How devilish cold 'tis! 'tis well we are fortified with roast beef and brandy, friend: didn't I tell you we should want it all.
⁠ (To Piper.) ⁠Very true: but you would not keep a lady of family and condition waiting till we cramm'd ourselves, Maister John. ⁠Dat would be impolite in verite. ⁠Damn me! if I would play with an empty stomach to the best lady in Christendom. What the devil makes her fancy that our music will sound better in this here cold field than within doors in such a night as this? I likes to be snug myself, and I never likes to put any one to hardship. ​ ⁠Why thou art a good-humour'd, kindly-hearted fellow, John; I must say that for thee. But this is the true way for all love music, di na ye ken? Out among the high rocks, or under a castle-wall, man!—But now, as we are all to play thegether, as it were in a concert (taking out his snuff-box, and rapping on the lid with an air of importance), di na ye think, gentlemen, it will be expedient to enquire first, whether we can play the same tunes or not, as I suppose none of us trouble ourselves with music-books, and sick like. ⁠I can play a pretty many tunes, Piper, but none of them all goes so well on my fiddle as Ally Croaker. ⁠Ay, that is good enough in town to play to an orange-woman under a lamp-post, or sick like; but this is a lady of family, man, and she must have something above the vulgar. ⁠Play any thing you please, then: it will be all the same thing in my day's work whether I play one thing or another. ​ ⁠Day's work, man! you talk about playing on your fiddle as a cobler would do about mending of shoes. No, no! we'll do the thing decently and creditably. ⁠Suppose we do give her de little chanson d'amour? ⁠Song a moor! what's that? ⁠I do play it very pretty on my hurdy-gurdy. ⁠Ay, you may play it well enough, perhaps, for your Italian foreigners, or sick like, that don't know any better; but any body that has been in Lochaber, good troth! would count it no better than jargon, man. ⁠But I do say when de peoples of my country hear your pipe, dey do so. (Stopping his ears, and mimicking one who runs away.) And I do say dat I play more better music dan you, one, two, ten, twenty times over. ​ ⁠Lord help ye, man! it's lang sin pride began: will ye compare yourself to the Laird of M^cRory's piper. ⁠A great affair to be sure of the Laird of MacRory's piper. ⁠You mun eat a bow o' meal before you be like him tho'. ⁠Thank God! I have more christian-like victuals to eat. ⁠Better than you or your grandfather either, ha' been glad o' worse fare. ⁠Yes, that may be the case in your country like enough, where, unless it be a lousy tailor, or sick like (mimicking him), few of you taste any thing that has ever had life in it. ⁠Sir, an' it were not for respect to the lady yonder (pointing to the window where Hannah appears), I ​would run this dirk into that nasty bulk of yours, and let out some o' the plumb-pudding you pretend to be stuffed with, you swine that you are! ⁠O never mind the lady, Master M^cRory; I'll box you for two-pence. (Putting himself in a boxing posture.) ⁠Done, sir, for half the money. (Putting himself in the same posture.) ⁠Dese men very foolish: my hurdy-gurdy and I be but strangers in dis country: we will keep out of de way. (Retiring to a corner of the stage.) ⁠Hold, hold! what is all this for? I hired you to give us harmony and not discord, and be damn'd to you! ⁠You shall have that too, an' please your honour. ⁠But I want no more than I bargained for, so keep this for some other occasion, if you please. ​ ⁠Well, It don't signify, I can pick a quarrel with him another time. ⁠Since the gentleman desires it, sir, I shall let you alone for this time; but damn you, sir, if you say a word against my country again, I'll make you a man of no country at all. (They take up their instruments, and go to different sides of the stage, still making signs of defiance to one another.) ⁠Are you there, my charming love? ⁠Yes, I have been here some time. ⁠I could not come sooner.