It is amusing to contemplate the various singularities of men.complaint. If it laid in the head, he was a
Scotchman—if in the heart, he was an Irishman—if in
the stomach, he was an EnglishmanV and the W are a source of as many perplexities as were
the two Dromios to the good people of Ephesus, has his patent for
cutting King George’s English most divertingly. The Welshman enjoys his
leek, his pedigree, and his toasted cheese. The Irishman, his brogue
and his bulls. There is no fun about a Scotchman ; unless (in the
absence of a post) when he is excited to dance to his national fiddle:
his peculiarities, though not pleasing, are nevertheless
profitable—for, like the mouse in the fable, he generally becomes too proud and
too pursy to creep in at the cranny from whence his leanness originally crept
out. These characteristics have not escaped the observation of dramatic writers;
and abundant mirth has been derived from their exhibition. The eccentricities of
Pat
Rooney a shilling.” “Och! bat,
plase your honour, I called him !” One Irishwoman, having fallen out
with another, was complaining to to a third how sadly she had been abused by an
Irishwoman. “And are you not an Irishwoman yourself?” exclaimed the
latter. “Och! and to be sure I am; bat I don’t come from them hot parts
that she does !” thunder and turf, and such-like comical
amalgamations of elementary and vegetable matter, some kind-hearted
trait, some dash of genuine feeling, has suddenly come across us, and
made us long to take him by the hand and claim acquaintance,
The farce of The Irishman in London is borrowed from “The Intriguing
Footman, or the Humours of Harry Humbug,” a piece attributed to James Whiteley,
formerly manager of the Nottingham and other provincial theatres, and acted at
Sheffield in 1791. It was originally produced at Covent Garden, at Mr.
Johnstone’s benefit; that admirable comedian taking the part of Murtoch Delany.
It has little plot, but is very ingeniously made up of incident and character.
It exhibits the various stratagems practised by Edward, an intriguing footman
(the Harry Humbug of the original farce), to deliver a letter from his
master, Captain Seymour, to Caroline, the daughter of one Mr. Frost, a
pertinacious old gentleman, who had taken a voyage from the West Indies to
London for the sole purpose of avoiding the importunities of the said captain,
and of marrying the young lady to Mr. Colloony, a simple native of the Emerald
Isle. The latter personage is accompanied, on his matrimonial trip, by his Irish
servant, Murtoch Delany. This is enlivened by the introduction of Cubba, a
faithful African, who falls in love with Murtoch, and in the simplicity of her
heart acquaints him with his good fortune; and of Cymon, who is almost as full
of quaint comparisons as Dean Swift’s celebrated song of Similes. There
is nothing comical about Mr. Frost, but his passion for Louisa; the young lady’s
return of his affection is, however, equally comical. The dialogue is pleasantly
written ; and, what with Edward’s rattling rhodomontade, Cymon’s pat and
provoking similes, and Murtoch Delany’s national whim, there is no want of
amusement in this farce. One of its chief attractions was the original
Planxty, which Johnstone sung in a manner that made every heart, Irish
and English, dance to its melody.
A first-rate actor of Irish characters is indispensable on a London stage.
We are not old enough to have seen Moody perform; but we remember him, many
years ago, a hale, respectable-looking old gentleman, taking his walks in
company with the veteran Boaden, the well- known performer of Robin Hood. Rock
(with many declensions) was of the Moody school—rigidly true to the brogue, but
occasionally heavy and listless. Webb acted with
humour; but then (like the three unmusical rogues in good King Arthur's
days)couldn't sing !”couldn't sing. Johnstone possessed both qualifications in
high perfection: his voice was full, clear, and melodious—his
acting rich, sparkling, and original. He was equally fine in genteel
comedy and in the broadest farce——in the finished gentleman and the veriest
Teague. His Major O'Flaherty was gallant and gay; his Foigard
(Kilkenny, by my soul!) was arch and pointed. In Looney, he
looked as if he had been born in a field, with a hay-fork in his hand. And how
he stood up for the honour of ould Ireland and her “manufactrys,” and
reiterated “bad travelling !” and “Oh! murther, murther !”
