SCENE I. The kitchen of a Country Inn: David and Jenkins discovered sitting by the fire-side.

John Thomson, says I, why do you put yourself into a passion? an angry man, says I, John, may be compared to three things. ⁠Yaw! yaw! (yawning very wide) how thick that snow falls! (looking to the window.) ⁠Well, well! let it fall as thick as it pleases!—To three things, John. In the first place, in respect that he is very hot and very restless and all that, he may be compared to the boiling of a pot——no, no! that was the third thing. ⁠Never mind, man, put it first this time for a variety.

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⁠No, no! let us have every thing as it should be. In the first place then, says I, in respect that he is so sharp, and so fussy, and so bouncing, he may be compared to your poor bottled small-beer: and in the second place, in respect that he is so loud and violent, and so hasty, he may be compared—— ⁠Yaw! yaw! yaw! (yawning again very loud.) ⁠Tut, man! can't you keep those jaws of yours together, and hear what a body says? ⁠Yaw, yaw! Dont think because I yawn, David, that I don't hear what you say.—But go on with your story: in the second place—— ⁠In the second place, says I, in respect that he is so violent and so loud, and so hasty, he may be compared to the letting off of a——— ⁠Of a train of gun-powder. ⁠No, sir; it was not to that, sir.

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⁠To the letting off of what, then? ⁠No matter what: I had a companion of my own, but I'll keep it to myself. ⁠Very well, David; just as you please; for I can see now what an angry man is like, without your giving yourself any further trouble. ⁠Ay, ay! jeer away sir! you are just like your poor silly affected master up stairs, who simpers whenever I open my mouth to speak, as if nobody had any sense but himself. ⁠I don't think that my master sets up for a wife man neither, master David; but he's young and well made, and——— ⁠He well made, hang him! his uncle is a better made man by half.—Ay, there is a gentleman for ye! a reasonable, sensible, mannerly gentleman! he don't break in upon one with his sneers and his jeers when a body is talking soberly and sensibly.