—Remember your promise; and in the mean time what music shall they play? ⁠Just let them play a concert. ⁠A concert.—Well, gentlemen, you are desired to play a concert. ​ ⁠That is to say we are all to play together. What shall we play? (To Piper.) Shall we play the Lady's Fancy? ⁠A custock for the Lady's Fancy. ⁠The Soldier's Delight then? A ——— for the Soldier's Delight! a tune for a two-penny alehouse. ⁠Don't mind him (to Fiddler), he be washpish: you and I will play Ma chere Amie. ⁠Well, well! play what you please, both of you, but I'll play the battle of Killy Cranky, and hang me, if your "Ah Me" will be heard any more than the chirping of a cricket in the hearth. (They begin to play, and the Piper drowns them both with his noise.) ⁠Give over! give over! bless my soul! the squeaking of a hundred pigs and the sow-driver at ​their heels is nothing to this. (Going to the window.) Well, my love, how did you like the concert? ⁠Very well, I thank you. ⁠A lady of precious taste! (aside.) But would it not be better to hear them one at a time? Which of them shall I desire to play first?⁠(Aloud.) ⁠Bid the fiddler there, without the breeches, play me a tune on his bagpipes. ⁠I must let you to wit, madam, that I am no fiddler, and the meanest man of all the M^cRorys would scorn to be a fiddler. My father before me was piper to the laird, and my grandfather was piper to the Highland Watch at the siege of Quibec; and if he had not piped long and well to them, madam, there wad ha' been less French blood spilt that day, let me tell you that, madam. ⁠My good Mr M^cRory, she meant you no offence, I assure you she respects your grandfather very much. Do oblige us with a tune on your bagpipes.
​ ⁠I thank you, sir; your music is excellent: it is both martial and plaintive.—But where is our little warbler? Ha! here she comes. ⁠Come, my good girl, can you sing the song I gave you? ⁠Yes, sir. ⁠Let us have it then. ⁠Very well sung, indeed. (to Hannah.) Don't you think, my charming Hannah, we have had music enough? ​ ⁠Just as you please: I don't care. ⁠I'll send them off then. (To Jenkins, who comes forward.) Take them all to the other side of the house, and make them play under Miss Martin's window. You understand.⁠(Aside.) ⁠Yes, sir. (Exeunt Jenkins and music, and enter Will, who retires to a corner of the stage. ⁠How did you like my song, Hanabella? ⁠Very well: but la! it an't the song you promised to make upon me: it don't say one word about either you or I. ⁠Ay, but it does tho'; for you are Celia, and I am the shepherd, and that is the fashion of love-songs. ⁠Well, that is so droll! ⁠So it is,—And now, my dearest creature, fulfil ​your promise, and come over the window to me; the postchaise is waiting for us. ⁠La! is it the yellow chaise that stands commonly in the yard? ⁠I can't tell you what colour it is, but it carries us off to be married. Come over the window, my love. ⁠La! I didn't promise to go over the window: Aunt says they never do good who get over the window to be married: I only promised to run off with you. ⁠But that is just the same thing. Do come now! there is no time to be lost. You have only to set your foot upon that stone which juts out from the wall, and you are in my arms in an instant. ⁠No, no! old aunt Gertrude went over the window to be married, and she fell and broke her leg, and never was married at all. ⁠But you can't break your leg here, the wall is so low.—Come, come, there is no time to lose. ​ ⁠O no, no! I know I shall come to harm. ⁠Do, my dearest Hanabella, there is not the least danger.
⁠(In a coaxing tone of voice.) ⁠O no, no! aunt Gertrude broke her leg, and I'm sure I shall break mine too. ⁠Damn your aunt Gertrude, and all the fools of the family! I'll give you leave to cut my head off if you fall. ⁠I'll go away, I won't stay here to be damned.

