ‘tis another matter.

_Mr. Carv._ (_looking at his watch_) I must be at Bob’s Fort, to seal my

despatches for the castle. And there’s another thing I say of myself.

_O’Bla._ (_aside_) Remorseless agotist!

_Mr. Carv._ I don’t know how the people all have got such an idea of my

connexions at the castle, and my influence with his Excellency, that I

am worried with eternal applications: they expect I can make them all

gaugers or attorney-generals, I believe. How do they know I write to the

castle?

_O’Bla._ Oh! the post-office tells asy by the big sales (seals) to your

despatches--(_aside_)--which, I’ll engage, is all the castle ever, rades

of them, though Carver has his Excellency always in his mouth, God help

him!

_Mr. Carv._ Well, you wanted to consult me, Gerald?

_O’Bla._ And you’ll give me your advice, which will be conclusive, law,

and every thing to me. You know the McBrides--would they be safe?

_Mr. Carv._ Very safe, substantial people.

_O’Bla._ Then here’s the thing, Mr. Carver: as you recommend them, and

as they are friends of yours--I will confess to you that, though it

might not in pint of interest be a very prudent match, I am thinking

that Honor McBride is such a prudent girl, and Mrs. Carver has taken her

by the hand, so I’d wish to follow Mrs. Carver’s example for life, in

taking Honor by the hand for better for worse.

_Mr. Carv._ In my humble opinion you cannot do better; and I can tell

you a secret--Honor will have no contemptible fortune in that rank of

life.

_O’Bla._ Oh, fortune’s always contemptible in marriage.

_Mr. Carv._ Fortune! sir?

_O’Bla._ (_aside_) Overshot. (_Aloud_) In comparison with the patronage

and protection or countenance she’d have from you and your family, sir.

_Mr. Carv._ That you may depend upon, my good Gerald, as far as we can

go; but you know we are nothing.

_O’Bla._ Oh, I know you’re every thing--every thing on

earth--particularly with ould McBride; and you know how to speak so well

and iloquent, and I’m so tongue-tied and bashful on such an occasion.

_Mr. Carv._ Well, well, I’ll speak for you.

_O’Bla._ A thousand thanks down to the ground.

_Mr. Carv._ (_patting him on the back as he rises_) My _poor_ Gerald.

_O’Bla._ Then I am _poor_ Gerald in point of wit, I know; but you are

too good a friend to be calling me _poor_ to ould McBride--you can say

what I can’t say.

_Mr. Carv._ Certainly, certainly; and you may depend on me. I shall

speak my decided opinion; and I fancy McBride has sense enough to be

ruled by me.

_O’Bla._ I am sure he has--only there’s a Randal Rooney, a wild young

man, in the case. I’d be sorry the girl was thrown I away upon Randal.

_Mr. Carv._ She has too much sense: the father will settle that, and

I’ll settle the father. [_Mr. CARVER going._

_O’Bla._ (_following, aside_) And who has settled you?

_Mr. Carv._ Don’t stir--don’t stir--men of business must be nailed to a

spot--and I’m not ceremonious. [_Exit Mr. CARVER._

_O’Bla._ Pinned him by all that’s cliver! [_Exit O’BLANEY._

SCENE III.

_Mrs. CARVER’S Dressing-room._

_Mrs. CARVER sitting at work.--BLOOMSBURY standing._

_Bloom._ Certainly, ma’am, what I always said was, that for the

commonalty, there’s no getting out of an Irish cabin a girl fit to be

about a lady such as you, Mrs. Carver, in the shape of a waiting-maid

or waiting-maid’s assistant, on account they smell so of smoke, which

is very distressing; but this Honor McBride seems a bettermost sort of

girl, ma’am; if you can make up your mind to her _vice_.

_Mrs. Carv._ Vice?

_Bloom._ That is, vicious pronounciations in regard to their Irish

brogues.

_Mrs. Carv._ Is that all?--I am quite accustomed to _the accent_.

_Bloom._ Then, ma’am, I declare now, I’ve been forced to stuff my

_hears_ with cotton wool hever since I comed to Ireland. But this here

Honor McBride has a mighty pretty _vice_, if you don’t take exceptions

to a little nationality; nor she if not so smoke-dried: she’s really a

nice, tidy-looking like girl considering. I’ve taken tea with the family

often, and they live quite snug for Hirish. I’ll assure you, ma’am,

quite bettermost people for Hibernians, as you always said, ma’am.

_Mrs. Carv._ I have a regard for old Matthew, though he is something of

a miser, I fear.

_Bloom._ So, ma’am, shall I call the girl up, that we may see and talk

to her? I think, ma’am, you’ll find she will do; and I reckon to keep

her under my own eye and advice from morning till night: for when I seed

the girl so willing to larn, I quite took a fancy to her, I own--as it

were.

_Mrs. Carv._ Well, Bloomsbury, let me see this Honor McBride.

_Bloom._ (_calling_) One of you there! please call up Honor McBride.

_Mrs. Carv._ She has been waiting a great while, I fear; I don’t like to

keep people waiting.

_Bloom._ (_watching for HONOR as she speaks_) Dear heart, ma’am, in

this here country, people does love waiting for waiting’s sake, that’s

sure--they got nothing else to do. Here, Honor--walk in, Honor,--rub

your shoes always.

_Enter HONOR, timidly._

_Mrs. Carv._ (_in an encouraging voice_) Come in, my good girl.

_Bloom._ Oh! child, the door: the peoples never shut a door in, Ireland!

Did not I warn you?--says I, “Come when you’re called--do as you’re

bid--shut the door after you, and you’ll never be chid.” Now what did I

tell you, child?

_Honor._ To shut the door after me when I’d come into a room.

_Bloom._ _When I’d come_--now that’s not dic’snary English.

_Mrs. Carv._ Good Bloomsbury, let that pass for the present--come a

little nearer to me, my good girl.

_Honor._ Yes, ma’am.

_Bloom._ Take care of that china pyramint with your cloak--walk on to

Mrs. Carver--no need to be afraid--I’ll stand your friend.

_Mrs. Carv._ I should have thought, Honor McBride, you were in too

comfortable a way at home, to think of going into service.