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⁠To be sure he has rather more manners about him than we can pretend to. ⁠By my faith he has! and more sense too. What do you think he said to me the other day? David, says he, you only want a great wig upon your head and a gown upon your moulders, to make as good a proser as many that we listen to in the pulpit or the bench. Now, wan't it very condescending in him to call such a poor unlearned man as me a proser, along with such great folks as these? Not that I regarded so much the compliment to myself, for God knows, it becometh not a mortal man to be proud, but I love to hear people speak rationally and civilly. ⁠Yes, there is nothing like it to be sure: but my young master is a very good master to me, and he spends his money like a gentleman. ⁠I don't care a rush how he spends his money: they seem to be the greatest gentlemen now-a-days, who have least money to spend. But if you had fallen sick on the road, like that poor old devil in the rose chamber, would your master have stopp'd so long at a poor Country Inn, to attend you himself ​like a Tick nurse? I trow not! he would have scamper'd off, and left you to follow when you could, or to die, if you had a mind to it. ⁠If I were old and sickly, indeed, I had as lief have Sir John for my master. ⁠I believe so: he is a better man than that skipjack nephew of his, twenty times over, and a better looking man too. I wonder much how he has come to this time o' th' day (for he must be near forty I guess) without taking a wife. ⁠He thinks himself happier, I suppose, without one. And I am sure no lady of any spirit or fashion would think herself happy with him. ⁠How so? what kind of man is he at home on his own estate? ⁠Why half ploughman; for he often enough holds his own plough of a morning, and can cast ye up as straight a furrow as any clod-sooted lout in the country; half priest, for he reads family prayers to his servants every Sunday evening as devoutly as the vicar of the parish; half lawyer, for there is never a poor silly idiot that allows himself to be cheated ​in the neighbourhood who does not run to him about it directly, and he will brow-beat and out-wit half a dozen of attorneys to have the goose righted again, if it were but of a crown's value. ⁠Well, but there is nothing amiss in all this. ⁠Then his other odd ways. Dinner must be upon the table every day at the very moment he has fixed, and he will not give ten minutes law to the first lord of the land. Devilishly inconvenient that for young fellows like me and my master. ⁠So much the better; I commend him for it. ⁠Then he pretends to be hospitable, and entertains the first people of the country, and yet he is not ashamed to boast that there has not been a drunk man in his house since he was master of it. ⁠Nay, odds life! that is being too particular, indeed. ⁠ Ay, to be sure; and yet he puts always such an easy good humoured face upon it, that people will ​not call him a hunks for all that. One half of it I'm sure would have made any other man pass for a very curmudgeon. What has such a man to do with a wife, unless he could get some sober young lady, educated two hundred years ago, who has kept herself young and fresh all the while in some cave under ground along with the seven sleepers, to start up to his hand and say, "pray have me?"—As for my master, he would remain a bachelor if he could; but we young fellows who have only our persons for our patrimony, must dispose of them in their prime, when they will fetch the highest price. ⁠To be sure, to be sure! Princesses a piece for you! young men, now a days, are mightily puffed up in their own conceits. They are colts without a bridle, but they bite upon the bit at last. They are butterflies in the sun, but a rainy day washes the colour off their wings. They sail down the stream very briskly, but it carries them over the ca-cartica——cataract (what ye call a water-fall ye know) at last. ⁠Faith, David! you string up so many what do ye call 'em similitudes in your discourse, there is no understanding it: you are just like that there poet in the green chamber, that writes upon the windows. ⁠He, drivling fellow! he has not sense enough to ​make a similitude. If it were not for the words he contrives to make clink with one another at the end of every line, his verses would be little better than what a body may call mere stuff. ⁠You'll never write such good ones tho', for all your great wisdom, Mr. David. ⁠Ay, you're a good judge to be sure! I'm sure you could not read them though they were printed in big letters before your nose, hussy. You can tell us, I make no doubt of it, how his julep tastes, and how his breath smells after the garlic peels that he takes to lay the cold wind in his stomach, and how his ruffled night cap becomes him too; for you have been very serviceable to him of late, and not very sparing of your visits to his chamber of an evening; but as for his verses, Mrs. Doll, you had better be quiet about them. ⁠I say his verses are as pretty verses as any body would desire, and I don't care a rush what you say about his night-cap or his garlic. ⁠Lord, Lord! to hear how women will talk about what they don't understand! Let me see now if you ​know the meaning of the lines he has scratch'd on the middle pane of the north window: Now, can you understand that, mistress madam? ⁠I say the verses are very pretty verses, and what does it signify whether one understands them or not? ⁠And then upon the other pane close by it: (To Jenkins.) Now this is Doll herself he means in these verses, for he came to this house the very day that the beggar-woman stole her new stockings from the side of the wash-tub, and I'm sure she shed as many tears about them as would have wash'd them as white as a lily, tho' they were none of the cleanest neither, it must be confess'd.—If I were to write poetry—— ⁠If you were to write poetry! Don't you remember when you made that bad metre for Goody ​Gibson's grave-stone, and all the parish laugh'd at it? And don't you remember when you went to church afterwards, how all the children of the village pointed with their fingers, and turn'd round their behinds to you as you pass'd? If you were to write poetry, forsooth! ⁠Devil take you, you filthy lying jade! it is well for you that I scorn to be angry with the likes of you.

(David takes up a stool and runs after her to cast it at her head.) O mercy! my head, my head!

⁠Nay, David, I can't see a lady used ill in my presence. Consider, my good friend, a man in a passion may be compared to three things. ⁠Devil take your three things, and all the things that ever were in the world! If I but once get hold of her! ​ ⁠What's this noise for? are you all mad to make such a disturbance and gentle-folks in the house? I protest, as I am a living woman, you make my house more liker a Bedlam than a sober Inn for gentle-folks to stop at. ⁠If I could get hold of her, I would dress her! I would curry-comb her! ⁠Won't you have done with it yet? curry-comb your horses, and let my maid alone. They stand in the stable poor things in dirty litter up to their bellies, while you sit here prating, and preaching as tho' you were the vicar of the parish. ⁠Must one be always attending upon a parcel of damn'd brutes, as tho' they were one's betters? must a body's arm never have a moment's rest? ⁠Let thy tongue rest a while, David: that is the member of thy body that has most reason to be tired. And as for you, Doll, mind your own work, and other people will leave you alone. Have you pluck'd the crows for the pidgeon-pye yet, and ​scraped the maggots from the stale mutton? well do I know there's ne'er a bit of all this done; we shall be put to such a hurry scurry to get the dinner dress'd, that all the nice victuals will be spoil'd (bell rings). O lud, lud! how they do ring them bells! Run and see what's wanted, Dolly. (Exit Dolly.) This comes of making a noise, now! (Exit Jenkins. ⁠The greatest noise has been of your own making, I'm sure. ⁠O dear me! what will this house come to! It will turn my poor head at last. ⁠A coach, a coach! a coach at the door, and fine ladies in it too as ever my eyes beheld. ⁠A coach say you? that's something indeed. I wish the stairs had been scower'd this morning. Run and light a fire in the blue chamber.