those who have seen his Murtoch Delany can amply testify. His pathos
was deep—his humour quick and sly; he had Pat’s hereditary fun and frisk—his
national naiveté and dancing hilarity. He could assume a-look of brisk
intelligence and of ineffable stupidity ; there was a peculiar archness in his
smile, and he had an Irish front. To follow such an actor is
no easy task; to fall short of him cannot be considered a failure. Mr. Power has
many of the qualifications that distinguished his predecessor: his brogue is
rich, his air smart and vivacious—the jokes come trippingly from his tongue,
lighted up with a leer whimsically illustrative of potatoes and whiskey. His
attempts have hitherto been confined to low comedy. His Irish Tutor is
good—so are his Loony, Murtoch, and Dennis
Bulgruddery. Mr. Power has a clear stage to himself; he has no competitor
in Irish characters. To him we apply Walsh's advice to Pope,—“study
correctness.” We have seen many a natural genius run to waste, for want
of attending to this necessary precaution. However excellent nature is
of herself, she may still derive improvement from art.
[The print source gives details of four distinct performances :
]
Time: in performance—Forty minutes.
Welcome, once more, my native country! yet am I almost insensible to the
pleasure, from being at so great a distance from my beloved Caroline.—Oh
Jamaica, happy place! which contains all that is dear to me on earth. Her cruel
father must have intercepted the letters I wrote from America, or she would have
contrived to let her Seymour know, she still retained the same tender affection
for him——Good heaven! is it possible? Ha! reason contradicts my sense of seeing,
and tells my eyes they are deceived—'Tis he!
Great care, indeed, to sacrifice her against her inclinations to some wretch!—But who is he? Let me know where——
No matter who he is, or what he is; or where he lives, or where I live: you
know but little of my family at present, and I am determined you shall know
less.
Astonishing! 'Tis some comfort, however, to know she is in England,
How, how?
Why, sir, I met Cymon, pretended to him that I had left you in America, and he told me they were all come; and that there was great doings preparing for an elegant young fellow from Ireland, who was to marry Miss Caroline immediately.
By heavens! no such circumstance ever shall take place; and how to prevent it? Edward, you, in general, have a happy invention, and I am certain, if you exert it, you might gain me an interview, or, at all events, some further intelligence.
My honest fellow, make good your words, and twenty pounds shall be your reward.
Twenty pounds! twenty! She has—or I mean she shall have the letter. Write it, sir, write it—Let me have it.
While I go to write, be very particular in observing any gentleman that may be hereabouts; and if he should seem at a loss, direct him to me, or come directly for me.
Oh Lord! Oh sir, yonder I see my tailor—I told you these people would impede my march, if I was not prepared for them. Dear me, how shall I avoid him?
Avoid him. Who is he? What's his name?
His name is a—the—oh damn it, 'tis very odd I never can remember the name of
a man I owe money
With those principles, 'tis a pity you should ever want. Here, take this,
and observe my directions while I write the letter.
I will, sir.—What's here? ten poundss! Mr Snip!—Oh, he's off some other way, and I'll be hanged if I call him back—Let me see; ten pounds! My master is a noble fellow—I wish he was a General, then his pocket might keep pace with his heart. At present, the one is always a day's march behind the other. But how shall I contrive to deliver my master's letter? No matter I'll trust to chance, and convince him, with all his despair ——
Och ! London! London! dear London, as Ercher says, had I millions, I'd spend it all there ! it's the mert for enjoyment—the leedies so bewitching, the squeers so elegant, the theatres so enchanting, and, in short, every thing so captivating, that I wish, from my heart, I may never leave it. Where is this servant of mine? I decleer there is no bearing his inattention. I desired him to meet me here at this time precisely: 'pon my honour I must no longer neglect visiting Mr Frost and the leedies.
Indeed I'll break your thick head if you don't hold your tongue, and till me, did you find the pleece, and bring me the money?
Well, well; I will sir—the—a—och, sir, I wish we were at home again; this is the divil of a place.
I say, sirrah, have you found the banker's?