_Honor._ (_sighs_) No better father, nor brother, _nor_ (than) I have,

ma’am, I thank your ladyship; but some things come across.

_Mrs. Carv._ (_aside_) Oh! it is a blushing case, I see: I must talk to

her alone, by-and-by. (_Aloud_) I don’t mean, my good girl, to pry into

your family affairs.

_Honor._ Oh! ma’am, you’re too good. (_Aside_) The kind-hearted Lady,

how I love her already! (_She wipes the tears from her eyes._)

_Bloom._ Take care of the bow-pot at your elbow, child; for if you break

the necks of them moss roses--

_Honor._ I ax their pardon.

_Mrs. Carv._ Better take the flower-pot out of her way, Bloomsbury.

_Bloom._ (_moving the flower-pot_) There, now: but, Honor, keep your

eyes on my lady, never turn your head, and keep your hands always afore

you, as I show you. Ma’am, she’ll larn manners in time--Lon’on was not

built in a day. It i’n’t to be expected of she!

_Mrs. Carv._ It is not to be expected indeed that she should learn every

thing at once; so one thing at a time, good Bloomsbury, and one person

at a time. Leave Honor to me for the present.

_Bloom._ Certainly, ma’am; I beg pardon--I was only saying--

_Mrs. Carv._ Since it is, it seems, necessary, my good girl, that you

should leave home, I am glad that you are not too proud to go into

service.

_Honor._ Oh! into _your_ service, ma’am,--I’d be too proud if you’d be

kind enough to accept me.

_Mrs. Carv._ Then as to wages, what do you expect?

_Honor._ Any thing at all you please, ma’am.

_Bloom._ (_pressing down her shoulder_) And where’s your curtsy? We

shall bring these Irish knees into training by and by, I hopes.

_Honor._ I’m awk’ard and strange, ma’am--I never was from home afore.

_Mrs. Carv._ Poor girl--we shall agree very well, I hope.

_Honor._ Oh yes, any thing at all, ma’am; I’m not greedy--nor needy,

thanks above! but it’s what I’d wish to be under your protection if it

was plasing, and I’ll do my very best, madam. (_Curtsies._)

_Mrs. Carv._ Nobody can expect more, and I hope and trust you’ll find

mine an easy place--Bloomsbury, you will tell her, what will be required

of her. (_Mrs. Carver looks at her watch._) At twelve o’clock I shall

be returned from my walk, and then, Honor, you will come into my cabinet

here; I want to say a few words to you. [_Exeunt omnes._

SCENE IV.

_The High Road--A Cottage in view--Turf-stack, Hay-rick, &c._

_Catty Rooney alone, walking backwards and forwards._

_Catty._ ‘Tis but a stone’s throw to Ballynavogue. But I don’t like to

be going into the fair on foot, when I been always used to go in upon

my pillion behind my husband when living, and my son Randal, after his

death. Wait, who comes here?--‘Tis Gerald O’Blaney’s, the distiller’s,

young man, Pat Coxe: now we’ll larn all--and whether O’Blaney can lend

me the loan of a horse or no. A good morrow to you, kindly, Mr. Pat

Coxe.

_Enter PAT COXE._

_Pat._ And you the same, Mrs. Rooney, tinfold. Mr. O’Blaney has his

_sarvices_ to you, ma’am: no, not his _sarvices_, but his compliments,

that was the word--his kind compliments, that was the very word.

_Catty._ The counshillor’s always very kind to me, and genteel.

_Pat._ And was up till past two in the morning, last night, madam, he

bid me say, looking over them papers you left with him for your shuit,

ma’am, with the McBrides, about the bit of Ballynascraw bog; and if you

call upon the counshillor in the course of the morning, he’ll find, or

make, a minute, for a consultation, he says. But mane time, to take no

step to compromise, or make it up, _for your life_, ma’am.

_Catty._ No fear, I’ll not give up at law, or any way, to a McBride,

while I’ve a drop of blood in my veins--and it’s good thick Irish blood

runs in these veins.

_Pat._ No doubt, ma’am--from the kings of Ireland, as all the world

knows, Mrs. Rooney.

_Catty._ And the McBrides have no blood at-all-at-all.

_Pat._ Not a drop, ma’am--so they can’t stand before you.

_Catty._ They _ought_ not, any way!--What are they? Cromwellians at the

best. Mac Brides! Scotch!--not Irish native, at-all-at-all. People of

yesterday, graziers--which tho’ they’ve made the money, can’t buy the

blood. My anshestors sat on a throne, when the McBrides had only their

_hunkers_[1] to sit upon; and if I walk now when they ride, they can’t

look down upon me--for every body knows who I am--and what they are.

[Footnote 1: Their _hunkers_, i.e. their hams.]

_Pat._ To be sure, ma’am, they do--the whole country talks of nothing

else, but the shame when you’d be walking and they riding.

_Catty._ Then could the counshillor lend me the horse?

_Pat._ With all the pleasure in life, ma’am, only every horse he has in

the world is out o’ messages, and drawing turf and one thing or another

to-day--and he is very sorry, ma’am.

_Catty._ So am I, then--I’m unlucky the day. But I won’t be saying so,

for fear of spreading ill luck on my faction. Pray now what kind of a

fair is it?--Would there be any good signs of a fight, Mr. Pat Coxe?

_Pat._ None in life as yet, ma’am--only just buying and selling. The

horse-bastes, and horned-cattle, and pigs squeaking, has it all to

themselves. But it’s early times yet--it won’t be long so.

_Catty._ No McBrides, no Ballynavogue boys gathering yet?

_Pat._ None to signify of the McBrides, ma’am, at all.

_Catty._ Then it’s plain them McBrides dare not be showing their faces,

or even their backs, in Ballynavogue. But sure all our Ballynascraw

boys, the Roonies, are in it as usual, I hope?

_Pat._ Oh, ma’am, there is plinty of Roonies. I marked Big Briny of

Cloon, and Ulick of Eliogarty, and little Charley of Killaspugbrone.

_Catty._ All _good_ men[1]--no better. Praise be where due.

[Footnote 1: men who fight well.]

_Pat._ And scarce a McBride I noticed. But the father and son--ould

Matthew, and flourishing Phil, was in it, with a new pair of boots and

the silver-hilted whip.