(Exeunt Landlady and Dolly severally, in great haste.

⁠I wonder what can bring these lady-folks out now in such cold weather as this. Have they never a fire at home to sit by, in a plague to them! ​They'll bring as many vile smoking beasts with them, as will keep my poor arms——

⁠(Exit grumbling.

Re-enter Landlady, shewing in Lady Goodbody, Miss Martin, and Hannah, followed by a Maid, carrying boxes, &c.

⁠O la, ladies! I am sorry the fires an't lit: but I have just ordered one to be lit in the blue chamber, and it will be ready immediately. I am sure your ladyships must be so cold; for it is to be sure the severest weather I ever see'd. ⁠We shall warm ourselves here in the meantime. ⁠What place can be so comfortable in a frosty morning as a stool by the kitchen fire?⁠(Sits down on a stool by the fire.) ⁠O dear, ladies! here are chairs. (Sets chairs for them.) ⁠Here is a seat for you too, Hopkins, sit down by the fire. ​ ⁠I thank you, my lady, I must look after the things in the coach. (Sets down the box, &c. and exit.) ⁠Have you many travellers, ma'am, in this road? ⁠O yes, my lady, a pretty many. We had a little time ago my Lady the Countess of Postaway, and a power of fine folks with her. It was a mighty cold day when she came, madam, and she was a mighty good humour'd lady to be sure: she sat by the fire here just in that very corner as your ladyship does now. ⁠It has been a highly-honour'd nook indeed, ⁠Pray ma'am, what have you got in the house for dinner? for it snows so fast I think it will be impossible for us to get any further to-day. ⁠O la, to be sure! I have got, my lady, a nice pigeon-pie for dinner, and some very tender mutton. But do you know, my Lady Countess would dine upon nothing but a good dish of fried eggs and bacon, tho' we had some very nice things in the house I'll assure you. I don't say, to be sure, that quality ​are all fond of the same kinds of victuals; but sometimes it will so happen that pigeons will not be equally plump and delicate as at other times, let us do what we will with them, and the mutton being fed upon old grass, my lady; will now and then be a little strong tasted or so.—O dear me! if it had not been all eaten up two days ago, I could have given you such a nice turkey! it was to be sure as great a beauty as ever was put upon a spit. Howsomever, you may perhaps after all, ladies, prefer the eggs and bacon. ⁠Yes, my good ma'am; the eggs and bacon that may be eaten to-day will answer our purpose rather better than the turkey that was eaten yesterday. ⁠Have you any company in the house? ⁠O yes, my lady, we have a good pleasant gentleman, who has been here these three days, because his servant was taken ill upon the road, Sir John Hazelwood, and his nephew with him; and we have a strange kind of a gentleman who has been here these three weeks, just to be quiet, as he says himself, and to study the musics, tho' I can't say we ever hear him play upon any thing neither. Howsomever, he diverts himself all day long after his ​own fashion, poor man, writing bits of metre upon the windows and such like, and does harm to nobody. ⁠There is a pair of candlesticks the very same with those we had in our bed-room at the last inn: look if they an't, the very fellows to them cousin, all but the little bead round the sockets. (To Miss M.) ⁠My good child, you are always observing things that nobody else notices. (To Miss M.) Sir John Hazelwood is an old acquaintance of mine; I'll let him know that I am here presently. ⁠The room is ready, ladies, and the fire very good. ⁠We shall go to it then. Let me have a candle, pray; I shall have some letters to seal by and by. ⁠Yes, ma'am; and mistress got some wax ones when the great lady was here, I'll bring you one of them. ​ ⁠No, no, child! a tallow one will do well enough.

