SCENE A Chamber in an old-fashioned
House.
Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardcastle.
Mrs. Hardcastle. I
vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you’re very particular.
Is there a creature in the whole country but ourselves,
that does not take a trip to town now and then, to
rub off the rust a little? There’s the
two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, go
to take a month’s polishing every winter.
Hardcastle. Ay, and bring
back vanity and affectation to last them the whole
year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own
fools at home! In my time, the follies of the
town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster
than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down not
only as inside passengers, but in the very basket.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay,
your times were fine times indeed; you have been telling
us of them for many a long year. Here we live
in an old rumbling mansion, that looks for all the
world like an inn, but that we never see company.
Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate’s
wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master;
and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince
Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such
old-fashioned trumpery.
Hardcastle. And I love
it. I love everything that’s old:
old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old
wine; and I believe, Dorothy (taking her hand), you’ll
own I have been pretty fond of an old wife.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Lord,
Mr. Hardcastle, you’re for ever at your Dorothys
and your old wifes. You may be a Darby, but I’ll
be no Joan, I promise you. I’m not so
old as you’d make me, by more than one good
year. Add twenty to twenty, and make money of
that.
Hardcastle. Let me see;
twenty added to twenty makes just fifty and seven.
Mrs. Hardcastle. It’s
false, Mr. Hardcastle; I was but twenty when I was
brought to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin,
my first husband; and he’s not come to years
of discretion yet.
Hardcastle. Nor ever will,
I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him
finely.
Mrs. Hardcastle. No
matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune.
My son is not to live by his learning. I don’t
think a boy wants much learning to spend fifteen hundred
a year.
Hardcastle. Learning, quotha!
a mere composition of tricks and mischief.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Humour,
my dear; nothing but humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle,
you must allow the boy a little humour.
Hardcastle. I’d sooner
allow him a horse-pond. If burning the footmen’s
shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying the kittens
be humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he
fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when
I went to make a bow, I popt my bald head in Mrs.
Frizzle’s face.
Mrs. Hardcastle. And
am I to blame? The poor boy was always too sickly
to do any good. A school would be his death.
When he comes to be a little stronger, who knows
what a year or two’s Latin may do for him?
Hardcastle. Latin for him!
A cat and fiddle. No, no; the alehouse and
the stable are the only schools he’ll ever go
to.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Well,
we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we
shan’t have him long among us. Anybody
that looks in his face may see he’s consumptive.
Hardcastle. Ay, if growing
too fat be one of the symptoms.
Mrs. Hardcastle. He coughs sometimes.
Hardcastle. Yes, when his liquor goes the
wrong way.
Mrs. Hardcastle. I’m actually
afraid of his lungs.
Hardcastle. And truly so
am I; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking trumpet (Tony
hallooing behind the scenes) O, there he
goes a very consumptive figure, truly.
Enter Tony, crossing the stage.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Tony,
where are you going, my charmer? Won’t
you give papa and I a little of your company, lovee?
Tony. I’m in haste, mother; I cannot
stay.
Mrs. Hardcastle. You
shan’t venture out this raw evening, my dear;
you look most shockingly.
Tony. I can’t stay,
I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down
every moment. There’s some fun going forward.
Hardcastle. Ay; the alehouse,
the old place: I thought so.
Mrs. Hardcastle. A low, paltry set
of fellows.
Tony. Not so low, neither.
There’s Dick Muggins the exciseman, Jack Slang
the horse doctor, Little Aminadab that grinds the music
box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray,
my dear, disappoint them for one night at least.
Tony. As for disappointing
them, I should not so much mind; but I can’t
abide to disappoint myself.
Mrs. Hardcastle. (detaining him.) You
shan’t go.
Tony. I will, I tell you.
Mrs. Hardcastle. I say you shan’t.
Tony. We’ll see which
is strongest, you or I. [Exit, hauling her out.]
Hardcastle. (solus.) Ay, there
goes a pair that only spoil each other. But
is not the whole age in a combination to drive sense
and discretion out of doors? There’s my
pretty darling Kate! the fashions of the times have
almost infected her too. By living a year or
two in town, she is as fond of gauze and French frippery
as the best of them.
Enter miss Hardcastle.
Hardcastle. Blessings on
my pretty innocence! drest out as usual, my Kate.
