MISS HARDCASTLE. An odd character indeed. I shall never be able to manage him. What shall I do? Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust to occurrences for success. But how goes on your own affair, my dear? has my mother been courting you for my brother Tony as usual?
MISS NEVILLE. I have just come from one of our agreeable tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting off her pretty monster as the very pink of perfection.
MISS HARDCASTLE. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole management of it, I’m not surprised to see her unwilling to let it go out of the family.
MISS NEVILLE. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. However, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son; and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed upon another.
MISS HARDCASTLE. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him for hating you so.
MISS NEVILLE. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and I’m sure would wish to see me married to anybody but himself. But my aunt’s bell rings for our afternoon’s walk round the improvements. Allons! Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical.
MISS HARDCASTLE. “Would it were bed-time, and all were well.” [Exeunt.]
SCENE — An Alehouse Room. Several shabby Fellows with punch and tobacco. TONY at the head of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mallet in his hand.
OMNES. Hurrea! hurrea! hurrea! bravo!
FIRST FELLOW Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The ‘squire is going to knock himself down for a song.
OMNES. Ay, a song, a song!
TONY. Then I’ll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this alehouse, the Three Pigeons.
SONG.
Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain
With grammar, and nonsense, and learning,
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,
Gives GENUS a better discerning.
Let them brag of their heathenish gods,
Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians,
Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods,
They’re all but a parcel of Pigeons.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
When methodist preachers come down,
A-preaching that drinking is sinful,
I’ll wager the rascals a crown,
They always preach best with a skinful.
But when you come down with your pence,
For a slice of their scurvy religion,
I’ll leave it to all men of sense,
But you, my good friend, are the Pigeon.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
Then come, put the jorum about,
And let us be merry and clever,
Our hearts and our liquors are stout,
Here’s the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever.
Let some cry up woodcock or hare,
Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons;
But of all the GAY birds in the air,
Here’s a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
OMNES. Bravo, bravo!
FIRST FELLOW. The ‘squire has got spunk in him.
SECOND FELLOW. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us nothing that’s low.
THIRD FELLOW. O damn anything that’s low, I cannot bear it.
FOURTH FELLOW. The genteel thing is the genteel thing any time: if so be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly.
THIRD FELLOW. I likes the maxum of it, Master Muggins. What, though I am obligated to dance a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. May this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the very genteelest of tunes; “Water Parted,” or “The minuet in Ariadne.”
SECOND FELLOW. What a pity it is the ‘squire is not come to his own. It would be well for all the publicans within ten miles round of him.
TONY. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I’d then show what it was to keep choice of company.
SECOND FELLOW. O he takes after his own father for that. To be sure old ‘Squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, in the whole county.
TONY. Ecod, and when I’m of age, I’ll be no bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller’s grey mare to begin with. But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, what’s the matter?
Enter Landlord.
LANDLORD. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. They have lost their way upo’ the forest; and they are talking something about Mr. Hardcastle.
TONY. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that’s coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Londoners?
LANDLORD. I believe they may. They look woundily like Frenchmen.
TONY. Then desire them to step this way, and I’ll set them right in a twinkling. (Exit Landlord.) Gentlemen, as they mayn’t be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and I’ll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt mob.]
TONY. (solus). Father-in-law has been calling me whelp and hound this half year. Now, if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. But then I’m afraid — afraid of what? I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten me out of THAT if he can.
Enter Landlord, conducting MARLOW and HASTINGS.
MARLOW. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above threescore.
HASTINGS. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire more frequently on the way.
MARLOW. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet, and often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer.
HASTINGS. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer.
TONY. No offence, gentlemen. But I’m told you have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle in these parts. Do you know what part of the country you are in?
HASTINGS. Not in the least, sir, but should thank you for information.
TONY. Nor the way you came?
HASTINGS. No, sir: but if you can inform us ——
TONY. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, that — you have lost your way.
MARLOW. We wanted no ghost to tell us that.
TONY. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold so as to ask the place from whence you came?
MARLOW. That’s not necessary towards directing us where we are to go.
TONY. No offence; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter, and a pretty son?
HASTINGS. We have not seen the gentleman; but he has the family you mention.
TONY. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative maypole; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond of.
MARLOW. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be well-bred and beautiful; the son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother’s apron-string.
TONY. He-he-hem! — Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won’t reach Mr. Hardcastle’s house this night, I believe.
HASTINGS. Unfortunate!
TONY. It’s a damn’d long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle’s! (Winking upon the Landlord.) Mr. Hardcastle’s, of Quagmire Marsh, you understand me.
LANDLORD. Master Hardcastle’s! Lock-a-daisy, my masters, you’re come a d
eadly deal wrong! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash Lane.
MARLOW. Cross down Squash Lane!
LANDLORD. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came to four roads.
MARLOW. Come to where four roads meet?
TONY. Ay; but you must be sure to take only one of them.
MARLOW. O, sir, you’re facetious.
TONY. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways till you come upon Crackskull Common: there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward till you come to farmer Murrain’s barn. Coming to the farmer’s barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right about again, till you find out the old mill —
MARLOW. Zounds, man! we could as soon find out the longitude!
HASTINGS. What’s to be done, Marlow?
MARLOW. This house promises but a poor reception; though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us.
LANDLORD. Alack, master, we have but one spare bed in the whole house.
TONY. And to my knowledge, that’s taken up by three lodgers already. (After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.) I have hit it. Don’t you think, Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the gentlemen by the fire-side, with —— three chairs and a bolster?
HASTINGS. I hate sleeping by the fire-side.
MARLOW. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster.
TONY. You do, do you? then, let me see — what if you go on a mile further, to the Buck’s Head; the old Buck’s Head on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole county?