(Exeunt Lady Goodbody, Miss Martin, and Hannah, Landlady conducting them.

⁠Yes, Doll, give her a tallow candle, and a stinking one too. ⁠The lady seems a very good lady, Mr. Sauce-box; and as to stinking candles I would have you to know we have no such things in the house. ⁠That is plaguy unlucky then, for this is the first time since I came to the house that you have been without them.—Confound the old dingy hypocrite! I wish they smelt like carrion for her sake. ⁠What makes you so bitter against the poor lady? I'm sure she is as civil a spoken lady as—— ⁠Yes, mighty civil, truly. I hate your smooth-spoken people: it is licking the butter off other people's bread that keeps their tongues so well oil'd. I drove like the devil to get here before the ​snow came on; I spared neither myself nor my cattle to please her, and what do you think I had for my pains? ⁠I can't say: it is a long stage to be sure. ⁠Paltry half-a-crown, an' be hang'd to her! ⁠But why did you take so much pains to please her? I never knew you do so before, but when you were promised a bribe for your trouble. ⁠Because I tell you she's a hypocrite, and would deceive Old Nick, if he were not as cunning as herself. When we passed thro' Middleton she bought as many coarse stockings as would have stocked a hosier's shop; and her maid told me they were all to be sent to her own estate to be given to the poor of the neighbourhood; so, thinks I to myself, this must be some rich liberal lady that gives away money with both hands, I won't stand upon trifles with her, and off I set like the deuce. But 'tis all a cursed lie: she'll sell them again, I'll be bound for it, and make a groat of profit upon every pair. I'll be revenged upon her! Hark ye, Doll; I'll give thee a new top-knot if thou'lt help me in any way to be revenged upon her. ​ ⁠Nay, nay, you promised me one last fair, Will, and brought me home nothing but a twopenny bun after all. I know you well enough; so you may play your tricks off by yourself: I'll have nothing to do with you.⁠(Exit. ⁠What ails the wench now, I wonder; ever since that there poet, as they call him, has been in the house, she has spoken to me as if I were a pair of old boots.⁠(Exit.

