MAR. 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?

HAST. We have not seen the gentleman, but he has the family you

mention.

309

TONY. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative maypole. The son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond of.

MAR. 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. HAST. Unfortunate!

318

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.

LAND. Master Hardcastle's. Lack-a-daisy, my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash Lane.

MAR. Cross down Squash Lane?

LAND. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came to four roads.

MAR. Come to where four roads meet?

TONY. Ay, but you must be sure to take only one of them.
MAR. O, sir, you're facetious!

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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

MAR. Zounds, man! we could as soon find out the longitude! 338 HAST. What's to be done, Marlow?

MAR. This house promises but a poor reception, though, perhaps, the landlord can accommodate us.

LAND. 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 [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?

348

HAST. I hate sleeping by the fire-side.

MAR. 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?

HAST. Oh, oh! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however.

357

LAND. [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 roadside. You'll see a pair of large horns over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the yard,

and call stoutly about you.

HAST. 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!

LAND. A troublesome old blade, to be sure; but 'a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole country.

MAR. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no farther connection. 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!

LAND. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant-damned mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt.

End of the First Act.

ACT II

SCENE-An old-fashioned House

Enter HARDCASTLE, followed by three or four awkward Servants HARD. Well, I hope you're 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.

HARD. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits in a warren.

8

OMNES. No, no. HARD. 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.

DIG. 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.

18

HARD. 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.

DIG. By the laws, your worship, that's parfectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, he's always wishing for a mouthful himself.

HARD. Blockhead! Is not a bellyful in the kitchen as good as a bellyful in the parlour? Stay your stomach with that reflection. DIG. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry.

29

HARD. 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. DIG. 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!

HARD. 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?

41

DIG. 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.

HARD. What, will nobody move?

FIRST SERV. I'm not to leave this pleace.

SECOND SERV. I'm sure it's no pleace of mine.

THIRD SERV. Nor mine, for sartain.

49

DIG. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be mine. HARD. 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 block

heads! I'll go in the meantime and give my old friend's son a hearty reception at the gate. [Exit HARDCASTLE. DIG. By the elevens, my pleace is gone quite out of my head! ROG. I know that my pleace is to be everywhere.

FIRST SERV. Where the devil is mine?

SECOND SERV. My pleace is to be nowhere at all; and so I'ze go about my business.

60

[Exeunt Servants, running about as if frighted, different ways. Enter Servant with candles, showing in MARLOW and HASTINGS SERV. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome! This way. HAST. 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. MAR. 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.

HAST. 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.

71

MAR. 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.

HAST. You have lived pretty 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. MAR. 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

85

HAST. Ay, among them you are impudent enough of all conscience!

MAR. They are of us, you know. HAST. 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. MAR. 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.

HAST. If you could but say half the fine things to them that I have heard you lavish upon the barmaid of an inn, or even a college bed-maker

MAR. 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 dressed out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation.

HAST. Ha! ha! ha! At this rate, man, how can you ever expect to marry?

MAR. 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.

115

HAST. I pity you. But how do you intend behaving to the lady you are come down to visit at the request of your father? MAR. 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. HAST. I'm surprised that one who is so warm a friend can be so cool a lover.

MAR. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief inducement down was to be instrumental in forwarding your happiness, not Miss Neville loves you, the family don't know you, as my friend you are sure of a reception, and let honour do the

my own.

rest.

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HAST. 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. MAR. Happy man! You have talents and art to captivate any woman. I'm doomed to adore the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. This stammer in my address, and this awkward prepossessing visage of mine, can never permit me to soar above the reach of a milliner's 'prentice, or one of the duchesses of Drury-lane. Pshaw! this fellow here to interrupt us.

139

Enter HARDCASTLE

HARD. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir, you are heartily welcome. It's not my