No, in troth, sir.
No! pray thin, where's the chick I gave you?
Where! why sure, sir, you didn't bid me kape it.
I bid you give it to the banker, and bring me the money — where is it?
Why, I'll tell you, sir—The truth is, I did not give him the chick—Nor the divil a farthing he gave me—for I didn't see him at all, at all.
Was there ever such a provoking scoundrel? Tell me this moment, where, and what you have been about ?
Och! faith! and I have been tumbled about bravely; for the people here walk the streets as if they couldn't see—for one parson gave me a drive on one side, and when I only turned to ax him what he done that for, another gave me a shoulder with his elbow on the t'other side—So, upon my sowl, sir, I was going backward every step I went forward.—But at last, I saw a crowd staring up; so myself axed dacently what was the matter—Stop, and luck up, says the man, and you'll see: myself did so, and there was two black pictures of men, with shillelys in their fists, thumping at one another, because the clock was striking. When it had done, they had done, and I was done; for I found they picked my pocket of the chick that I held fast in my hand, and every thing I had in the world; and the hat off my head into the bargain!
The rascal has been gaping about, instead of minding his business.—I will most certainly send you home, Dill.
Och! worrow do, sir, send me home; but mind, I won't go by say, I got enough of that; if once I got to sweet Balinrobe, the devil burn me if ever I wish to see foreign parts again, or any but our netral parts at home—to be sure, it is the sweetest little place in the world, Ireland is.
Why, you scoundrel, do you want to bring a mob about us? hold your tongue
about Ireland, I say—Go wait at home for me, and don't be exposing.
Exposing! to talk of Ireland! Faith, sir, begging your pardon, I think a man
does not desarve to belong to any country, that's ashamed to own it.
Come, cheer up, Liny—Your lover certainly will be here to-day—The knot shall be tied to-morrow.
Dear sir, don't impose upon your Caroline the
How do you know? You have never seen him—Why, he is young, handsome, rich—
Mention not his qualifications, sir, for my heart is engaged.
Yes, and my word is engaged—The young fellow coming all the way from Ireland on purpose—A fine settlement made on you—Is not that better than starving with your Seymour?
I don't know what your resolution may be, but mine is unalterably fixed—Dear
sir, I have only to entreat you will give up the idea of plunging me in
wretchedness—Remember that you're a father, sir, and that indulgence should ever
unite with that name.
Ah! poor missa, she be so good—Still she cry great deal—Bochro do wrong,
laugh and be happy—nobody ought to be merry when missee frette.
Ay, follow her, you—you—whenever I am vext, or in trouble, that angel of
darkness is sure to come in my way—I tell her every hour that she is in a
blessed land of liberty, that she's her own mistress, free as air, in hopes I
shall get rid of her; but she won't stir—no, she sticks like birdlime.
Well, sir, what do you want? Who was that knocked at the door?
A man, sir: he gave me this as nimble as a fencing-master, and stepped away like a dancing-master.
Oh curse your similes! Let me see, from Mr Colloony—That's delightful!
[Reads.] "Sir, my anxiety to take you by the hand, can only be equalled
by my passionate desire to see your amiable daughter, and with the speedy
assistance of Hymen, shall glory in the liberty of being her slave. The earliest
moment possible I hope to make acceptable to Mr Frost the devoirs of his truly
devoted and most assured humble servant, William Patrick O'Brien Colloony." Oh!
he's a fine ardent lover. They shall be married to-morrow morning—D'ye hear,
Cymon? take care every thing is ready for the reception of your new master. How
does my purchase come on, the coach horses?
Troth, sir, bad enough—They are only fit for the crows. One of them, the sorrel horse, puts me woundily in mind of a lawyer.
A lawyer! How now, how can that be?
Why, sir, he is well paid for every journey he goes; and the other is
downright game, for he'd sooner die than run.
That fellow's as bad to me as the gout—I can find no cure for him.
Sir, sir—here's a grand gentleman dressed like a peacock, and talks like a magpie.
Was there ever such an affronting scoundrel! show him in.