_Catty._ The spalpeen! turned into a buckeen, that would be a

squireen,--but can’t.

_Pat._ No, for the father pinches him.

_Catty._ That’s well--and that ould Matthew is as obstinate a neger as

ever famished his stomach. What’s he doing in Ballynavogue the day?

_Pat._ Standing he is there, in the fair-green with his score of fat

bullocks, that he has got to sell.

_Catty._ Fat bullocks! Them, I reckon, will go towards Honor McBride’s

portion, and a great fortin she’ll be for a poor man--but I covet none

of it for me or mine.

_Pat._ I’m sure of that, ma’am,--you would not demane yourself to the

likes.

_Catty._ Mark me, Pat Coxe, now--with all them fat bullocks at her back,

and with all them fresh roses in her cheeks--and I don’t say but she’s a

likely girl, if she wa’n’t a McBride; but with all that, and if she was

the best spinner in the three counties--and I don’t say but she’s good,

if she wa’n’t a McBride;--but was she the best of the best, and the

fairest of the fairest, and had she to boot the two stockings full of

gould, Honor McBride shall never be brought home, a daughter-in-law to

me! My pride’s up.

_Pat._ (_aside_) And I’m instructed to keep it up.--(_Aloud_) True for

ye, ma’am, and I wish that all had as much proper pride, as ought to be

having it.

_Catty._ There’s maning in your eye, Pat--give it tongue.

_Pat._ If you did not hear it, I suppose there’s no truth in it.

_Catty._ What?--which?

_Pat._ That your son Randal, Mrs. Rooney, is not of your way of thinking

about Honor McBride, may be’s.

_Catty._ Tut! No matter what way of thinking he is--a young slip of a

boy like him does not know what he’ll think to-morrow. He’s a good son

to me; and in regard to a wife, one girl will do him as well as another,

if he has any sinse--and I’ll find him a girl that will plase him, I’ll

engage.

_Pat._ May be so, ma’am--no fear: only boys do like to be plasing

themselves, by times--and I noticed something.

_Catty._ What did you notice?--till me, Pat, dear, quick.

_Pat._ No--‘tis bad to be meddling and remarking to get myself ill-will;

so I’ll keep myself to myself: for Randal’s ready enough with his hand

as you with the tongue--no offence, Mrs. Rooney, ma’am.

_Catty._ Niver fear--only till me the truth, Pat, dear.

_Pat._ Why, then, to the best of my opinion, I seen Honor McBride just

now giving Randal Rooney the meeting behind the chapel; and I seen him

putting a ring on her finger.

_Catty._ (_clasping her hands_) Oh, murder!--Oh! the unnat’ral monsters

that love makes of these young men; and the traitor, to use me so, when

he promised he’d never make a stolen match unknown’st to me.

_Pat._ Oh, ma’am, I don’t say--I wouldn’t swear--it’s a match yet.

_Catty._ Then I’ll run down and stop it--and catch ‘em.

_Pat._ You haven’t your jock on, ma’am--(_she turns towards the

house_)--and it’s no use--for you won’t catch ‘em: I seen them after,

turning the back way into Nick Flaherty’s.

_Catty._ Nick Flaherty’s, the publican’s? oh, the sinners! And this is

the saint that Honor McBride would be passing herself upon us for? And

all the edication she got at Mrs. Carver’s Sunday school! Oh, this comes

of being better than one’s neighbours! A fine thing to tell Mrs. Carver,

the English lady, that’s so nice, and so partial to Miss Honor McBride!

Oh, I’ll expose her!

_Pat._ Oh! sure, Mrs. Rooney, you promised you’d not tell, (_Standing so

as to stop CATTY._)

_Catty._ Is it who told me? No--I won’t mintion a sintence of your name.

But let me by--I won’t be put off now I’ve got the scent. I’ll hunt ‘em

out, and drag her to shame, if they’re above ground, or my name’s not

Catty Rooney! Mick! Mick! little Mick! (_calling at the cottage door_)

bring my blue _jock_ up the road after me to Ballynavogue. Don’t let

me count three till you’re after me, or I’ll bleed ye! (_Exit CATTY,

shaking her closed hand, and repeating_) I’ll expose Honor McBride--I’ll

expose Honor! I will, by the blessing!

_Pat._ (_alone_) Now, if Randal Rooney would hear, he’d make a jelly

of me, and how I’d trimble; or the brother, if he comed across me, and

knewed. But they’ll niver know. Oh, Catty won’t say a sintence of my

name, was she carded! No, Catty’s a scould, but has a conscience. Then I

like conscience in them I have to dale with sartainly. [_Exit._

SCENE V.

_Mrs. CARVER’S Dressing-room, HONOR McBRIDE and MISS BLOOMSBURY

discovered._

_Honor._ How _will_ I know, Miss Bloomsbury, when it will be twelve

o’clock?

_Bloom._ You’ll hear the clock strike: but I suspect you’se don’t

understand the clock yet--well, you’ll hear the workmen’s bell.

_Honor._ I know, ma’am, oh, I know, true--only I was flurried, so I

forgot.

_Bloom._ Flurried! but never be flurried. Now mind and keep your head

upon your shoulders, while I tell you all your duty--you’ll just ready

this here room, your lady’s dressing-room; not a partical of dust let me

never find, petticlarly behind the vindor shuts.

_Honor._ Vindor shuts!--where, ma’am?

_Bloom._ The _shuts_ of the _vindors_--did you never hear of a vindor,

child?

_Honor._ Never, ma’am.

_Bloom._ (_pointing to a window_) Don’t tell me! why, your head is

a wool-gathering! Now, mind me, pray--see here, always you put that

there,--and this here, and that upon that,--and this upon this, and this

under that,--and that under this--you can remember that much, child, I

supposes?

_Honor._ I’ll do my endeavour, ma’am, to remember all.

_Bloom._ But mind, now, my good girl, you takes _petticlar_ care of this

here pyramint of japanned china--and _very_ petticlar care of that there

great joss--and the _very most petticularest_ care of this here right

reverend Mandolin. (_Pointing to, and touching a Mandarin, so as to make

it shake. HONOR starts back._)

_Bloom._ It i’n’t alive. Silly child, to start at a Mandolin shaking his

head and beard at you. But, oh! mercy, if there i’n’t enough to make him

shake his head. Stand there!--stand here!--now don’t you see?

