Sir C. You know I don't. Ludy R. Well, now, let's go to rest;-but, Sir Charles, how shockingly you played that last rubber, when I stood looking over you. Sir C. My love, I played the truth of the game. Lady R. No, indeed, my dear, you played it wrong. Sir C. Pho! nonsense! You don't understand it. Sir C. Why, then, you are enough to provoke the patience of a Stoic. (Looks at her, and she walks about and laughs uneasy.) Very well, madam: you know no more of the game than your father's leaden Hercules on the top of the house. You know no more of whist than he does of gardening. Lady R. Ha, ha, ha! (Takes out a glass and settles her hair.) Sir C. You're a vile woman, and I'll not sleep another night under the same roof with Lady R. I beg your pardon, I'm allowed to you. play better than you. Lady R. As you please, sir. Sir C. All conceit, my dear; I was perfectly Sir C. Madam, it shall be as I please. I'll right. order my chariot this moment. (Going.) I Lady R. No such thing, Sir Charles; the know how the cards should be played as well diamond was the play. as any man in England, that let me tell you. Sir C. Pho, pho! ridiculous! The club was (Going.) And when your family were standthe card against the world. ing behind counters measuring out tape and Lady R. Oh! no, no, no, I say it was the bartering for Whitechapel needles, my ancesdiamond. tors—madam, my ancestors-were squandering Sir C. Zounds! madam, I say it was the away whole estates at cards,-whole estates, club. my Lady Rackett. (She hums a tune, and he Lady R. What do you fly into such a passion looks at her.) Why, then, by all that's dear for? Sir C. Death and fury, do you think I don't know what I'm about? I tell you, once more, the club was the judgment of it. Ludy R. Maybe so; have it your own way, sir. (Walks about and sings.) Sir C. Vexation! you're the strangest woman that ever lived; there's no conversing with you. Look ye here, my Lady Rackett; it's the clearest case in the world; I'll make it plain to you in a moment. Lady R. Well, sir!— ha, ha, ha! (With a sneering laugh.) Sir C. I had four cards left, a trump was led, they were six; no, no, no, they were seven, and we nine; then, you know, the beauty of the play was to- Lady R. Well, now, it's amazing to me that you can't see it; give me leave, Sir Charles. Your left-hand adversary had led his last trump, and he had before finessed the club, and roughed the diamond; now if you had put on your diamond to me, I'll never exchange another word with you, good, bad, or indifferent. Look ye, my Lady Rackett, thus it stood; the trump being led, it was then my business Lady R. To play the diamond, to be sure. Sir C. D- -n it; I have done with you for ever, and so you may tell your father. [Exit. Lady R. What a passion the gentleman's Ha, ha, ha! (Laughs in a peevish manner.) I promise him I'll not give up my judgment. in! Re-enter SIR CHARLES. Sir C. My Lady Rackett, look ye, maʼam; once more, out of pure good-natureLady R. Sir, I am convinced of your goodnature. Sir C. That, and that only prevails with me to tell you, the club was the play. Lady R. Well, be it so; I have no objection. Sir C. It's the clearest point in the world; we were nine, and Lady R. And for that very reason, you know, the club was the best in the house. Sir C. Zounds! madam, but we played for Sir C. There is no such thing as talking to the odd trick. you. You're a base woman. I'll part from Lady R. And sure the play for the odd you for ever; you may live here with your trickfather and admire his fantastical evergreens, Sir C. Death and fury! can't you hear me? till you grow as fantastical yourself. I'll Lady R. Go on, sir. set out for London this instant. (Stops at the Sir C. Zounds! hear me, I say. Will you door.) The club was the best in the house. hear me? Lady R. I never heard the like in my life. (Hums a tune, and walks about fretfully.) Lady R. How calm you are! Well!-I'll go to bed; will you come? You had better, -come then; you shall come to bed. Not come to bed, when I ask you? Poor Sir Charles! [Looks and laughs, then exit. Sir C. That ease is provoking. I tell you the diamond was not the play, and here I take my final leave of you. (Walks back as just as he can.) I am resolved upon it, and I know the club was NOT the best in the house. [Exit. MUTUAL JEALOUSY. [The girl about whom Lady Restless is suspicious is Lady Conquest's maid, who had been to visit her own maid Tattle, and whom her ladyship saw leaving the house. From a window she also happened to see her husband Sir John support a lady who was about to faint, and discovers a portrait on the spot which the lady had dropped. In her unreasoning jealousy she believes it to be that of a former lover of the lady, and intended for Sir John to prove her devotion to him. Sir John, equally jealous, discovers his wife looking at the portrait, and concludes it