Did you send for me, sir?
Yes, yes; here's Mr Colloony—it can be nobody else.
Sir, I—I—
Sir, she's excessively fond of you; but she naturally expects you to speak first.
Certainly, my dear sir—Fond of me! Oh, ho! then I must be in love—Here goes!
Well, this is a comical fellow! How he has gallopped over the poor girl! I don't think he has much of the brogue—But, sir, I say, my—
Then, her foot, sir—do but look at her foot, sir—A foot proportioned to the
body; the body suited to the face, the face suited to the soul, the soul to the
heart, the heart to the mind, the mind to—as my friend Hamlet says, in his
advice to the actors, "the action to the word;" and then she has so much—Oh
dear, oh dear, I can go
How his tongue does run! I am afraid Liny will never have him, he's such a fool. But, sir, you confound her with your compliments.
Compliments - you wrong me, sir; I can't flatter—I truly love, I adore, I
live for you—I—I can't find the letter
Die ! you're the strangest fish I ever met with. Sir, I'll speak to my daughter, and if—
Oh! that if has driven me to despair, for—
Sir, I'll withdraw a little to order some refreshment, and—
Dear sir, don't leave me with this wretch, this fool!
Don't abuse him, Liny; 'tis your charms have made him a little flighty—I
wish they had cut his wings before they had let him away, for he's the wildest
Irishman I ever saw.
Sir, I say—
Stop, madam, for heaven's sake!—I am Edward—my master, Captain Seymour, is in town.
Ha! can it be! My Seymour in England!
Yes, ma'am, and has sent you—
I don't like leaving my child with this wild Irishman. Eh! egad they seem very quiet, I'll listen.
Dear, dear, I have certainly left it in my other clothes—But the
circumstance is this, ma'am— my master, this morning, saw your father; and, on
finding you were in town, wrote a letter, which I undertook to deliver to you.
Thieves! Cymon! thieves! knock him down!
Yes, sir.—
Oh! Murder! thieves!—Cymon, where are you?
Here I be, sir, as flat as a flounder.
My poor fellow!—Go shut the door, and be sure to bolt, lock, and chain it.
Yes, sir—I'll see every thing as safe as a guinea in a miser's purse.
Oh! curse your similes!—I must go myself, and see every thing secure.
Thank heaven! I know my Seymour is in England—I have heard enough to convince me he still loves me; and constancy's the only proof of true affection—I hope he may devise some means to free me.
If he did not, I am sure he should not have me.
Ma'am, he's come; Mr Colloony. Oh dear! I am as much out of breath as a trumpeter.
I am overjoyed to see you, walk in, sir, walk in. Ladies, ladies, this is Mr Colloony: Sir, my daughter and her friend Miss Belmont.
Ladies, your most obedient. This warm and kind reception is truly flattering, and impresses me strongly with the idea of my future happiness.
Oh! I'm sure you'll be very happy——There's a husband for you, Liny! Is he to be compared to your captain?
No, indeed, sir, I don't think he is.
That's a good girl—Well, sir—You shall be married this morning—Oh dear! and how is my old friend, your worthy father, and all your family? What sort of a passage had you? I suppose you were very much fatigued after your journey? Will you have some refreshment? Oh! I'm so happy! Come tell me all.
All, upon my honour, he asks all, and will hear
Here, sir, here! Arrah, Maister Pat, don't be calling me Dill, myself can't bear it; it's making so little of one. My name, ladies, saving your prisence, is Murtoch Delany; and though Maister Pat's my maister, I don't know who made him my godmother.
Get away, sirrah, Sir, you will find by these letter the liberality of my father, he gives me his whole estate while he lives; and makes me heir to all the rest when he dies.
Oh, the divil burn the blade of grass, horse, cow, servant, or any other fixture upon the estate, even to the value of a sucking-pig, but will be all his own.
Oh! I'm too happy. You shall be united directly.
I should think myself unworthy, indeed, if words could express how much I feel indebted to your goodness. Before I had the felicity of seeing the lady I could think of nothing else; and such an effect had the description of her on my mind, I decleer I could not sleep a wink for draming of her.