⁠Well, Ned, here is a rich heiress unexpectedly fallen in our way; you or I for her? ⁠If women favour'd men for their merit, Sir John, I should not presume to enter the lists with you: but, luckily, they prefer a good complexion to a good understanding; a well-made leg to what my grandmother used to call a well-order'd mind; and a very little fashion to a great deal of philosophy; which makes us good-for-nothing fellows come farther into their good graces than wiser men think we are entitled to. ​ ⁠You are very humble and very diffident truly: the meaning of what you say being simply this, that you are a mighty handsome fellow. Well, be it so; make as much of your personal qualifications as you can: it were hard indeed if they did not stand you in some good account, since you and your fashionable brotherhood take no pains to acquire any other. ⁠And they will stand us in good account, my good sir. Upon my honour we treat the sex in a much fairer manner than you do. She who marries one of us sees what she gets, but he who pretends to a woman on the score of his mental accomplishments, holds out to her a most deceitful lure. A man's temper and opinions may change, but he always wears the same pair of legs. ⁠There is some reason in this, I confess: and there is one advantage you have in thus tricking out your four quarters for the market,—they are in no danger of going off for less than they are worth. Your man of ton, as you call it, most commonly ends his career by marrying just such a woman as he deserves. ​ ⁠End his career! who the devil would marry if it were not to prolong it? A man may indeed sometimes be tempted to marry a fashonable beauty to please his vanity. ⁠Or break his heart. ⁠Poh, poh! there are more people who die of broken heads now o' days. A man may sometimes marry a woman of rank to be look'd up to by his old friends. ⁠Or down upon by his new ones. ⁠You are crusty now.—But a rich wife is the only one who can really excuse a young fellow for taking upon himself the sober name of husband. ⁠If this is your opinion, you had better still retain the more sprightly one of bachelor. ⁠And leave the heiress to you, Sir John. ​ ⁠No, Worshipton; there is not a woman now existing, as the world goes, that would suit me; and I verily think that here as I stand, with all my opinions and habits about me, I would suit no woman: I must e'en remain as I am. ⁠I wish to God I could do so too: I should ask no better. ⁠What should hinder you, young man? ⁠I am under the necessity of marrying: my circumstances oblige me to it. ⁠I am at a loss to comprehend the necessity you talk of. ⁠Will three hundred a year and a commission in the army keep a man's pocket in loose money, my good sir, support a groom and valet, a pair of riding horses, and a curricle? ⁠I crave your pardon, sir: these things being necessaries, you are perfectly in the right; and if ​you choose to impose a disagreeable restraint upon yourself for such necessaries, nobody has any right to find fault with you. ⁠Impose upon myself a restraint! Ha! ha! ha! pardon me! this is rather an amusing idea of yours. ⁠Why, you would not be base enough to marry a woman and neglect her. ⁠No, Sir John; I should pay her as much attention as women of the world now expect, and she who is not satisfied with that must be a fool. ⁠Well, pray heaven you may find one wife enough to be satisfied with you! But if you seriously mean to pay your addresses to Sir Rowland's heiress, you must inform her of the real state of your affairs. I'll have no advantage taken of a young woman under my eye, tho' it should be for the interest of my family. ⁠I shall pretend to nothing but what she may be ascertained of if she has eyes in her head. ​ ⁠No, not so easily ascertained as you imagine. There is many a handsome man in the world whom nature never made so. Flattery has softened many a rugged visage, and lick'd many an awkward cub into shape; and he who takes this method of becoming a pretty fellow before marriage, is bound in honour to continue it, that he may still remain such after marriage. ⁠What! must I be repeating the same thing to her all my life long? Tell a woman once in plain English that she is charming, and there is no danger of her forgetting it. ⁠Well, deal honourably, and I shall rejoice in your success.——But I must go to the stable and give directions to my groom: I shall return presently.⁠(Exit. ⁠Honourably! yes, yes, we are all mighty conscientious in every thing that is for the interest of another. But watch me as you please, my good Sir John, you shan't find me out. What a plaguy thing it is to have an uncle of forty-one! What a devil of an age it is! for one has but little hope of a legacy from it, and it has, at the same time, all the cold, cautious, advice-giving spirit of ​three score and ten. This Sir Rowland's daughter is a good scheme upon my soul. He must be sickly, I think, from his always living at home in such a retired situation. I dare say he'll die soon, and who knows but the lady may step off too, being of a sickly stock. Yes, I feel a persuasion within me

that I am born to be a lucky fellow. But hush! here come the ladies. The fat aunt walks first, and the rich heiress follows. A genteel-looking woman, faith! this is admirable luck. But who is this awkward creature that comes sneaking after them? some humble relation, I suppose.

⁠I beg pardon if I have made any mistake; I thought Sir John Hazelwood—— ⁠There is no mistake, madam; Sir John will be here immediately. Permit me to place chairs. ⁠You are very obliging, but we have sat so long in a close carriage this morning, that we should be glad to stand a little while. Sir John's politeness has made him sacrifice his own convenience, I am afraid. ​ ⁠I am sure he is well repaid in the honour he receives. (To Miss Martin.) I hope, ma'am, you feel no bad effects from the cold journey you have had? ⁠None at all, I thank you; we have just felt cold enough to make a warm room very comfortable after it. ⁠What a charming disposition, thus to extract pleasure from uneasiness? ⁠The merit of finding a good fire comfortable after a cold winter journey, is one that may be claim'd without much diffidence. ⁠Pray, sir, did you ever see such a heavy fall of snow come on so suddenly? ⁠Really, madam, I don't recollect. (Turning again to Miss Martin.) But it is the character of true merit—— ​ ⁠Pardon me, sir, you have something of the family face; are you not related to Sir John? ⁠I have the honour to be his nephew, madam. (Turning again to Miss Martin.) I shall fall in love with rough weather for this day's good fortune. ⁠I suppose, sir, you are acquainted with the family of the Mapletofts in your county? ⁠I believe I have seen them. (Turning again to Miss Martin, and continuing to speak to her with much devotion.) ⁠Well, my dear, you and I must talk together I find. How did you like the country we pass'd thro' to day? ⁠La, aunt! it is just like our own; I saw no difference. ⁠You are foolish, child! is not our's a flat country clothed with trees, and this a bare and hilly one? ​ ⁠La, I did not look out of the coach windows all the way, except when we stopp'd at the turnpike; and I'm sure it is a little tiled house with a gate by the side of it, just like the one near our own entry; only that our's has got a pear-tree on the wall, and it has got some dried turf piled up by the door, with a part of an old wheelbarrow. ⁠Well, you'll have more observation by and by, I hope. ⁠I am happy in the honour of seeing your ladyship and these fair ladies. ⁠And we reckon ourselves particularly fortunate in meeting with you, Sir John; you are very good indeed to give up so much of your own accommodation to poor storm-bound travellers. Allow me to present my nieces to you. (After presenting her nieces.) It is a long time since we met, Sir John, you were then a mere lad, and I was not myself a very old woman. ⁠I remember perfectly the last time I had the ​pleasure of seeing your ladyship, tho' being a bachelor still, I don't care to say how long it is ago. Your brother Sir Rowland was with you then; I

