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MAR. 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 ?

MAR. That's not necessary towards directing ns 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.

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 apronstring.

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 long, dark, boggy, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's [winking at the Landlord]—Mr. Hardcastle's of Quagmiremarsh. 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-laue.

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 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

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 would accommodate the gentlemen by the fires.de with-three chairs and a bolster ?

HAST. I hate sleeping by the fireside.

MAR. 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 county.

HAST. O ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however. LAND. [Apart to Tony.] Sure you bean'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 o d house by the roadside: you'l 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.

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 shew you a piece of the way. [To the landlord.] Mum! [Exeunt.

[Arrival at the Supposed Inn.]

Enter MARLOW and HASTINGS.

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. ...

Enter HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow? [Mar, advances ] Sir, you 're 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.

MAR. [Aside.] He has got our names from the servants already. [To Hard.] We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. [To Hast.) 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. MAR. 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 Mariborough when we went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garri

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MAR. Don't you think the rentre d'or waistcoat will do with the plain brown? HARD. He first summoned the garrison, which might cousist of about five thous and 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→→

MAR. 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

MAR. What? My good friend, if you give us a glass of punch in the meantime; it would help us to carry on the siege with vigour.

HARD. Punch, siz!-This is the most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. [Aside. MAR. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch after our journey will be com

fortable.

Enter SERVANT with a tankard.

This is Liberty-hall, you know. HARD Here's a cup, sir. MAR. So this fellow, in his Liberty-hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. [Aside to Hast. 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.

MAR. A very impudent fellow this: but he's a character, and I'll humour him s little. [Aside.] Sir, my service to you. [Drinks.

HAST. I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets that he's an innkeeper before he has learned to be a gentleman.

[Aside.

MAR. 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, you have no turn for politics, I find.

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 mor angry, and the government growing no better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, T no more trouble my head about who's in or who's out than I do about Hyder Ally, c Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croaker. Sir, my service to you.

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

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

MAR. [After drinking.] And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman. better than any in Westininster Hall.

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

MAR. Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an innkeeper's philosophy.

[Aside.

HAST. So, then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every quarter If you find their reason manage ible, you attack them 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! ha! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear.

MAR. 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? Was ever such a request to a man in his own house? [A side. MAR. Yes, sir: supper, sir; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the Larder, I promise you.

HARD. Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. [Aside.] Why really, sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cookmaid settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to thein.

MAR. You do, do you?

HARD. Entirely. By the by. I believe they are in actual consultation upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen.

MAR. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy-council. It's a way I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook

be called. No offence, I hope, sir.

HARD. O no, sir, none in the least: yet, I don't know how, our Bridget, the cookmaid. is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we send for her, she might scold us all out of the house.

HAST. Let's see the list of the larder, then. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare.

MAR. [To Hardcast'e, who looks at them with surprise.] Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too.

HARD. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here. Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper: I believe it's drawn out. Your manner. Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it.

[Servant brings in the bill of fare, and exit. HAST. All upon the high ropes! His uncle a colonel! We shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of peace. [Aside.] But let's hear the bill of fare.

MAR. [Perusing.] What's here? For the first course; for the second course; for the dessert. The devil, sir! Do you think we have brought down the whole Joiners' Company, or the Corporation of Bedford, to eat up such a supper? Two or tree little things, clean and comfortable, will do.

HAST. But let's hear it.

MAR. [Reading.] For the first course: at the top, a pig and pruin sauce.

HAST. Confound your pig, I say.

MAR. And confound your pruin sauce, say I.

HARD. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig with pruin sauce is very good eating.

MAR. At the bottom a calf's tongue and brains.

HAST. Let your brains be knocked out, my good sir; I don't like them.
MAR. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves.

HARD. Their impudence confounds me. [Aside.] Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is there anything else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen?

MAR. Item: a pork-pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a florentine, a shakingpudding and a dish of tiff-taff-taffety cream.