But you did not tell me what sort of a passage you had.
Why, sir, they said it was a good one, but I was sick of it.
Sick! Arrah, ladies, we were kilt, myself was quite dead, I was all—a—I called to the captain to stop; "stop and put me out", says I. "Nonsince, man," says he, "if I put you out, it will be in the water, and then you'll go to Davy Jones.@ "Oh, thank you," says I, "it's time enough for me to go and live with that jintleman when I am dead in earnest.
Then you are not fond of the sea, Mr Colloony?
No, indeed, ma'am; if they'd give me the finest estate upon earth, I could not live in it with any enjoyment on board of ship.
But come, are not the towns through which you came worthy of observation?
Certainly, sir; your manufactories are so astonishingly greet, they prove at once the wonderful industry and wealth of your nation.
Ax your pardon, ladies, the devil a manufactory I saw equal to our own. Och! if you could only look at the oyster-beds in Poolbeg, the Foundling or the Lying-in-Hospital at Dublin, they are the right sort of manufactories.
Ha, ha, ha!
Faith you may laugh, but I am sure there can't be better manufactries in the world than those that provides comfortable lodgings, and every other sort of bread and meat, for poor craters that can't provide for themselves.
Hold your preeting, sirrah; leedies, I hope you'll excuse him.
But, Mr Colloony, do now favour us with your opinion of our country, and an account of your journey.
'Twas a very pleasant journey. Travelling here is much better than in Ireland.
Oh! murther, murther! Maister Pat, don't be running down our country; myself can't bear it; you know the roads are a thousand times better in Ireland. Ladies, the miles there are three times as long as they are here; and then the divil a half mile can you go, but there's a beautiful wooden milestone; I'm sure from the time we left the hill of Howth, till we got to that spalpeen place they call Holy-head, the divil a bit of land I saw but what was all covered over with water. Pretty travelling indeed!
Begone, you scoundrel - lave the room, I say.
Sir!
Lave the room, I say, sir.
Lave the room, you say, sir? Oh, mighty well; there's more o' the yarn. Did
you think I was going to take it wid me? Bad travelling in Ireland! I'll say
nothing before the company, but if ever I forgive this ! Ladies, your most
engaging conversation—
Your father, in this letter, seems particularly anxious that the marriage ceremony should be performed as soon as possible; now I'm desirous it should be so too; what do you say, sir?
What do I say, sir? why I say, ask the lady; I deem it the happiest moment
of my life! He must be covetous indeed, that could form a wish beyond what is
here to be found.
Liny, thank him—Isn't he an elegant, polite,
Caroline, how could you treat Mr Colloony in such a manner? you scarce looked at him. Are not you on the very brink of matrimony? To disappoint him now, what would the world say?
Yet disappointed he shall be, and I am in no dread of what people may say—The truly virtuous mind makes itself judge, and, satisfied within, smiles at that common enemy, the world.
Come, girls, prepare; Louisa, you shall go too—you shall be a bridesmaid. Hadn't you rather be a bride?
Why, sir, I can't say I should have any objection.
Oh, charming! you make me young again—Egad, I begin to think—Oh dear—go and
prepare, for Mr Colloony will return directly.
Well, sir, what do you want?
Sir, I—a—beg pardon, sir, I believe I am come to the wrong house——
Then pray, sir, go to the right house.
Yes, sir.
Do, sir. Cymon, who is that fellow? He had but an ill look, methought. Shut
the door there. Now, Liny my love, be a good girl. I'm so pleased, that I shall
give you an additional hundred pounds, for you to——
This is it, sir. Pray did not a gentleman of the name of Colloony—I got that
from the Irish servant
Yes, sir; but if you want him, he'll be back directly.
No, sir, he will not, a sad accident has happened to him.
Mercy on me! I hope not.
Truth indeed, sir—I'll tell you the particulars. At the corner of the next
street a gentleman attacked him. "Sir", says he, "you are a villain!", then drew
his sword, and pushed violently at him. Thus, sir, thus, madam—thus
Dear me, how unlucky! I wish he was returned, I hope he is not hurt.