hope he is well.

⁠He is very well: I ought to have introduced his daughter to you particularly. (Sir John going up to Miss Martin.) No, no! this (pointing to Hannah) is my brother Rowland's daughter. She is somewhat like her mother, who died, as you know, at a very early age, leaving him but this child.
⁠I am happy to have this opportunity of paying my respect to the daughter of my old friend. I hope, madam, you will admit of this plea for being better acquainted. ⁠Answer him child. ⁠My father is very well, I thank you, sir. ​ ⁠I fancy, after all, I must pick up this glove myself. I am afraid some sudden indisposition—— ⁠I beg pardon! I—I have a slight pain in my jaw-bone; I believe it is the tooth-ach. ⁠The tooth-ach! how I pity you! there is no pain in the world so bad. But I have a cure for it that I always carry about in my pocket for the good of myself and my friends: do swallow some drops of it; it will cure you presently (offering him a phial). ⁠You are infinitely obliging, madam, but I never take any thing for it. ⁠Do take it, and hold it in your mouth for some time before you swallow it. It is very nauseous, but it will cure you. ⁠Pray, madam, be so obliging as to excuse me: I cannot possibly swallow it. ​ ⁠Indeed, indeed, it will cure you, and I must positively insist upon your taking it. ⁠Positively then, madam, you oblige me to say—(breaking suddenly away.) Pest take all the drugs in the world! (Aside.) ⁠You must not, Lady Goodbody, insist on curing a man against his will: he likes the pain perhaps; let him enjoy it. ⁠Indeed I am very much obliged to your ladyship; I am much better now. Forgive my impatience; I don't know what I said. ⁠I am very glad you are better, and I forgive you with all my heart, tho' it is a remedy that I have long had the greatest faith in, distill'd by myself from the very best ingredients, and has cured a great many people, I assure you. (To Sir John.) So you took this lady for Sir Rowland's daughter? (pointing to Miss Martin.) Do you see no traces in her countenance of my sister and Colonel Martin? She lost both her parents early, and she has ever since been my child. ​ ⁠You are happy in having such a daughter. ⁠I am so: she is a very good girl, and has many excellent qualities, which young women now-a-days do but rarely possess. ⁠I dare say she is a most amiable companion, whom you would be very unwilling to part with. ⁠Nay, Sir John, I am not so selfish neither, but that I should willingly give her up to a good husband. ⁠Bless me, ma'am, why will you do this? you know I can't bear it. (Aloud to Sir John.) You must not trust Lady Goodbody's account of me; for if she thought size necessary to make a woman perfect, it would be difficult to persuade her that I am not six feet high. ⁠Excuse me, ma'am, I have always trusted to Lady Goodbody's opinions, and have never felt more inclination to do so than at this moment. ​ ⁠She always behaves like a fool when she is praised, and, excepting this, I don't know a fault that she has.

(To Miss Martin.) Go before, my dear, and place my chair as you know I like it. (Exit Miss Martin, followed by Sir John, leading out Lady Goodbody.)

⁠Permit me to have the honour——

⁠(Exit, handing her out.