In politics I'm no adept, And into my tub when I've crept And if that base idol of filth and vulgarity, To my home, And my hogshead's bright aperture darken, Get thee out of my sight! For thy clumsy opacity shuts out the light From my classical tun, Where a hater of cant and a lover of fun A COUNT CORNERED.-J. K. PAULDING. COUNT STROMBOLI, NED AND TOM MATHEWS AND WELCOMEHERE DIX. An Obscure Lane.-Morning. (Enter NED and Toм MATHEWS.) Ned. Somewhere about this spot, Tom, the Count always disappears in a very mysterious manner. I never have been able to trace him beyond the entrance to this narrow dirty lane, yet am I satisfied that he burrows near here. Tom. Burrows? You think then his lodgings are subterraneous, eh-a sort of rabbit warren? Now my idea was that he was more of a bird, and built his nest high up in the air. Ned. There's no telling-Hist! there he is. Quickstand behind this pump. (They conceal themselves The Count opens the door of a house, and looks cautiously out.) Count. I believe I may venture-there don't appear to be anybody in sight. (Footsteps are heard and Count draws back. Ned. Guy, he's as careful as a city mosquito in the autumn. Count. All clear now—here goes ! (Count comes out and walks towards NED and Toм. Ned. Ah, Count, good morning: you're stirring early in these out-of-the-way parts. Coun. (aside.) Diable! Discovered! I'll brazen it out. (Aloud.) Yes, gentlemen, I like to take a walk before breakfast sometimes, and, as I said the other day, I have a fancy for looking into the obscure parts of a city. You can then form a judgment of its morals. Ned. And what conclusion have you come to, Count, as to the state of our well-regulated city of Boston? Count. I've seen better places, with worse reputations. (WELCOME-HERE DIx comes to the door of his house, and calls. Dix. Hallo, you there, you Jovanny Vaganty, or what's tarnal queer name? come here a minute. your (Count begins to move off. Ned. And do you enter strange houses, Count, to study: morals? Dix. Here, you Jovanny-Jovanny Vaganty, darn yer, can't yer hear, or won't you hear? Are you deef? Count. 'Pon my soul, gentlemen-(looks at his watch)— my omelette will be cold, if I wait here any longer. I ordered iny breakfast at half-past nine. (Exit Count. Ned. The Count seems to be in a hurry. Let's try if we can obtain any information from his landlord. (Addresses Dix.) Do you know that gentleman that just turned the corner? Dix. Wa-a-l, I should kind o' calkulate that I did, shouldn't you? Ned. Does he live at your house? Dix. You think he does, now, don't you? Ned. I do; but I should like to know more certainly. Dix. Now, mister, do you know Jovanny? Ned. Never you mind. that open your mouth? Here-(gives him money)—will Dix. Only jest try, won't you? Ned. Do you know where that gentleman lives? Speak plainly, man. Dix. Wa-a-l, I shouldn't wonder if I could make a pretty considerable of a sharp guess where he does put up. I have a mighty strong kind of a notion that he's nigh about the hardest man goin' in Bosting to screw money out of. Why, mister, you might jest as well try to make cider out of dried apples. Ned. What! the Count? Dix. Man alive! du tell nëow! Cëount! Why, I did cultivate a kind o' suspicion that he played in the orchestry at the Circus. He's jest that sort o' lookin' chap. Cëount, eh? No you don't, mister! You think I'm a green chicken, don't yer? Ned. His name is certainly Count Stromboli. Dix. You don't fool this child, mister. Get ëout. Cëount, eh? Hain't I seen the Marquis Lafayetty? He don't look nothin' like him, I guess. Ned. What do you call him, then? His name is Jovanny Vaganty-that's the talk. Ned. Giovanni Vagante-how many aliases has he, I wonder? Dix. Aliases! If he has aliases, I guess I'll turn him straight out o' doors. Pisenous troublesome things is them aliases-gets a man into law-always. Dix. Wa-a-l, I shouldn't be surprised if he had a tarnation tight fist-desp'rate cluss is Jovanny. He's been here most six weeks, and I han't seen no signs of his money the wnull You understand, he keeps a promisin', and a promisin', and a promisin', but his pockets is painful empty; and I wunt say but what he owes old Sambo, the colored man, a whull grist o' fourpences for blackin' his boots, runnin' of arn'ds, and sich like small chores. Ned. And you 're sure that's he that we met out here? Dix. You wouldn't want me to take my Bible oath on it, would you, mister? If you don't, I kind o' notion that that ere feller was Jovanny Vaganty, and nobody else, or my name isn't Welcome-here Dix. Ned. Well, Mr. Dix, I am much obliged to you. Good morning, sir. (Excunt NED and Toм MATHEWS. Dix. Shockin' purlite! Wa-a-l, nëow, I jest wonder what them twu smart young sparks want o' Jovanny? (Lays his finger on his nose.) I shouldn't be surprised if I smelt some thing tarnation strong. I'll make Jovanny pay up, as sure as blazes. (Dix re-enters his house, and finds the Count alone in his room. Count. Landlord, who asked you in? Dix. Well, I du suppose I jest asked myself in. You see, Jovanny, you've been going now on tick for six weeks, and 1 kind o' conceit I should like to see the color of your money, jest out o' curiosity—nothin' else, you know. Here's the bill. (Presents Count a bill.) Count. Very well, Dix, very well-I'll attend to it. Just leave it on the table there, will you? Dix. That game won't do no longer, Jovanny. You see, you've worked me through that mill a whull grist o' times already. I've left three bills for you on that table, and that's twice more than I ever did for anybody else. Count. Well, just step in again in half an hour, will you, Dix? I am very busy at present. Dix. Won't pass, that. By Gum, Jovanny, I don't stir a peg from this spot, I 've a notion, till I 've pocketed the money. Count. Insolence! Peste! I vill leaf de house. 3 Dix. Wa-a-l, I calculate we'll agree about that when you've settled. Count. Settled! Vere's your bill?—(Dıx gives it to him.)-Eh! vat all dese scharge? (Reads.) To six weeks board and lodgeeng, at tree dollare per veek-(you tell me two dollare ven I come !)-eighteen dollare! To fuel during that time-(va-a-t dat !)-six dollare! To extras-(milles tonnerres!)—four dollare! To sundries (vat soondries?)-five dollare, fifty cent! Totale, Thirty-six dollare! Oh, c'est trop—dis is infamous. Ah, vat you call extrass, e-h-h? Vat you call sondrees? Dix. Wa-a-l, I call sodgers for breakfast, extras,—and lunch and beer, extras,-and dinner after time, extras,—and horse-radish, and garding truck, and long sarce, extras,—and Welsh rabbit for supper, extras— Count. Dat extrass, e-h-h? Vell, vat sondrees? Dix. Sundries ?-Wa-a-1, I calculate readin' my paper 's sundries-and another blanket's sundries-and gettin' your grate sot is-sundries-and Count. And you tink I pay him, eh? Nevare! Dix. Neow, Jovanny, I must say it's darned mean in you to grumble at my bill, considerin' you 've won so much from me at dominoes-darned mean ! Count. Begar, I vill not pay him. Peste!-Diable !—'tis von grand imposition. Dix. You can't come that over me, Jovanny. You jest better say nothin' about it, and deöwn with your dust, or you'll get into a peck o' troubles. You 've got to du it, Jovanny. Count. But I have not de l'argent-I 'ave no moneys. Dix. Wun't du, mister. I've had some hard customers afore now-(winks at Count)—and some shockin' poor; but none warn't so dry but what the law could squeeze some mysture out on 'em. Count. But, Monsieur Deex, I give you my parole |