_Honor._ _Which_, ma’am?

_Bloom._ “_Which, ma’am!_” you’re no _witch_, indeed, if you don’t see a

cobweb as long as my arm. Run, run, child, for the pope’s head.

_Honor._ Pope’s head, ma’am?

_Bloom._ Ay, the pope’s head, which you’ll find under the stairs. Well,

a’n’t you gone? what do you stand there like a stuck pig, for?--Never

see a pope’s head?--never ‘ear of a pope’s head?

_Honor._ I’ve heard of one, ma’am--with the priest; but we are

protestants.

_Bloom._ Protestants! what’s that to do? I do protest, I believe that

little head of yours is someway got wrong on your shoulders to-day.

[_The clock strikes_--HONOR, _who is close to it, starts._

_Bloom._ Start again!--why, you’re all starts and fits. Never start,

child! so ignoramus like! ‘tis only the clock in your ear,--twelve

o’clock, hark!--The bell will ring now in a hurry. Then you goes in

there to my lady--stay, you’ll never be able, I dare for to say, for to

open the door without me; for I opine you are not much usen’d to brass

locks in Hirish cabins--can’t be expected. See here, then! You turns the

lock in your hand this’n ways--the lock, mind now; not the key nor the

bolt for your life, child, else you’d bolt your lady in, and there’d be

my lady in Lob’s pound, and there’d be a pretty kettle, of fish!--So you

keep, if you can, all I said to you in your head, if possible--and you

goes in there--and I goes out here.

[_Exit BLOOMSBURY._

_Honor._ (curtsying) Thank ye, ma’am. Then all this time I’m sensible

I’ve been behaving and looking little better than like a fool, or an

_innocent._--But I hope I won’t be so bad when the lady shall speak to

me. (_The bell rings._) Oh, the bell summons me in here.--(_Speaks with

her hand on the lock of the door_) The lock’s asy enough--I hope I’ll

take courage--(_sighs_)--Asier to spake before one nor two, any way--and

asier tin times to the mistress than the maid. [_Exit HONOR._

ACT II.

SCENE I.

_GERALD O’BLANEY’S Counting-house._

_O’BLANEY alone._

_O’Bla._ Then I wonder that ould Matthew McBride is not here yet. But

is not this Pat Coxe coming up yonder? Ay. Well, Pat, what success with

Catty?

_Enter PAT COXE, panting._

Take breath, man alive--What of Catty?

_Pat._ Catty! Oh, murder! No time to be talking of Catty now! Sure the

shupervizor’s come to town.

_O’Bla._ Blood!--and the malt that has not paid duty in the cellar! Run,

for your life, to the back-yard, give a whistle to call all the boys

that’s ricking o’ the turf, away with ‘em to the cellar, out with every

sack of malt that’s in it, through the back-yard, throw all into the

middle of the turf-stack, and in the wink of an eye build up the rick

over all, snoog (snug).

_Pat._ I’ll engage we’ll have it done in a crack. [_Exit PAT._

_O’Bla._ (_calling after him_) Pat! Pat Coxe! man!

_Re-enter PAT._

_O’Bla._ Would there be any fear of any o’ the boys _informin_?

_Pat._ Sooner cut their ears off! [_Exit PAT._

_Enter Old McBRIDE, at the opposite side._

_Old McB._ (_speaking in a slow, drawling brogue_) Would Mr. Gerald

O’Blaney, the counsellor, be within?

_O’Bla._ (_quick brogue_) Oh, my best friend, Matthew McBride, is it

you, dear? Then here’s Gerald O’Blaney, always at your sarvice. But

shake hands; for of all men in Ireland, you are the man I was aching to

lay my eyes on. And in the fair did ye happen to meet Carver of Bob’s

Fort?

_Old McB._ (_speaking very slowly_) Ay. did I--and he was a-talking

to me, and I was a-talking to him--and he’s a very good gentleman, Mr.

Carver of Bob’s Fort--so he is--and a gentleman that knows how things

should be; and he has been giving of me, Mr. O’Blaney, a great account

of you, and how you’re thriving in the world--and so as that.

_O’Bla._ Nobody should know that better than Mr. Carver of Bob’s

Fort--he knows all my affairs. He is an undeniable honest gentleman, for

whom I profess the highest regard.

_Old McB._ Why then he has a great opinion of you too, counsellor--for

he has been advising of, and telling of me, O’Blaney, of your proposhal,

sir--and very sinsible I am of the honour done by you to our family,

sir--and condescension to the likes of us--though, to be sure, Honor

McBride, though she is my daughter, is a match for any man.

_O’Bla._ Is a match for a prince--a Prince Ragent even. So no more about

condescension, my good Matthew, for love livels all distinctions.

_Old McB._ That’s very pretty of you to say so, sir; and I’ll repeat it

to Honor.

_O’Bla._ Cupid is the great liveller, after all, and the only democrat

Daity on earth I’d bow to--for I know you are no democrat, Mr. McBride,

but quite and clane the contrary way.

_Old McB._ Quite and clane and stiff, I thank my God; and I’m glad, in

spite of the vowel before your name, Mr. O’Blaney, to hear you are of

the same kidney.

_O’Bla._ I’m happy to find myself agreeable to you, sir.

_Old McB._ But, however agreeable to me, as I won’t deny, it might be,

sir, to see my girl made into a gentlewoman by marriage, I must observe

to you--

_O’Bla._ And I’ll keep her a jaunting car to ride about the country;

and in another year, as my fortune’s rising, my wife should rise with it

into a coach of her own.

_Old McB._ Oh! if I’d live to see my child, my Honor, in a coach of her

own! I’d be too happy--oh, I’d die contint!

_O’Bla._ (_aside_) No fear!--(_Aloud_) And why should not she ride in

her own coach, Mistress Counsellor O’Blaney, and look out of the windows

down upon the _Roonies_, that have the insolence to look up to her?

_Old McB._ Ah! you know _that_, then. That’s all that’s against us, sir,

in this match.

_O’Bla._ But if _you_ are against Randal, no fear.