⁠(Whimpering, and turning from the window.)

⁠Forgive me, my love; don't go away: I'll do any thing to please you.—What the devil shall we do? ⁠Don't press the lady to get over the window, sir; I'll find a way of getting her out at the door, which I shall explain to you afterwards. ​ ⁠But her chamber enters thro' the old lady's; so how can you get her out? ⁠By unkenneling the old lady, to be sure; I'll do that fast enough. ⁠Then wait in your chamber, my dearest creature, till we come for you. (Aside as he goes off with Will.) What a devil of a fool it is! who could have thought she would have been so obstinate. ⁠(Exeunt.

⁠Now, my good Lady Charity? I'll be even with you for the half-crown you saved off me.—She'll smell the burning soon enough, I warrant ye; for your notable ladies, like her, poke their noses into every corner, and get out of bed at every little noise, to see that no rat be running off with one of their old shoes.—Do you go, please your honour, ​and wait at that door there, which is the only one that opens to the staircase, and I'll send the young lady to you immediately. You told her our plan? ⁠Yes, I returned to the window, and told her. ⁠I have procured a trusty lad to drive in my place, and you'll find every thing as you ordered it. ⁠I thank you, my good fellow: I'll make your fortune for this. ⁠I know your honour is a noble minded gentleman.

⁠(Exit Worshipton.

⁠Yes, yes, she smells it now: I hear her stirring, (Bawling very loud.) Fire! fire! fire! The house is on fire! Fire! fire! fire! ⁠Mercy on us! how strong I smell it here! Where are all the servants? Call every body up. (Exit Hannah by the staircase door.) Is that the way out? Stay, Hannah, and take me with you. ​ ⁠Your Ladyship had better take hold of my arm, and I'll take you safe out. ⁠Do take me out! do take me out! Fire! fire! fire! is there nobody coming to us? (Takes hold of Will's arm, who staggers along with her first to one side of the stage, and then to the other.) Why, what are you about, fellow? I'll get better along by myself. ⁠Never fear! never fear! I'll warrant I'll take care of your Ladyship. ⁠Why don't you go faster then? Let go my arm, I say. Is the fellow mad or drunk? ⁠I'll take care of your Ladyship. Old ladies are often a stumbling: take good care of your feet, madam. ⁠Look to your own feet, fool! and let me alone. The man's distracted! let go my arm, I say. (She struggles to get free: he keeps fast hold of her, and hobbles zig-zag over the stage, she all the while calling ​out fire, till they get to the staircase door, where he falls down with his body tight across the door to prevent its opening, as if he were in a fit.) Heaven preserve us! the man's in a fit, and the door won't open. Who's there? Fire! fire! fire! ⁠Fire in my house, mercy on us! how strong it smells here. O lud! lud! I'm a ruined woman! Where can it have broke out? O lud! lud! ⁠Lack-a-daisy! I smell it over head. I'll pawn my life it is in the north garret, where my new gown lies. O dear! O dear! ⁠Fire! fire! Water! water! will nobody assist a poor ruined woman? Oh, all my good furniture! Oh, my new dimity bed! ⁠Confound your new dimity bed! Where is Miss Martin? ⁠O my child! my child! where is my child? ​ ⁠I'll go for her.—But here she comes: all's well now; let it burn as it will. (Enter Miss Martin, and Sir John runs eagerly up to her, but stops short suddenly.) My old sick fellow is in bed, and can't stir a limb to save himself; I must carry him out in my arms. (Going hastily out, but is stopped by Amaryllis, who enters grotesquely dressed in his nightcap.) ⁠Where are you going? where has it broke out? ⁠O lud, sir! it is broke out up stairs, and all my goods will be burnt. Who will assist a poor ruin'd woman? ⁠There is no fire up stairs, I assure you, but I smell it here. ⁠Then it is down stairs, and we shall all be burnt before we can get out. (They all crowd about the staircase door.) Raise that great fellow there. ⁠He's in a strong hysterick fit. ​ ⁠Give him a kick o' the guts, and that will cure his extericks. ⁠A hasty remedy, gentle maiden. ⁠Who stopped the door there? what's all this bustle for? ⁠O, David, David! isn't there fire below stairs, David? ⁠Yes, as much as will roast an egg, if you blow it well. ⁠Nay, but I m sure the house is on fire, for I dreamt this very night that Pompey's whelp was gnawing a hole in my apron, and that bodes me no good. I'll go and look all over the house. Come, Doll.⁠(Exeunt Landlady and Dolly. ⁠We had better search too.

