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.

Mar. We wanted no information of that, sir.

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

Mar. 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-grain'd, old-fashion'd, 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 maypole-The son, a pretty, well bred, agreeable youth, that every body is fond of.

Mar. 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.

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 know.

Land. 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 cross'd down Squash-lane.

Mar. Cross down Squash-lane!

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

Mar. Come to where four roads meet!

Tony. Ay; but you must be sure to take only one of them.

Mar. 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

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

Hast. What's to be done, Marlow?

Mar. 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 could accommodate the gentlemen by the fire-side, with- -three chairs and a bolster ?

Hast. D-n your fire-side.

Mur. And your three chairs and a bolster, say I. 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. Oho! 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 peace.

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

Mar. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further connection. 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.

Land. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant— d-n'd mischievous son of a whore.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.-A Room in Hardcastle's 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.

All. 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.

All. 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 forwards, ecod he's always wishing for a mouthful himself.

Hard. Blockhead! is not a belly ful in the kitchen as good as a bellyful 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 gunroom: 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.

Hard. What, will nobody move?
1 Serv. I'm not to leave this place.
2 Serv. I'm sure its no pleace 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 starv'd. 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 meantime, and give my old friend's son a hearty welcome at the gate.

[Exeunt SERVANTS running about 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