is a rival of his own. An amusing series of blunders ensues, which ends in the parties finding out their mistakes and living happily ever after.] SIR JOHN and ROBERT his servant. Rob. I can't say, sir: my lady is not well. Sir John. Not well! fatigued with rioting about this town, I suppose. How long has she been at home? Rob. About an hour, sir. Sir John. About an hour! very well, Robert, you may retire. [Exit Robert.] Now will I question her closely. So-so-so-she comes, leaning on her maid: finely dissembled! finely dissembled! But this pretended illness shall not shelter her from my strict inquiry. Soft a moment! If I could overhear what passes between 'em, it might lead to the truth. I'll work by stratagem. The hypocrite! how she acts her part! [Exit. Enter LADY RESTLESS and TATTLE. Tat. How are you now, madam? Lady Rest. Somewhat better, Tattle. Reach that chair. Tattle, tell me honestly, does that girl live with Lady Conquest? Tat. She does, madam, upon my veracity. Lady Rest. Very well! you will be obstinate, I see, but I shall know the truth presently. I shall have an answer from her ladyship, and then all will come out. Tat. You will hear nothing, ma'am, but what I have told you already. Lady Rest. Tattle, Tattle, I took you up in the country in hopes gratitude would make you my friend. But you are as bad as the rest of them. Conceal all you know it is of very little consequence. I now see through the whole affair. Though it is the picture of a man, yet I am not to be deceived: I understand it all. This is some former gallant. The creature gave this to Sir John as a proof that she had no affection for any one but himself.-What art he must have had to induce her to this!--I have found him out at last. SIR JOHN, peeping in. Sir John. (Aside.) What does she say? Lady Rest. I have seen enough to convince me what kind of man he is. The fate of us poor women is hard: we all wish for husbands, and they are the torment of our lives. Tat. There is too much truth in what you say, ma'am. Sir John. You join her, do you, Mrs. Iniquity? Lady Rest. What a pity it is, Tattle, that poor women should be under severer restraints than the men are! Sir John. Oh! very well argued, madam. Lady Rest. What a pity it is, Tattle, that we cannot change our husbands as we do our earrings or our gloves! Sir John. There is a woman of spirit! Lady Rest. Tattle, will you own the truth to me about that girl? Tat. I really have told you the truth, madam. Lady Rest. You won't discover, I see: very well; you may go down stairs. Tat. I assure your ladyship— [Exit. Lady Rest. Would I had never seen my husband's face! Sir John. I am even with you: I have as good wishes for you, I assure you. Lady Rest. This picture here! Oh, the base man! Sir John. The picture of her gallant, I suppose. Lady Rest. This is really a handsome picture; what a charming countenance! it is perfumed, I fancy: the scent is agreeable. Sir John. "That she can't change her husband as she does her earrings or her gloves. Had such a dear, dear man fallen to my lot, instead of the brute, the monster."-Am I a monster? I am, and you have made me so. The world shall know your infamy. Lady Rest. Oh! brave it out, sir; brave it out to the last. Harmless innocent man! you have nothing to blush for, nothing to be ashamed of you have no intrigues, no private amours abroad! I have not seen anything, not I! Sir John. Madam, I have seen, and I now see, your paramour. Lady Rest. That air of confidence will be of great use to you, sir. You have no convenient to meet you under my very window, to loll softly in your arms! Sir John. Now, madam; now, false one, cheek. have I caught you? Sir John. 'Sdeath! that's unlucky: she will Lady Rest. You are come home at last, I turn it against me. find, sir. Sir John. My Lady Restless, my Lady Sir John. Ay, madam; this picture- Sir John. Of my shame! 'tis very true what she says. (Aside.) Yes, madam, it will be an evidence of my shame; I feel that but too sensibly. But on your part Lady Rest. You own it then, do you! Sir John. Own it! I must own it, madam; though confusion cover me, I must own it: it is what you have deserved at my hands. Lady Rest. I deserve it, Sir John! find excuses if you will. Cruel, cruel man! to make me this return at last! I cannot bear it. Oh! oh! (Cries.) Such black injustice! Sir John. You may weep; but your tears are lost they fall without effect. I now renounce you for ever. This picture will justify me to the wide world; it will show what a base woman you have been. Lady Rest. What does the man mean? Sir John. The picture of your gallant, madam. "It's a pity," you know, madam, "that a woman should be tied to a man for life, even though she has a mortal hatred for him." Lady Rest. Artful hypocrite! (Aside.) Lady Rest. You are in confusion, are you, sir? But why should you? You meant no harm "You are safe with