HASTINGS. O ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however.
LANDLORD. (apart to TONY). Sure, you ben’t sending them to your father’s as an inn, be you?
TONY. Mum, you fool you. Let THEM find that out. (To them.) You have only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a large old house by the road side. You’ll see a pair of large horns over the door. That’s the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you.
HASTINGS. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can’t miss the way?
TONY. No, no: but I tell you, though, the landlord is rich, and going to leave off business; so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, he! he! he! He’ll be for giving you his company; and, ecod, if you mind him, he’ll persuade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace.
LANDLORD. A troublesome old blade, to be sure; but a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole country.
MARLOW. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no farther connexion. We are to turn to the right, did you say?
TONY. No, no; straight forward. I’ll just step myself, and show you a piece of the way. (To the Landlord.) Mum!
LANDLORD. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant — damn’d mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt.]
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE — An old-fashioned House.
Enter HARDCASTLE, followed by three or four awkward Servants.
HARDCASTLE. Well, I hope you are perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can show that you have been used to good company, without ever stirring from home.
OMNES. Ay, ay.
HARDCASTLE. When company comes you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frightened rabbits in a warren.
OMNES. No, no.
HARDCASTLE. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show at the side-table; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. But you’re not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger; and from your head, you blockhead you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They’re a little too stiff, indeed, but that’s no great matter.
DIGGORY. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill ——
HARDCASTLE. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. You must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking; you must see us eat, and not think of eating.
DIGGORY. By the laws, your worship, that’s parfectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, he’s always wishing for a mouthful himself.
HARDCASTLE. Blockhead! Is not a belly-full in the kitchen as good as a belly-full in the parlour? Stay your stomach with that reflection.
DIGGORY. Ecod, I thank your worship, I’ll make a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry.
HARDCASTLE. Diggory, you are too talkative. — Then, if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if you made part of the company.
DIGGORY. Then ecod your worship must not tell the story of Ould Grouse in the gun-room: I can’t help laughing at that — he! he! he! — for the soul of me. We have laughed at that these twenty years — ha! ha! ha!
HARDCASTLE. Ha! ha! ha! The story is a good one. Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that — but still remember to be attentive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave? A glass of wine, sir, if you please (to DIGGORY). — Eh, why don’t you move?
DIGGORY. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the eatables and drinkables brought upo’ the table, and then I’m as bauld as a lion.
HARDCASTLE. What, will nobody move?
FIRST SERVANT. I’m not to leave this pleace.
SECOND SERVANT. I’m sure it’s no pleace of mine.
THIRD SERVANT. Nor mine, for sartain.
DIGGORY. Wauns, and I’m sure it canna be mine.
HARDCASTLE. You numskulls! and so while, like your betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved. O you dunces! I find I must begin all over again —— But don’t I hear a coach drive into the yard? To your posts, you blockheads. I’ll go in the mean time and give my old friend’s son a hearty reception at the gate. [Exit HARDCASTLE.]
DIGGORY. By the elevens, my pleace is gone quite out of my head.
ROGER. I know that my pleace is to be everywhere.
FIRST SERVANT. Where the devil is mine?
SECOND SERVANT. My pleace is to be nowhere at all; and so I’ze go about my business. [Exeunt Servants, running about as if frightened, different ways.]
Enter Servant with candles, showing in MARLOW and HASTINGS.
SERVANT. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome! This way.
HASTINGS. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking house; antique but creditable.
MARLOW. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn.
HASTINGS. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly.
MARLOW. Travellers, George, must pay in all places: the only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries; in bad inns you are fleeced and starved.
HASTINGS. You have lived very much among them. In truth, I have been often surprised, that you who have seen so much of the world, with your natural good sense, and your many opportunities, could never yet acquire a requisite share of assurance.
MARLOW. The Englishman’s malady. But tell me, George, where could I have learned that assurance you talk of? My life has been chiefly spent in a college or an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part of the creation that chiefly teach men confidence. I don’t know that I was ever familiarly acquainted with a single modest woman — except my mother — But among females of another class, you know ——
HASTINGS. Ay, among them you are impudent enough of all conscience.
MARLOW. They are of US
, you know.
HASTINGS. But in the company of women of reputation I never saw such an idiot, such a trembler; you look for all the world as if you wanted an opportunity of stealing out of the room.
MARLOW. Why, man, that’s because I do want to steal out of the room. Faith, I have often formed a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But I don’t know how, a single glance from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my resolution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit modesty; but I’ll be hanged if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence.
HASTINGS. If you could but say half the fine things to them that I have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of an inn, or even a college bed-maker ——
MARLOW. Why, George, I can’t say fine things to them; they freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such bagatelle; but, to me, a modest woman, drest out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation.
HASTINGS. Ha! ha! ha! At this rate, man, how can you ever expect to marry?
MARLOW. Never; unless, as among kings and princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an Eastern bridegroom, one were to be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad staring question of, Madam, will you marry me? No, no, that’s a strain much above me, I assure you.
HASTINGS. I pity you. But how do you intend behaving to the lady you are come down to visit at the request of your father?
MARLOW. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow very low, answer yes or no to all her demands — But for the rest, I don’t think I shall venture to look in her face till I see my father’s again.
HASTINGS. I’m surprised that one who is so warm a friend can be so cool a lover.
MARLOW. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief inducement down was to be instrumental in forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss Neville loves you, the family don’t know you; as my friend you are sure of a reception, and let honour do the rest.
HASTINGS. My dear Marlow! But I’ll suppress the emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to carry off a fortune, you should be the last man in the world I would apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville’s person is all I ask, and that is mine, both from her deceased father’s consent, and her own inclination.
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