HAST. Confound your made dishcs! I shall be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table. I'm for pisin eating.

HARD. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like; but if there be anything you have a particular fancy to

MAR. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper: and now to see that our beds are aired, and properly taken care of.

HARD. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step.

MAR. Leave that to you! I protest, sir, you must excuse me; I always look to these things myself.

HARD. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head.

MAR. You see I'm resolved on it. A very troublesome fellow, as ever I met with. [Aside. HARD. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you. This may be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look so like old-fashioned impudence. [Aside. [Exeunt Mar, and Hard,

In the reign of George II. the witty and artificial comedies of Vanbrugh and Farquhar began to lose their ground, partly on account of their licentiousness, and partly in consequence of the demand for new pieces, necessary to keep up the interest of the theatres. A taste for more natural portraiture and language began to prevail. Among the first of the plays in which this improvement was seen, was the Suspicious Husband' of Dr. Hoadly (1706-1757), son of the bishop, and author of several works in prose and verse In the Suspicious Hus band' (1747) there is a slight dash of the license of Farquhar, but its leading character, Ranger, is still a favourite.

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This period may be said to have given birth to the well-known species of sub-comedy entitled the Farce-a kind of entertainment more peculiarly English than comedy itself, and in which the literature of our country is rich.

HENRY CAREY.

Several farces and musical pieces once popular on the stage were written by HENRY CAREY (died in 1743), an illegitimate son of George Saville, Marquis of Halifax. His Chrononhotonthologos,' 1734, and 'The Dragon of Wantley,' 1737, were long theatrical favourites, and some of his songs (especially what may be called his classical lyric of 'Sally in our Alley *) are still admired and sung. Both the words and melody are by Carey.

Carey says the occasion of his ballad was this: A shoemaker's apprentice making holiday with his sweetheart, treated her with a sight of Bed.am, the puppet-shows, the

Sally in our Alley.

Of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land

Is half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em:
Her mother she sells laces long,

To such as please to buy 'em:
But sure such folks could ne'er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally!
She is the daring of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work
(I love her so sincerely),
My master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely:
But let him bang his belly full,
I'll bear it all for Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that 's in the week,

I dearly love but one day.

And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday.

For then I'm dressed all in my best,
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed,
Because I leave him in the lurch
As soon as text is named:

I leave the church in sermon time,
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again,
O then I shall have money;
I'll hoard it up and box it all,
I'll give it to my honey:

I would it were ten thousand pounds,
I'd give it all to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbours all
Make game of me and Sally;
And (but for her) I'd better be
A slave, and row a galley:

But when my seven long years are out,
O then I'll marry Sally,

O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,
But not in our alley.

From Henry Carey, as Lord Macaulay has remarked, 'descended that Edmund Kean, who in our time transformed himself so marvellously into Shylock, Iago, and Othello.'

DAVID GARRICK-HENRY FIELDING-CHARLES MACKLIN-JAMES

TOWNLEY.

The greatest of all English actors, eminent alike in tragedy and in comedy, DAVID GARRICK (1716-1779) was also author of some slight dramatic pieces. Garrick was a native of Lichfield, and a pupil of Dr. Johnson, with whom he came to London to push his fortune. He entered himself a student of Lincoln's Inn, but receiving a legacy of £1000 from an uncle who had been in the wine-trade in Lisbon, he commenced business, in partnership with an elder brother, as winemerchant of London and Lichfield. A passion for the stage led him to attempt the character of Richard III. 19th October, 1741 and his success was so decided that he adopted the profession of an actor. His merits quickly raised him to the head of his profession. As the flying-chairs, and all the elegancies of Moorfields; from whence proceeding to the Farthing Piehouse, he gave her a collation of buns, cheese cakes, gammon of bacon, stuffed beef, and bottled ale: through all which scenes the author dodged them (charmed with the simplicity of their courtship), from whence he drew this little sketch of nature. The song, he adds made its way into the polite world, and was more than once mentioned with approbation by the divine Addison.'

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