He is, sir; yes, he is—It's rather an odd place.
Where? where? Is it in a mortal part?
It's in the back, sir—in the back, ma'am, in the back—Damme but she'll die a
maid.
Oh! that cursed captain!
Captain! What was it my——?
No, no, it was not.
Yes, yes, ma'am, it was—a——
Yes, it was, sir.
Why, how was the gentleman dressed?
Why, sir, he was dressed in a pair of boots, sir, and a hat, sir, with a
band round the hat, sir.
And how is Mr Colloony? Tell me.
Why, sir, as soon as Captain Seymour saw the blood trickle from his antagonist, he jumped to him, took him in his arms, thus, and carried him to Dr Julep's this way.
Blessed contrivance! 'tis from my Henry; but how to send an answer? If I go
to my room, Edward may be gone before I can write—What shall I do? Invention
assist me.
But what did the doctor think him in danger?
Why, sir, we hope not—He probed the wound, and after muttering a great many gallipot phrases, that none but the brethren of the pill-boxes understand, he pronounced him out of danger, and ordered him to be put to bed, his stomach to be fomented with a—a—bason of soup, and—
If this does but succeed—
The art of man won't prevent her being an old maid.—Ma'am——
Oh, you damn'd dog! Let me see it, my dear—We'll throw it into the fire, and this fellow out of the window.
No, sir, I cannot wish him a greater punishment than to return his letter just in that manner.
Here's usage for my poor master—but, Ma'am, is there nothing for—or by way of—a—
Oh, you want something, do you? I'll pay you
Maister Pat, I'm come to desire that you will—a—Oh, he's gone! It's well for him—I was just going to discharge him—he vexes me so when he speaks congrumshously about the sod—I won't, for I can't bear it—I have made Cymon blind drunk in love wid Ireland—I was telling him all about it, and he supped up my intelligence like a jintleman; to be sure he mixt it a little, for he emptied the best part of two bottles of port, that Miss gave him to make much of me, and there he lies stretched on the floor, snoring as quiet as a stone in a wall. I'm quite up—I'm almost corned, faith, with looking at him drinking it. I wish I had something to do—that somebody would affront me, or a fine young lady fall in love with me—or any divarting accident of that nater.
You want to speak a wi' me.
Och, honey, what's this? Sure the crater
Me no understand you.
She does not understand me—What a misfortune it is to want larning—if your schoolmistress had been a jintleman, she'd tache you the manners to say you did, whether or not. I'll larn you to spake good English when my master marries your young lady.
Me hope me not live till den, me sure missee break her heart, and me rader die den see it.
Oh faith, if you die, you won't see it to be sure—May be you'll hear of it, and that will be the same thing—Miss a—troth I forget your name.
Me name Cubba.
Pooh, pooh, be asy, Miss Cubbaugh!—That's being too agreeable— and your father's a king!
Iss, a king.
Oh! it's king of the morice-dancers she manes; ay, ay, that fellow had a black face—I saw him yesterday.
No, no; him live at de Gold Coast.
Where? Where all the silver comes from, eh?
At de Gold-Coast—Now nobody here, you shut your eye, me tell you something dat make my heart open in two. But you look so good—you not be angry with Cubba.
Oh! the divil an angry I'll be—I never was angry with one of the fair sex in my life—There, honey, my eyes are shut—go on—now the divil a word I can hear.
Me love a you dearly—but me no want you love me—dat be very wrong—Your face white, me poor negro—me only tell you make me easy, den me pray for you be happy.
I knew it—I knew it—Black, brown, green, or yellow, I bother them all—Oh, Murtoch, you murtherer of beauty—What are you about—but the milk of compassion rises within me for poor Cubbaugh—I wish she was not sooty. Who knows, may be the journey will bleach her. Troth, it's a shame your mistress never found out that fellow, that advertises to whiten ladies' hands and faces, he'd make you fair as a daisy. Och! if you had even a bit of the violent soap, honey!
No matter, my color, if me do right—Good black face be happier den bad
white.