⁠(Exeunt Sir John and Amaryllis. ​

⁠What's the matter with Will? ⁠He's in a strong fit. ⁠I never knew him in one before: I'm afraid he's dead, poor fellow! What will become of old Grizel his mother now? He gave the best half of his earnings to keep her out of the workhouse. ⁠Did he indeed! good young man! Run and get assistance for him. But, happen what will, old Grizel shan't go to the workhouse, for I'll take care of her myself. Haste, good David! run for the apothecary directly. (Exit David.) Go, Mary, fetch me some drops from my room. (Exit Miss Martin.) Poor young man! ⁠O, my good blessed lady! I'm a Jew, and a Turk, and a Judas Iscariot. I have played the knave with you all this while out of spite. If I had not been a beast I might have known that you were a main good, charitable lady.— But I'll fetch her back again: I'll run to the world's end to serve you. ​ ⁠You are raving, I fear: who will you fetch back? ⁠The great heiress, your niece, madam, who is run off to marry Mr. Worshipton, and all by my cursed contrivance too. ⁠The great heiress, my niece! ⁠Yes, my lady; your niece, Miss Clodpate: but I'll fetch her back again, tho' every bone in my skin should be broken. ⁠This is strange, indeed! (Considering a while.) No, no, young man, don't go after her: she is of age, and may do as she pleases. ⁠Ods my life, you are the best good lady alive! I'll run and tell my old mother what a lady you are. ⁠Nay, I'll go and see her myself; I may be able to make her situation more comfortable, perhaps. ​ ⁠Thank you, madam! Heaven knows I thank you! but as long as I have health and these two hands, I'll take care of her who took care of me before I could take care of myself. ⁠You are a good young man, I see, and I have a great mind to take care brought you both. She has brought you up soberly, I hope, and taught you to read your Bible. ⁠O Lord, madam! old Grizel can't read a word herself, but many a time she desires me to be good—and so I will: hang me if I don't read the Bible from beginning to end, hard names and altogether! ⁠Come into the parlour with me: you must tell me more of this story of Mr. Worshipton and my niece. ⁠I sought them every where, and thought I should never——— ​ ⁠We don't want them now; carry them back again. (Exeunt Lady Goodbody and Will by one side, and Miss Martin by the other.

SCENE III. The Inn Yard, with the stable-door in front, at which Will appears, as if ready to saddle a horse.

⁠I hear. Will, you are going by Lady Goodbody's orders to desire the young couple to return to her from church: I should be much obliged to you if you would take Dorothea behind you, for she has got some business in the village this morning, and there is no conveyance for her unless you take her up. ⁠What, our Doll do you mean? ⁠Yes, Will. ⁠Hang her! let her walk: Blackberry won't carry double. ⁠I am sure he will, if you try him. ​ ⁠Why should I hobble all the way with a fat wench behind me? She's able enough to walk. ⁠Don't be so ill-natured now: she would not be so to you if she could serve you. ⁠No, to be sure: as far as a kick o' the guts goes to cure one of the extericks, kindly christian! she will be ready enough with her service, ⁠Come, come! don't be so crusty now. Here is money for you: Blackberry must carry double.⁠(Giving him money.) ⁠Ay, to be sure, if I coax him well, I don't know but he may: for tho' he is but a brute he has as many odd humours about him as any reasonable creature. ⁠Do, my good fellow, and put a soft pillion under her, for the road is very rough. ⁠Nay, hang me if I do that! she an't so delicate, good sooth!—Let her be ready to set off in ten ​minutes, if she means to come, for I won't wait an instant for the first madam in England. A soft pillion for her truly! (Grumbling as he goes into the stable.) ⁠He has been my rival, I see, by his spite. But no wonder! my charming girl must have many admirers.⁠ (Exit.