me, my dear. Will you step into my house, my love?" Yes, sir, you would fain bring her into my very house. Sir John. My Lady Restless, this evasion is mean and paltry. You beheld a lady in distress. Lady Rest. Oh! I know it, sir; and you, tender-hearted man, could caress her out of mere compassion! you could gaze wantonly out of charity; from pure benevolence of disposition you could convey her to some convenient dwelling. Oh, Sir John, Sir John! Sir John. Madam, this well-acted passion— Lady Rest. Don't imagine she has escaped me, sir. Sir John. You may talk and rave, maʼam, but I will find, by means of this instrument here in my hand, who your darling is. I will go about it straight. Ungrateful, treacherous woman! [Exit. Lady Rest. Yes; go under that pretext, in pursuit of your licentious pleasures. This ever has been his scheme to cloak his wicked practices. Abandoned man! to face me down, too, after what my eyes so plainly beheld! I wish I could wring that secret out of Tattle. I'll step to my own room directly, and try by menaces, by wheedling, by fair means, by foul means, by every means, to wrest it from her. [Exit. never more take her place among the nations of the earth, he died, regretted by all who knew him, or who had listened to his wit that so often set the court as well as the table in a roar. ["Pleasant Ned Lysaght," as he was com- | last unbribable and patriotic. In 1810, when monly called, barrister, wit, and song-writer, he had come to believe that Ireland would was the son of John Lysaght, Esq. of Brickhill in the county of Clare, and was born on the 21st of December, 1763. His early days were passed amid the romantic associations that surrounded his father's home, and the names of the ancient heroes and princes of his country were familiar in his mouth as household words. Both parents were Protestants, but they had so little of the bigotry of the time that they sent their boy to a highclass school in Cashel conducted by the Rev. Patrick Hare, a Roman Catholic divine. At this school Lysaght soon began to distinguish himself by his wit and humour as well as personal courage, and became a great favourite with his companions. He did not neglect his studies, however, and in 1779 entered Trinity College, Dublin, his leaving Cashel being cause of much sorrow to both teachers and pupils. While studying at Trinity his father died, and Lysaght, full of deep grief, returned home to his mother. With her he remained for some time, and in 1784 he was after examination admitted a student of the Middle Temple, London. Before long he gained some of the best prizes, and having taken his degree of M.A. at Oxford, was called to the English and Irish bar in 1798. After a time he married, but his practice continued meagre, and Sir Jonah Barrington says he discovered that his father-in-law, whom he had believed to be a wealthy Jew, was only a bankrupt Christian. His creditors pressing him, Lysaght left England and returned to Ireland, resolved to make it his future home. He soon won the good wishes and esteem of the people generally, and, what was even better, his practice began to improve, and he gained reputation on circuit as a fluent speaker. He now occupied his leisure hours -and there were leisure hours in those days for even the busiest-in verse-making, and the production of many a witty skit now utterly lost. In the Volunteer movement he took a prominent and active part, and helped it forward both by tongue and pen. When the movement which resulted in the Union began, Lysaght opposed it with all his power, and, though repeatedly tempted, remained to the Lysaght's poetry was, like himself, full of wit and humour, with an under-stratum of feeling and sentiment, and a strength and directness of expression which were characteristic of him in everyday life. His style is essentially a healthy one, escaping on the one hand from the stiffness of the age in which he lived, yet free from license and not overloaded with ornament. His insight into character, especially Irish character, was wonderful, and his "Sprig of Shillelah" remains to this day a perfect photograph of the now extinct being it portrays. The respect of the bench and bar in Ireland for Lysaght's memory was shown by their donation of £2520 for his widow and daughters. A volume of Poems by the late Edward Lysaght, Esq. was published in Dublin in 1811, but it does not contain some of his best effusions, many of which are now doubtless lost.] KATE OF GARNAVILLA.1 Have you been at Garnavilla? Have you seen at Garnavilla With lovely Kate of Garnavilla? Ere they light on woodland hill-O; Is lovely Kate of Garnavilla! Philomel, I've listened oft To thy lay, nigh weeping willow: As a noble ship I've seen Sailing o'er the swelling billow, 1 Sung to the well-known air of "Roy's Wife," to which Burns also wrote words not excelling these of Lysaght. |