No More Learning

MARL. We wanted no ghost to tell us that.

TONY. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask the place from whence
you came?

MARL. 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.

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

MARL. 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!

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.

MARL. Cross down Squash-lane?

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

MARL. Come to where four roads meet!

TONY. Aye; but you must be sure to take only one of them.

MARL. O sir, you're facetious.

TONY. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways till you come
upon Crack-skull-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——

MARL. Zounds, man! we could as soon find out the longitude!

HAST. What's to be done, Marlow?

MARL. 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 a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted. _) I have hit it.
Don't you think, Stingo, our landlady would accommodate the gentlemen
by the fireside, with—three chairs and a bolster?

HAST. I hate sleeping by the fireside.

MARL. 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 country?

HAST. O, ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however.

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 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.

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 the peace.

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

MARL. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further
connexion. We are to turn to the right, did you say?

TONY. No, no; straightforward. 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-damn'd mischievous
son of a whore.

_Exeunt. _

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 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.

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.

DIGG. 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—

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.

DIGG. 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 belly-full in the kitchen as good as a
belly-full in the parlour? Stay your stomach with that reflection.

DIGG. Ecod, I thank your worship I'll make a shift to stay my stomach
with a slice of cold beef in the pantry.

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.

DIGG. 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?

DIGG. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the eatables
and drinkables brought upon the table, and then I'm as bauld as a lion.

[Illustration:

HARDCASTLE. —"_You must not be
so talkative, Diggory. _"—_p. _ 333.
]


HARD. What, will nobody move?

1. SERV. I'm not to leave this place.

2. SERV. I'm sure it's no place of mine.

3. SERV. Nor mine, for sartain.

DIGG. 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 blockheads. I'll go in the mean time and
give my old friend's son a hearty welcome at the gate.

_Exit_ HARDCASTLE.

DIGG. By the elevens, my place is gone quite out of my head.

ROGER. I know that my place is to be everywhere.

1. SERV. Where the devil is mine?

2. SERV. My place is to be no where at all; and so Ize go about my
business.

_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.

MARL. 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 the bill
confoundedly.

MARL. 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.

MARL. 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—

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

MARL. 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.

MARL. 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 bar-maid of an inn, or even a college
bed-maker—

MARL. 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?

MARL. 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-star question, of—_madam, will you marry me? _ No, no; that's
a strain much above me, I assure you.

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?

MARL. As I behave to all other ladies: bow very low; answer yes, or no,
to all her demands—But for the rest, I don' think I shall venture to
look in her face till I see my father's again.

HAST. I am surprised that one who is so warm a friend can be so cool a
lover.

MARL. 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 a
sure of a reception, and let honour do the rest.

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.

MARL. Happy man! You have talents and art to captivate any woman. I am
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.

_Enter_ HARDCASTLE.

HARD. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr.
Marlow? Sir, you are heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to
receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a
hearty reception, in the old style, at my gate. I like to see their
horses and trunks taken care of.

MARL. (_Aside. _) He has got our names from the servants already. (_To
him. _) We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. (_To_ HASTINGS. ) I
have been thinking, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the
morning. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine.

HARD. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house.

HAST. I fancy, Charles, you're right: the first blow is half the
battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold.

HARD. Mr. Marlow—Mr. Hastings—gentlemen—pray be under no restraint in
this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you
please here.

MARL. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first we may
want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery to
secure a retreat.

HARD. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the
Duke of Marlborough, when he went to besiege Denain. He first summoned
the garrison.

MARL. Don't you think the _ventre_ _d'or_ waistcoat will do with the
plain brown?

HARD. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five
thousand men—

HAST. I think not: brown and yellow mix but very poorly.

HARD. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison,
which might consist of about five thousand men—

MARL. The girls like finery.

HARD. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed
with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the
Duke of Marlborough, to George Brooks, that stood next to him—you must
have heard of George Brooks; "I'll pawn my dukedom," says he, "but I
take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. " So——

MARL. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass of punch in the
meantime? It would help us to carry on the siege with vigour.

HARD. Punch, sir! (_Aside. _) This is the most unaccountable kind of
modesty I ever met with.

MARL. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey, will
be comfortable. This is Liberty-hall, you know.

HARD. Here's cup, sir.

MARL. (_Aside. _) So this fellow, in his Liberty-hall, will only let us
have just what he pleases.

HARD. (_Taking the cup. _) I hope you'll find it to your mind. I have
prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients
are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir? Here, Mr.
Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance.

_Drinks. _

MARL. (_Aside. _) A very impudent fellow this! but he's a character, and
I'll humour him a little. Sir, my service to you.

_Drinks. _

HAST. (_Aside. _) I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and
forgets that he's an inn-keeper, before he has learned to be a
gentleman.

MARL. From the excellence of your cup my old friend, I suppose you have
a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and
then, at elections, I suppose.

HARD. No, sir, I have long given that work over. Since our betters have
hit upon the expedient of electing each other, there's no business _for
us that sell ale_.

HAST. So, then you have no turn for politics I see.

HARD. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I fretted myself
about the mistakes of government, like other people; but, finding
myself every day grow more angry, and the government growing no better,
I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head about
_Heyder Alley_, or _Ally Cawn_, than about _Ally Croaker_. —Sir, my
service to you.

HAST. So that with eating above stairs, and drinking below; with
receiving your friends within, and amusing them without, you lead a
good pleasant bustling life of it.

HARD. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the
differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlour.

MARL. (_After drinking. _) And you have an argument in your cup, old
gentleman, better than any in Westminster Hall.

HARD. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy.

MARL. (_Aside. _) Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an
inn-keeper's philosophy!

HAST. So then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every
quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you attack it with your
philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with
this. —Here's your health, my philosopher.

_Drinks. _

HARD. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! Your generalship puts me in
mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of
Belgrade. You shall hear.

MARL. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I think it's almost time to
talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for
supper?

HARD. For supper, sir! (_Aside. _) Was ever such a request to a man in
his own house?

MARL. Yes, sir; supper, sir: I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make
devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you.

HARD. (_Aside. _) Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. (_To
him. _) Why really, sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy,
and the cook-maid, settle these things between them. I leave these kind
of things entirely to them.

MARL. You do, do you?