Troth and I believe she may be the daughter of
There's your letter again; that's all the answer I could get.
My letter! 'Sdeath, you rascal, is this your boasted cleverness? Did you see my Caroline?
Yes, sir; and after many efforts, at last I gave the letter into her own hand, and her father in the room. But she returned it just as you see, and is positively to be married this morning.
Unlucky scoundrel! 'tis to you I owe all my misfortunes; by listening to your wretched paltry schemes, I have lost all that was dear to me on earth; but you shall injure me no more—all the punishment I can at present inflict is, to divest you of my property, and discard you—so strip, sir, and never let me see your face again.
Sir!
Call a coach, sir, throw the clothes into it, and begone—Strip, I say.
What, sir, in the street? I shall catch cold, sir.
Do as I desire you, rascal, or——
Yes, sir, yes—coach—co—Lord, sir, you are joking!
I am serious, sirrah—Do as I order you;—no words—but—
Yes, sir, yes—Here's gratitude! who the devil would be a footman now, I wonder.—There, sir, there's your coat, all the rest is my own.
Quit my sight—and here, sir, take this letter as your reward.
Oh! sir, virtue is its own reward—I look for none. Eh! what's this?
What is the fellow loitering about? I wish he'd ask for his coat again.
Sir, I have one favour to beg before I go; will you be so kind, as just to look at the outside of that letter?
Look at ——
Ahem! ahem!
My dear Edward, what shall I say to you?
Nothing, sir; you've said enough—'Tis to me you owe all your misfortunes.
Nay, nay, put on your coat.
No, no, sir; get another servant. I'll never——
Nay, for Heaven's sake, Edward—I own I have been rash.
Rash! to make me strip here in the open street, and expose me to all the
world——
But, Edward, do put on your coat.
Not I, sir, I despise a coat—when there's no money in the pockets.
Now, my dear fellow, have done.
Lord, sir, I have done; money and a good place have stopped greater men's mouths than mine.
Take your coat, and put it on.
Yes, sir—A little of your assistance, if you please.
My assistance!
Yes, sir, I'll not put it on without it.
Well, come, only think of my anxiety.
Who would not be a footman now? It's well you're a gentleman, sir.
Why?
You make a very good master, but you'd be a precious bad servant.
Massa, bring a my dear good Missee to make her marry great man. She send a me to look for you. Here a shee come. Oh, dear, Missa!
Why, there's no man but her father.
Na; chum-chum meet her at the church.
Never! let the consequence——
Here they come, sir. Let's retire a little—Come, Cubba, and mind what I say.
Dear me, the time is getting rapidly over, and I
Why, sir, how very ridiculous you'll make yourself and me in this business—You see, plainly, Mr Colloony won't be here. Pray, sir, put it off till to-morrow.
No, no; I am certain he will be here—Egad, yonder he comes—Louisa, your turn shall be next—tomorrow, we'll—oh dear!
I hope, sir, I have'n't kept you weeting. Madam, I take
Mr Colloony, don't be ashamed to be seen with your wife before marriage—here she—Oh the devil!
Arrah, is it my own little daffy-down-dilly you want, Maister Pat, to bring home? Oh thunder! arrah! be asy!
Oh! thunder indeed! What hocus pocus is this?
Sir, I take your daughter as the greetest gift this world can be—
Take her! where will you find her?
Here, sir—This lady—
That lady! No, no, no; she is no daughter of mine—She is engaged—She is—Oh, Liny! Why don't you pursue and bring back your wife that is to be? This poor girl has no fortune.
Why then it is very lucky I have enough for us both; and if this lady will make it more by sharing it with me, it's all at her service.
Dear sir, be reconciled; and our future conduct shall prove, that to make you happy is all we wish.
Ah, confound you all! I'll never—yet stop; she is yours, sir, with a good fortune, and the blessing of an affectionate father.
Faith, you're right, old gentleman—But all our great joy and happiness, will be nothing but downright grief and misery, if the hands of all our friends do not loudly whisper in our ears, they have no objection to the "IRISHMAN IN LONDON."