_Old McB._ I am against him--that is, against his family, and all his

seed, breed, and generation. But I would not break my daughter’s heart

if I could help it.

_O’Bla._ Wheugh!--hearts don’t break in these days, like china.

_Old McB._ This is my answer, Mr. O’Blaney, sir: you have my lave, but

you must have hers too.

_O’Bla._ I would not fear to gain that in due time, if you would stand

my friend in forbidding her the sight of Randal.

_Old McB._ I will with pleasure, that--for tho’ I won’t force her to

marry to plase me, I’ll forbid her to marry to displase me; and when

I’ve said it, whatever it is, I’ll be obeyed. (_Strikes his stick on the

ground._)

_O’Bla._ That is all I ax.

_Old McB._ But now what settlement, counshillor, will you make on my

girl?

_O’Bla._ A. hundred a year--I wish to be liberal--Mr. Carver will see to

that--he knows all my affairs, as I suppose he was telling you.

_Old McB._ He was--I’m satisfied, and I’m at a word myself always. You

heard me name my girl’s portion, sir?

_O’Bla._ I can’t say--I didn’t mind--‘twas no object to me in life.

_Old McB._ (_in a very low, mysterious tone, and slow brogue_) Then five

hundred guineas is some object to most men.

_O’Bla._ Certainly, sir; but not such an object as your daughter to me:

since we are got upon business, however, best settle all that out of

the way, as you say at once. Of the five hundred, I have two in my hands

already, which you can make over to me with a stroke of a pen. (_Rising

quickly, and getting pen, ink, and books._)

_Old McB._ (_speaking very slowly_) Stay a hit--no hurry--in life. In

business--‘tis always most haste, worse speed.

_O’Bla._ Take your own time, my good Matthew--I’ll be as slow as you

plase--only love’s quick.

_Old McB._ Slow and sure--love and all--fast bind, fast find--three and

two, what does that make?

_O’Bla._ It used to make five before I was in love.

_Old McB._ And will the same after you’re married and dead. What am I

thinking of? A score of bullocks I had in the fair--half a score sold

in my pocket, and owing half--that’s John Dolan, twelve pound tin--and

Charley Duffy nine guineas and thirteen tin pinnies and a five-penny

bit: stay, then, put that to the hundred guineas in the stocking at

home.

_O’Bla._ (_aside_) How he makes my mouth water: (_Aloud_) May be,

Matthew, I could, that am used to it, save you the trouble of counting?

_Old McB._ No trouble in life to me ever to count my money--only I’ll

trouble you, sir, if you please, to lock that door; bad to be chinking

and spreading money with doors open, for walls has ears and eyes.

_O’Bla._ True for you. (_Rising, and going to lock the doors._)

[_Old McBRIDE with great difficulty, and very slowly, draws out of his

pocket his bag of money--looking first at one door, and then at the

other, and going to try whether they are locked, before he unties his

bag._]

_Old McB._ (_spreads and counts his money and notes_) See me now, I

wrote on some scrap somewhere 59_l._ in notes--then hard cash, twinty

pounds--rolled up silver and gould, which is scarce--but of a hundred

pounds there’s wanting fourteen pounds odd, I think, or something

that way; for Phil and I had our breakfast out of a one pound note of

Finlay’s, and I put the change somewhere--besides a riband for Honor,

which make a deficiency of fourteen pounds seven shillings and two

pence--that’s what’s deficient--count it which way you will.

_O’Bla._ (_going to sweep the money off the table_) Oh! never mind the

deficiency--I’ll take it for a hundred plump.

_Old McB._ (_stopping him_) Plump me no plumps--I’ll have it exact, or

not at all--I’ll not part it, so let me see it again.

_O’Bla._ (_aside with a deep sigh, almost a groan_) Oh! when I had had

it in my fist--almost: but ‘tis as hard to get money out of this man as

blood out of a turnip; and I’ll be lost to-night without it.

_Old McB._ ‘Tis not exact--and I’m exact: I’ll put it all up again--(_he

puts it deliberately into the bag again, thrusting the bag into his

pocket_)--I’ll make it up at home my own way, and send it in to you by

Phil in an hour’s time; for I could not sleep sound with so much in my

house--bad people about--safer with you in town. Mr. Carver says,

you are as good as the Bank of Ireland--there’s no going beyond that.

(_Buttoning up his pockets._) So you may unlock the doors and let me

out now--I’ll send Phil with all to you, and you’ll give him a bit of a

receipt or a token, that would do.

_O’Bla._ I shall give a receipt by all means--all regular: short

accounts make long friends. (_Unlocks the door._)

_Old McB._ True, sir, and I’ll come in and see about the settlements in

the morning, if Honor is agreeable.

_O’Bla._ I shall make it my business to wait upon the young lady myself

on the wings of love; and I trust I’ll not find any remains of Randal

Rooney in her head.

_Old McB._ Not if I can help it, depend on that. (_They shake hands._)

_O’Bla._ Then, fare ye well, father-in-law--that’s meat and drink to me:

would not ye take a glass of wine then?

_Old McB._ Not a drop--not a drop at all--with money about me: I must be

in a hurry home.

_O’Bla._ That’s true--so best: recommind me kindly to Miss Honor, and

say a great dale about my impatience--and I’ll be expicting Phil, and

won’t shut up till he comes the night.

_Old McB._ No, don’t; for he’ll be with you before night-fall. [_Exit

McBRIDE._

_O’Bla._ (_calling_) Dan! open the door, there: Dan! Joe! open the door

smart for Mr. McBride! (O’BLANEY _rubbing his hands._) Now I think I

may pronounce myself made for life--success to my parts!--and here’s Pat

too! Well, Pat Coxe, what news of the thing in hand?

_Enter PAT COXE._

_Pat._ Out of hand clane! that job’s nately done. The turf-rick, sir,

‘s built up cliver, with the malt snug in the middle of its stomach--so

were the shupervishor a conjuror even, barring he’d dale with the ould

one, he’d never suspict a sentence of it.

_O’Bla._ Not he--he’s no conjuror: many’s the dozen tricks I played him

afore now.

_Pat._ But, counshillor, there’s the big veshel in the little passage--I

got a hint from a friend, that the shuper got information of the spirits

in that from some villain.

_O’Bla._ And do you think I don’t know a trick for that, too?

