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It was a joyful day in the townland of Mullinabrack, when the Nabob, as he is called, took possession of Mulgatawny Lodge. The country people, in Ireland, are apt to expect prodigious things from every 'Squire Newcome. To this sanguine disposition we may attribute the frequent disappointments

VOL. III.

B

poor Paddy experiences ; for, as he looks for too much, he finds too little. Every body knows now what a Nabob is, or at least what he ought to be ; my description therefore of Mr. Wilford need not be tedious.

Anthony Wilford, esquire, designated in the following tale by his familiar appellation, “ The Nabob,” was a spruce little man of withered-up face and sallow complexion, who had spent five-andtwenty years of his life in Bengal and the Carnatic. He wore a snuff-coloured wig, a coat of the same shade, smallclothes and leggings of various colours ; waistcoats of fancy patterns; and in his neck-linen he was quite a gentleman. He was equally particular, indeed, about every thing. Our houses were horrible! absolutely unlive-in-able. He, therefore, built Mulgatawny Lodge, with a viranda running round it, and a terraced roof. That it might not be at all like other men's houses, he made his kitchen in the garret, or at least as high up as the terrace would permit him to go. It was not till after a hunt through Gladwin's Moonshee, and the Hindostannee Dictionary, that he struck on the distinguishing name of “ Mulgatawny" for his new lodge.

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This

you of course know is a favourite soup at. Madras, made of fowl, and spiced till it is as hot

-0! Heaven ! I cannot name it; but, should you be desirous of getting a good mouth-burning, you may for half a guinea be supplied with a bowl of it in Piccadilly. The Nabob said it was horrible, in Ireland. All his wealth could not procure a cook to make it sufficiently Asiatic for his palate. " It is horrible,” he would say, “ It is really horrible, that you will not throw in enough of chillies.Now—there—thus-ay-now it may do.” But I like not to describe character ; I hate personality ; let us, therefore, leave the Nabob to open, as the pages of a book, in the progress of our tale.

This old Indian had certainly amassed great wealth, some said one way and some another; but it little matters, in the eyes of the world, how a man acquires sovereign power ; if he can sport the yellow effigies of our king, people enough will be found ready to take him by the hand. Our Nabob, after his return from the East, took up a position in London ; but, finding himself nobody in such a crowd of nobs, he instructed his agent, Mr. Bernard M‘Mahon, then practising as a solicitor in the

great city, to proceed to county Monaghan, inspect an estate there advertised for sale, and purchase it at the hammer, should it prove worth Irish money. Bernard M‘Mahon, attorney-at-law, styling himself solicitor, and of course gentleman, having a strong inclination to return to the dear sod, fulfilled his commission to the letter; and, agreeably to his wishes, found himself invested as agent and receiver to the Nabob.

Soon after, the important personage himself crossed the channel to inspect his newly acquired property; and, finding every thing so horrible, he ordered the old house to be pulled down (his agent, with the materials, building a handsome residence for himself); turned the whole topsy turvy; threw the front into lawns, the rear into plantations, the wings into picturesque views, and, altogether, produced such astonishing changes and improvements—as any one may produce with money.

At last, Mulgatawny Lodge was pronounced fit for Indian reception, and the Nabob's family arrived at the neighbouring town in four carriages. Here they were met by the population of Mullinabrack, who, if they had been permitted, would have made horses of themselves; but the Nabob, who, under all his ostentation, generally looked to expense, said it was horrible, and forced the Monaghan colts to content themselves with an Irish howl, expressive of their supreme delight on the occasion of this auspicious arrival.

In the front carriage were the Nabob and Nabobess, both peeping, and bowing to front and wings, as they passed the different groups of blue frieze-coated Paddies, and red-cloaked Shelahs, who stared at their prim faces, and gaped at the black servant man and maid who sat perched on the box. I do not like the title Nabobess; it is a foot too long; nor do I like our lady Nabob, though I need not state my objection; therefore, we shall call this stranger Mrs. Wilford. She was about fifty winters old; a few years younger than her husband, but in appearance older. In temper they were much alike; and time had given them the same cast of aspect, in proportion as habit had reconciled them to each other's peculiarities. Their youngest son, a boy about seven years of age, sat beside his mother, grinning at the wild Irish. In a carriage behind were four daughters, laughing, black-haired, błack

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