No More Learning

MISS NEV. 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 HARD. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him
for hating you so.

MISS NEV. 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 HARD. Would it were bedtime, and all were well.

_Exeunt. _

SCENE. —_An ale house 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!

1 FEL. 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 school-masters puzzle their brain,
With grammar, and nonsense, and learning;
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,
Give _genus_ a better discerning.
Let them brag of their heathenish gods,
Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians;
Their _quis_, and their _quæs_, 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 skin full.
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 birds in the air,
Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons!
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

OMNES. Bravo! bravo!

1 FEL. The 'squire has got spunk in him.

2 FEL. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us nothing
that's _low_.

3 FEL. O damn anything that's _low_, I cannot bear it.

4 FEL. The genteel thing, is the genteel thing at any time. If so be
that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly.

3 FEL. I like 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. "

2 FEL. 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.

2 FEL. 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 Bett 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.

LAND. 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?

LAND. 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_.

TONY. 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.

MARL. 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.

HAST. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve of yours, that
would not let us inquire more frequently on the way.

MARL. 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.

HAST. 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 those parts. Do you know what part of the
country you are in?

HAST. Not in the least, sir; but should thank you for information.

TONY. Nor the way you came?

HAST. 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.

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.