_Pat._ No doubt: still, counshillor, I’m in dread of my life that that

great big veshel won’t be implied in a hurry.

_O’Bla._ Won’t it? but you’ll see it will, though; and what’s more, them

spirits will turn into water for the shupervisor.

_Pat._ Water! how?

_O’Bla._ Asy--the ould tan-pit that’s at the back of the distillery.

_Pat._ I know--what of it?

_O’Bla._ A sacret pipe I’ve got fixed to the big veshel, and the pipe

goes under the wall for me into the tan-pit, and a sucker I have in the

big veshel, which I pull open by a string in a crack, and lets all off

all clane into the tan-pit.

_Pat._ That’s capital!--but the water?

_O’Bla._ From the pump, another pipe--and the girl’s pumping asy, for

she’s to wash to-morrow, and knows nothing about it; and so the big

veshel she fills with water, wondering what ails the water that it

don’t come--and I set one boy and another to help her--and the pump’s

bewitched, and that’s all:--so that’s settled.

_Pat._ And cliverly. Oh! counshillor, we are a match for the shuper any

day or night.

_O’Bla._ For him and all his tribe, _coursing_ officers and all. I’d

desire no better sport than to hear the whole pack in full cry after

me, and I doubling, and doubling, and safe at my form at last. With you,

Pat, my precious, to drag the herring over the ground previous to the

hunt, to distract the scent, and defy the nose of the dogs.

_Pat._ Then I am proud to sarve you, counshillor.

_O’Bla._ I know you are, and a very honest boy. And what did you do for

me, with Catty Rooney?

_Pat._ The best.--Oh! it’s I _blarny’d_ Catty to the skies, and then

egged her on, and aggravated her against the McBrides, till I left her

as mad as e’er a one in Bedlam--up to any thing! And full tilt she’s off

to Flaherty’s, the publican, in her blue jock--where she’ll not be long

afore she kicks up a quarrel, I’ll engage; for she’s sarching the

house for Honor McBride, who is _not_ in it--and giving bad language, I

warrant, to all the McBride faction, who _is_ in it, drinking. Oh!

trust Catty’s tongue for breeding a riot! In half an hour, I’ll warrant,

you’ll have as fine a fight in town as ever ye seen or _hard_.

_O’Bla._ That’s iligantly done, Pat. But I hope Randal Rooney is in it?

_Pat._ In the thick of it he is, or will be. So I hope your honour did

not forgit to spake to Mr. Carver about that little place for me?

_O’Bla._ Forgit!--Do I forgit my own name, do you think? Sooner forgit

that _then_ my promises.

_Pat._ Oh! I beg your honour’s pardon--I would not doubt your word;

and to make matters sure, and to make Catty cockahoop, I tould her, and

swore to her, there was not a McBride in the town but two, and there’s

twinty, more or less.

_O’Bla._ And when she sees them twinty, more or less, what will she

think?--Why would you say that?--she might find you out in a lie next

minute, Mr. Overdo. ‘Tis dangerous for a young man to be telling more

lies than is absolutely requisite. The _lie superfluous_ brings many an

honest man, and, what’s more, many a cliver fellow, into a scrape--and

that’s your great fau’t, Pat.

_Pat._ Which, sir?

_O’Bla._ _That_, sir. I don’t see you often now take a glass too much.

But, Pat, I hear you often still are too apt to indulge in a lie too

much.

_Pat._ Lie! Is it I?--Whin upon my conscience, I niver to my knowledge

tould a lie in my life, since I was born, excipt it would be just to

skreen a man, which is charity, sure,--or to skreen myself, which is

self-defence, sure--and that’s lawful; or to oblige your honour, by

particular desire, and _that_ can’t be helped, I suppose.

_O’Bla._ I am not saying again all that--only (_laying his hand on_

PAT’S _shoulder as he is going out_) against another time, all I’m

warning you, young man, is, you’re too apt to think there never can be

lying enough. Now too much of a good thing is good for nothing. [_Exit

O’BLANEY._

_PAT, alone._

_Pat._ There’s what you may call the divil rebuking sin--and now we talk

of the like, as I’ve heard my _mudther_ say, that he had need of a long

spoon that ates wid the divil--so I’ll look to that in time. But whose

voice is that I hear coming up stairs? I don’t believe but it’s Mr.

Carver--only what should bring him back agin, I wonder now? Here he is,

all out of breath, coming.

_Enter Mr. CARVER._

_Mr. Carv._ Pray, young man, did you happen to see--(_panting for

breath_) Bless me, I’ve ridden so fast back from Bob’s Fort!

_Pat._ My master, sir, Mr. O’Blaney, is it? Will I run?

_Mr. Carv._ No, no--stand still till I have breath.--What I want is a

copy of a letter I dropped some where or other--here I think it must

have been, when I took out my handkerchief--a copy of a letter to his

Excellency--of great consequence. (_Mr. CARVER sits down and takes

breath._)

_Pat._ (_searching about with officious haste_) If it’s above ground,

I’ll find it. What’s this?--an old bill: that is not it. Would it be

this, crumpled up?--“To His Excellency the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.”

_Mr. Carv._ (_snatching_) No farther, for your life!

_Pat._ Well then I was lucky I found it, and proud.

_Mr. Carv._ And well you may be, young man; for I can assure you, on

this letter the fate of Ireland may depend. (_Smoothing the letter on

his knee._)

_Pat._ I wouldn’t doubt it--when it’s a letter of your honour’s--I know

your honour’s a great man at the castle. And plase your honour, I take

this opportunity of tanking your honour for the encouragement I got

about that little clerk’s place--and here’s a copy of my hand-writing

I’d wish to show your honour, to see I’m capable--and a scholard.

_Mr. Carv._ Hand-writing! Bless me, young man, I have no time to look

at your hand-writing, sir. With the affairs of the nation on my

shoulders--can you possibly think?--is the boy mad?--that I’ve time to

revise every poor scholar’s copy-book?

_Pat._ I humbly beg your honour’s pardon, but it was only becaase I’d

wish to show I was not quite so unworthy to be under (whin you’ve time)

your honour’s protection, as promised.

_Mr. Carv._ My protection?--you are not under my protection,

sir:--promised clerk’s place?--I do not conceive what you are aiming at,

sir.

