_Aim_. O sir, your servant! Pray, doctor, may I crave your name? {50} Foi, Fat naam is upon me? My naam is Foigard, joy. _Aim_. Foigard! a very good name for a clergyman. Pray, Doctor Foigard, were you ever in Ireland? Foi, Ireland! no, joy. Fat sort of plaace is dat saam Ireland? Dey say de people are catched dere when dey qre young. _Aim_. And some of 'em when they are old:--as for example.--[_Takes Foigard by the shoulder_.] Sir, I arrest you as a traitor against the government; you're a subject of England, and this morning showed me a commission, by which you served as chaplain in the French army. This is death by our law, and your reverence must hang for it. _Foi_. Upon my shoul, noble friend, dis is strange news you tell me! Fader Foigard a subject of England! de son of a burgomaster of Brussels, a subject of England! ubooboo---- {68} _Aim_. The son of a bog-trotter in Ireland! Sir, your tongue will condemn you before any bench in the kingdom. _Foi_. And is my tongue all your evidensh, joy? _Aim_. That's enough. _Foi_. No, no, joy, for I vill never spake English no more. _Aim_. Sir, I have other evidence.--Here, Martin! _Re-enter Archer_. You know this fellow? _Arch_. [_In a brogue_.] Saave you, my dear cussen, how does your health? {78} _Foi_. [Aside.] Ah! upon my shoul dere is my countryman, and his brogue will hang mine.--[_To Archer_.] _Mynheer, Ick wet neat watt hey xacht, Ick universton ewe neaty sacramant!_ _Aim_. Altering your language won't do, sir; this fellow knows your person, and will swear to your face. _Foi_. Faash! fey, is dere a brogue upon my faash too? _Arch_. Upon my soulvation dere ish, joy!--But cussen Mackshane, vil you not put a remembrance upon me? _Foi_. Mackshane! by St. Paatrick, dat ish my naam shure enough! [_Aside_. _Aim_. I fancy, Archer, you have it. [_Aside to Archer_. _Foi_. The devil hang you, joy! by fat acquaintance are you my cussen? {92} _Arch_. Oh, de devil hang yourshelf, joy! you know we were little boys togeder upon de school, and your foster-moder's son was married upon my nurse's chister, joy, and so we are Irish cussens. _Foi_. De devil taake de relation! vel, joy, and fat school was it? _Arch_. I tinks it vas--aay--'twas Tipperary. _Foi_. No, no, joy; it vas Kilkenny. {100} _Aim_. That 's enough for us--self-confession,---come, sir, we must deliver you into the hands of the next magistrate. _Arch_. He sends you to jail, you 're tried next assizes, and away you go swing into purgatory. _Foi_. And is it so wid you, cussen? _Arch_. It vil be sho wid you, cussen, if you don't immediately confess the secret between you and Mrs. Gipsy. Look 'ee, sir, the gallows or the secret, take your choice. {110}