Goodness! What a quantity of superfluous silk
hast thou got about thee, girl! I could never
teach the fools of this age, that the indigent world
could be clothed out of the trimmings of the vain.
Miss Hardcastle. You
know our agreement, sir. You allow me the morning
to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner;
and in the evening I put on my housewife’s dress
to please you.
Hardcastle. Well, remember,
I insist on the terms of our agreement; and, by the
bye, I believe I shall have occasion to try your obedience
this very evening.
Miss Hardcastle. I
protest, sir, I don’t comprehend your meaning.
Hardcastle. Then to be
plain with you, Kate, I expect the young gentleman
I have chosen to be your husband from town this very
day. I have his father’s letter, in which
he informs me his son is set out, and that he intends
to follow himself shortly after.
Miss Hardcastle. Indeed!
I wish I had known something of this before.
Bless me, how shall I behave? It’s a thousand
to one I shan’t like him; our meeting will be
so formal, and so like a thing of business, that I
shall find no room for friendship or esteem.
Hardcastle. Depend upon
it, child, I’ll never control your choice; but
Mr. Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of
my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have
heard me talk so often. The young gentleman
has been bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment
in the service of his country. I am told he’s
a man of an excellent understanding.
Miss Hardcastle. Is he?
Hardcastle. Very generous.
Miss Hardcastle. I believe I shall
like him.
Hardcastle. Young and brave.
Miss Hardcastle. I’m sure I
shall like him.
Hardcastle. And very handsome.
Miss Hardcastle. My
dear papa, say no more, (kissing his hand), he’s
mine; I’ll have him.
Hardcastle. And, to crown
all, Kate, he’s one of the most bashful and
reserved young fellows in all the world.
Miss Hardcastle. Eh!
you have frozen me to death again. That word
reserved has undone all the rest of his accomplishments.
A reserved lover, it is said, always makes a suspicious
husband.
Hardcastle. On the contrary,
modesty seldom resides in a breast that is not enriched
with nobler virtues. It was the very feature
in his character that first struck me.
Miss Hardcastle. He
must have more striking features to catch me, I promise
you. However, if he be so young, so handsome,
and so everything as you mention, I believe he’ll
do still. I think I’ll have him.
Hardcastle. Ay, Kate, but
there is still an obstacle. It’s more than
an even wager he may not have you.
Miss Hardcastle. My
dear papa, why will you mortify one so? Well,
if he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his
indifference, I’ll only break my glass for its
flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and look
out for some less difficult admirer.
Hardcastle. Bravely resolved!
In the mean time I’ll go prepare the servants
for his reception: as we seldom see company, they
want as much training as a company of recruits the
first day’s muster. [Exit.]
Miss Hardcastle. (Alone).
Lud, this news of papa’s puts me all in a flutter.
Young, handsome: these he put last; but I put
them foremost. Sensible, good-natured; I like
all that. But then reserved and sheepish; that’s
much against him. Yet can’t he be cured
of his timidity, by being taught to be proud of his
wife? Yes, and can’t I But
I vow I’m disposing of the husband before I have
secured the lover.
Enter miss Neville.
Miss Hardcastle. I’m
glad you’re come, Neville, my dear. Tell
me, Constance, how do I look this evening? Is
there anything whimsical about me? Is it one
of my well-looking days, child? Am I in face
to-day?
Miss Neville. Perfectly,
my dear. Yet now I look again bless
me! sure no accident has happened among
the canary birds or the gold fishes. Has your
brother or the cat been meddling? or has the last
novel been too moving?
Miss Hardcastle. No;
nothing of all this. I have been threatened I
can scarce get it out I have been threatened
with a lover.
Miss Neville. And his name
Miss Hardcastle. Is Marlow.
Miss Neville. Indeed!
Miss Hardcastle. The son of Sir Charles
Marlow.
Miss Neville. As I
live, the most intimate friend of Mr. Hastings, my
admirer. They are never asunder. I believe
you must have seen him when we lived in town.
Miss Hardcastle. Never.
Miss Neville. He’s
a very singular character, I assure you. Among
women of reputation and virtue he is the modestest
man alive; but his acquaintance give him a very different
character among creatures of another stamp: you
understand me.
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-têtes.
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 deadly
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.]