_Pat._ The little clerk’s place, plase your honour--that my master,

Counshillor O’Blaney, tould me he spoke about to your honour, and was

recommending me for to your honour.

_Mr. Carv._ Never--never heard one syllable about it, till this moment.

_Pat._ Oh! murder:--but I expict your honour’s goodness will--

_Mr. Carv._ To make your mind easy, I promised to appoint a young man to

that place, a week ago, by Counsellor O’Blaney’s special recommendation.

So there must be some mistake.

[_Exit Mr. CARVER._]

_PAT, alone._

_Pat._ Mistake? ay, mistake on purpose. So he never spoke! so he

lied!--my master that was praching me! And oh, the dirty lie he tould

me! Now I can’t put up with that, when I was almost perjuring myself for

him at the time. Oh, if I don’t fit him for this! And he got the place

given to another!--then I’ll git him as well sarved, and out of this

place too--seen-if-I-don’t! He is cunning enough, but I’m cuter nor

he--I have him in my power, so I have! and I’ll give the shupervizor a

scent of the malt in the turf-stack--and a hint of the spirits in the

tan-pit--and it’s I that will like to stand by innocent, and see how

shrunk O’Blaney’s double face will look forenent the shupervizor, when

all’s found out, and not a word left to say, but to pay--ruined hand

and foot! Then that shall be, and before nightfall. Oh! one good turn

desarves another--in revenge, prompt payment while you live!

[_Exit._]

SCENE II.

_McBRIDE’S Cottage._

_MATTHEW McBRIDE and HONOR. (MATTHEW with a little table before him, at

dinner._)

_Old McB._ (_pushing his plate from him_) I’ll take no more--I’m done.

[_He sighs._]

_Honor._ Then you made but a poor dinner, father, after being at the

fair, and up early, and all!--Take this bit from my hands, father dear.

_Old McB._ (_turning away sullenly_) I’ll take nothing from you, Honor,

but what I got already enough--and too much of--and that’s ungratitude.

_Honor._ Ungratitude, father! then you don’t see my heart.

_Old McB._ I lave that to whoever has it, Honor: ‘tis enough for me, I

see what you do--and that’s what I go by.

_Honor._ Oh, me! and what did I do to displase you, father? (_He is

obstinately silent; after waiting in vain for an answer, she continues_)

I that was thinking to make all happy, (_aside_) but myself, (_aloud_)

by settling to keep out of the way of--all that could vex you--and to go

to sarvice, to Mrs. Carver’s. I thought that would plase you, father.

_Old McB._ Is it to lave me, Honor? Is it _that_ you thought would plase

me, Honor?--To lave your father alone in his ould age, after all the

slaving he got and was willing to undergo, whilst ever he had strength,

early and late, to make a little portion for you, Honor,--you, that

I reckoned upon for the prop and pride of my ould age--and you expect

you’d plase me by laving me.

_Honor._ Hear me just if, pray then, father.

_Old McB._ (_shaking her off as she tries to caress him_) Go, then; go

where you will, and demane yourself going into sarvice, rather than stay

with me--go.

_Honor._ No, I’ll not go. I’ll stay then with you, father dear,--say

that will plase you.

_Old McB._ (_going on without listening to her_) And all for the love

of this Randal Rooney! Ay, you may well put your two hands before your

face; if you’d any touch of natural affection at all, _that_ young man

would have been the last of all others you’d ever have thought of loving

or liking any way.

_Honor._ Oh! if I could help it!

_Old McB._ There it is. This is the way the poor fathers is always to be

trated. They to give all, daughter and all, and get nothing at all,

not their choice even of the man, the villain that’s to rob ‘em of

all--without thanks even; and of all the plinty of bachelors there are

in the parish for the girl that has money, that daughter will go and

pick and choose out the very man the father mislikes beyond all others,

and then it’s “_Oh! if I could help it_!”--Asy talking!

_Honor._ But, dear father, wasn’t it more than talk, what I did?--Oh,

won’t you listen to me?

_Old McB_ I’ll not hear ye; for if you’d a grain o spirit in your

mane composition, Honor, you would take your father’s part, and not be

putting yourself under Catty’s feet--the bad-tongued woman, that hates

you, Honor, like poison.

_Honor._ If she does hate me, it’s all through love of her own--

_Old McB._ Son--ay--that she thinks too good for you--for _you_, Honor;

you, the Lily of Lismore--that might command the pride of the country.

Oh! Honor dear, don’t be lessening yourself; but be a proud girl, as you

ought, and my own Honor.

_Honor._ Oh, when you speak so kind!

_Old McB._ And I beg your pardon, if I said a cross word; for I know

you’ll never think of him more, and no need to lave home at all for his

sake. It would be a shame in the country, and what would Mrs. Carver

herself think?

_Honor._ She thinks well of it, then.

_Old McB._ Then whatever she thinks, she sha’n’t have my child from me!

tho’ she’s a very good lady, and a very kind lady, too. But see now,

Honor--have done with love, for it’s all foolishness; and when you come

to be as ould as I am, you’ll think so too. The shadows goes all one

way, till the middle of the day, and when that is past, then all the

t’other way; and so it is with love, in life--stay till the sun is going

down with you.

_Honor._ Then it would be too late to be thinking of love.

_Old McB._ And too airly now, and there’s no good time, for it’s all

folly. I’ll ax you, will love set the potatoes?--will love make the

rent?--or will love give you a jaunting car?--as to my knowledge,

another of your bachelors would.

_Honor._ Oh, don’t name him, father.

_Old McB._ Why not--when it’s his name that would make a lady of you,

and there’d be a rise in life, and an honour to your family?

_Honor._ Recollect it was he that would have dishonoured my family, in

me, if he could.

_Old McB._ But he repints now; and what can a man do but repint, and

offer to make honourable restitution, and thinking of marrying, as

now, Honor dear;--is not that a condescension of he, who’s a sort of a

jantleman?

_Honor._ A sort, indeed--a bad sort.

_Old McB._ Why, not jantleman _born_, to be sure.

_Honor._ Nor _bred._

_Old McB._ Well, there’s many that way, neither born nor bred, but that

does very well in the world; and think what it would be to live in the

big shingled house, in Ballynavogue, with him!

_Honor._ I’d rather live here with you, father.

_Old McB._ Then I thank you kindly, daughter, for that, but so would

not _I for_ you,--and then the jaunting-car, or a coach, in time, if he

could! He has made the proposhal for you in form this day.

_Honor._ And what answer from you, father?

_Old McB._ Don’t be looking so pale,--I tould him he had my consint, if

he could get yours. And, oh! before you speak, Honor dear, think what

it would be up and down in Ballynavogue, and every other place in the

county, assizes days and all, to be Mistress Gerald O’Blaney!

_Honor._ I couldn’t but think very ill of it, father; thinking ill, as

I do, of him. Father dear, say no more, don’t be breaking my heart--I’ll

never have that man; but I’ll stay happy with you.

_Old McB._ Why, then, I’ll be contint with that same; and who

wouldn’t?--If it’s what you’d rather stay, and _can_ stay contint,

Honor dear, I’m only too happy. (_Embracing her--then pausing._) But for

Randal--

_Honor._ In what can you fau’t him, only his being a Rooney?

_Old McB._ That’s all--but that’s enough. I’d sooner see you in your

coffin--sooner be at your wake to-night, than your wedding with a

Rooney! ‘Twould kill me. Come, promise me--I’d trust your word--and

‘twould make me asy for life, and I’d die asy, if you’d promise never to

have him.

_Honor._ Never till you would consent--that’s all I can promise.

_Old McB._ Well, that same is a great ase to my heart.

_Honor._ And to give a little ase to mine, father, perhaps you could

promise--

_Old McB._ What?--I’ll promise nothing at all--I’ll promise nothing at

all--I’ll promise nothing I couldn’t perform.

_Honor._ But this you could perform asy, dear father: just hear your own

Honor.

_Old McB._ (_aside_) That voice would wheedle the bird off the bush--and

when she’d prefar me to the jaunting-car, can I but listen to her?

(_Aloud_) Well, what?--if it’s any thing at all in rason.

_Honor._ It is in rason entirely. It’s only, that if Catty Rooney’s--

_Old McB._ (_stopping his ears_) Don’t name her.

_Honor._ But she might be brought to rason, father; and if she should be

brought to give up that claim to the bit o’ bog of yours, and when all

differs betwix’ the families be made up, then you would consent.

_Old McB._ When Catty Rooney’s brought to rason! Oh! go shoe the

goslings, dear,--ay, you’ll get my consint then. There’s my hand: I

promise you, I’ll never be called on to perform that, Honor, jewel.

_Honor._ (_kissing his hand_) Then that’s all I’d ask--nor will I say

one word more, but thank you, father.

_Old McB._ (_putting on his coat_) She’s a good cratur--sorrow better!

sister or daughter. Oh! I won’t forget that she prefarred me to the

jaunting-car. Phil shall carry him a civil refusal. I’ll send off the

money, the three hundred, by your brother, this minute--that will be

some comfort to poor O’Blaney.

[_Exit McBRIDE._

_Honor._ Is not he a kind father, then, after all?--That promise he gave

me about Catty, even such as it is, has ased my heart wonderfully. Oh!

it will all come right, and they’ll all be rasonable in time, even Catty

Rooney, I’ve great hope; and little hope’s enough, even for love to live

upon. But, hark! there’s my brother Phil coming. (_A noise heard in

the back-house._) ‘Tis only the cow in the bier. (_A knock heard at the

door._) No, ‘tis a Christian; no cow ever knocked so soft. Stay till I

open--Who’s in it?

_Randal._ (_from within_) Your own Randal--open quick.

_Honor._ Oh! Randal, is it you? I can’t open the door.

[_She holds the door--he pushes it half open._

_Randal._ Honor, that I love more than life, let me in, till I speak one

word to you, before you’re set against me for ever.

_Honor._ No danger of that--but I can’t let you in, Randal.

_Randal._ Great danger! Honor, and you must. See you I will, if I die

for it!

[_He advances, and she retires behind the door, holding it against him._

_Honor._ Then I won’t see you this month again, if you do. My hand’s

weak, but my heart’s strong, Randal.

_Randal._ Then my heart’s as weak as a child’s this minute. Never

fear--don’t hold against me, Honor; I’ll stand where I am, since you

don’t trust me, nor love me--and best so, may be: I only wanted to say

three words to you.

_Honor._ I can’t hear you now, Randal.

_Randal._ Then you’ll never hear me more. Good bye to you, Honor.

[_He pulls the door to, angrily._

_Honor._ And it’s a wonder as it was you didn’t meet my father as you

came, or my brother.

_Randal._ (_pushing the door a little open again_) Your brother!--Oh,

Honor! that’s what’s breaking my heart--(_he sighs_)--that’s what I

wanted to say to you; and listen to me. No fear of your father, he’s

gone down the road: I saw him as I come the short cut, but he didn’t see

me.

_Honor._ What of my brother?--say, and go.

_Randal._ Ay, go--for ever, you’ll bid me, when I’ve said.

_Honor._ What! oh, speak, or I’ll drop.--(_She no longer holds the door,

but leans against a table.--RANDAL advances, and looks in._)

_Randal._ Don’t be frightened, then, dearest--it’s nothing in life but a

fight at a fair. He’s but little hurted.

_Honor._ Hurted!--and by who? by you, is it?--Then all’s over.--(_RANDAL

comes quite in--HONOR, putting her hand before her eyes._)--You may come

or go, for I’ll never love you more.

_Randal._ I expicted as much!--But she’ll faint!

_Honor._ I won’t faint: leave me, Mr. Randal.

_Randal._ Take this water from me, (_holding a cup_) it’s all I ask.

_Honor._ No need. (_She sits down_) But what’s this?--(_Seeing his hand

bound up._)

_Randal._ A cut only.

_Honor._ Bleeding--stop it. (_Turning from him coldly._)

_Randal._ Then by this blood--no, not by this worthless blood of

mine--but by that dearest blood that fled from your cheeks, and this

minute is coming back, Honor, I swear--(_kneeling to her._)

_Honor._ Say what you will, or swear, I don’t hear or heed you. And my

father will come and find you there--and I don’t care.