Chapter IX: Act THE FIRST: Scene I

_The Bar of the_ “_Windmill Inn_” _at Salt Hill_.

MR. _and_ MRS. NEWINGTON, _the Landlord and Landlady_.

_Landlady_. ’Tis an unpossibility, Mr. Newington; and that’s enough. Say no more about it; ’tis an unpossibility in the natur of things. (_She ranges jellies_, _etc._, _in the Bar_.) And pray, do you take your great old fashioned tankard, Mr. Newington, from among my jellies and confectioneries.

_Landlord_ (_takes his tankard and drinks_). Anything for a quiet life. If it is an impossibility, I’ve no more to say; only, for the soul of me, I can’t see the great unpossibility, wife.

_Landlady_. Wife, indeed!—wife!—wife! wife every minute.

_Landlord_. Heyday! Why, what a plague would you have me call you? The other day you quarrelled with me for calling you Mrs. Landlady.

_Landlady_. To be sure I did, and very proper in me I should. I’ve turned off three waiters and five chambermaids already, for screaming after me _Mrs. Landlady_! _Mrs. Landlady_! But ’tis all your ill manners.

_Landlord_. Ill manners! Why, if I may be so bold, if you are not Mrs. Landlady, in the name of wonder what are you?

_Landlady_. Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newington.

_Landlord_ (_drinks_). Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newington drinks your health; for I suppose I must not be landlord any more in my own house (_shrugs_).

_Landlady_. Oh, as to that, I have no objections nor impediments to your being called _Landlord_. You look it, and become it very proper.

_Landlord_. Why, yes, indeed, thank my tankard, I do look it, and become it, and am nowise ashamed of it; but everyone to their mind, as you, wife, don’t fancy the being called Mrs. Landlady.

_Landlady_. To be sure I don’t. Why, when folks hear the old fashioned cry of Mrs. Landlady! Mrs. Landlady! who do they expect, think you, to see, but an overgrown, fat, featherbed of a woman, coming waddling along with her thumbs sticking on each side of her apron, o’ this fashion? Now, to see me coming, nobody would take me to be a landlady.

_Landlord_. Very true, indeed, wife—Mrs. Newington, I mean—I ask pardon; but now to go on with what we were saying about the unpossibility of letting that old lady, and the civil-spoken young lady there above, have them there rooms for another day.

_Landlady_. Now, Mr. Newington, let me hear no more about that old gentlewoman, and that civil-spoken young lady. Fair words cost nothing; and I’ve a notion that’s the cause they are so plenty with the young lady. Neither o’ them, I take it, by what they’ve ordered since their coming into the house, are such grand folk, that one need be so _petticular_ about them.

_Landlord_. Why, they came only in a chaise and pair, to be sure; I can’t deny that.

_Landlady_. But, bless my stars! what signifies talking? Don’t you know, as well as I do, Mr. Newington, that to-morrow is Eton Montem, and that if we had twenty times as many rooms and as many more to the back of them, it would not be one too many for all the company we’ve a right to expect, and those the highest quality of the land? Nay, what do I talk of to-morrow? isn’t my Lady Piercefield and suite expected? and, moreover, Mr. and Miss Bursal’s to be here, and will call for as much in an hour as your civil-spoken young lady in a twelvemonth, I reckon. So, Mr. Newington, if you don’t think proper to go up and inform the ladies above, that the Dolphin rooms are not for them, I must _speak_ myself, though ’tis a thing I never do when I can help it.

_Landlord_ (_aside_). She not like to speak! (_Aloud_.) My dear, you can speak a power better than I can; so take it all upon yourself, if you please; for, old-fashioned as I and my tankard here be, I can’t make a speech that borders on the uncivil order, to a lady like, for the life and lungs of me. So, in the name of goodness, do you go up, Mrs. Newington.

_Landlady_. And so I will, Mr. Newington. Help ye! Civilities and rarities are out o’ season for them that can’t pay for them in this world; and very proper.

[_Exit Landlady_.]

_Landlord_. And very proper! Ha! who comes yonder? The Eton chap who wheedled me into lending him my best hunter last year, and was the ruination of him; but that must be paid for, wheedle or no wheedle; and, for the matter of wheedling, I’d stake this here Mr. Wheeler, that is making up to me, do you see, against e’er a boy, or hobbledehoy, in all Eton, London, or Christendom, let the other be who he will.

_Enter_ WHEELER.

_Wheeler_. A fine day, Mr. Newington.

_Landlord_. A fine day, Mr. Wheeler.

_Wheel._ And I hope, for _your_ sake, we may have as fine a day for the Montem to-morrow. It will be a pretty penny in your pocket! Why, all the world will be here; and (looking round at the jellies, etc.) so much the better for them; for here are good things enough, and enough for them. And here’s the best thing of all, the good old tankard still; not empty, I hope.

_Landlord_. Not empty, I hope. Here’s to you, Mr. Wheeler.

_Wheel._ Mr. Wheeler!—_Captain_ Wheeler, if you please.

_Landlord_. _You_, Captain Wheeler! Why, I thought in former times it was always the oldest scholar at Eton that was Captain at the Montems; and didn’t Mr. Talbot come afore you?

_Wheel._ Not at all; we came on the same day. Some say I came first; some say Talbot. So the choice of which of us is to be captain is to be put to the vote amongst the lads—most votes carry it; and I have most votes, I fancy; so I shall be captain, to-morrow, and a pretty deal of _salt_ {139} I reckon I shall pocket. Why, the collection at the last Montem, they say, came to a plump thousand! No bad thing for a young fellow to set out with for Oxford or Cambridge—hey?

_Landlord_. And no bad thing, before he sets out for Cambridge or Oxford, ’twould be for a young gentleman to pay his debts.

_Wheel._ Debts! Oh, time enough for that. I’ve a little account with you in horses, I know; but that’s between you and me, you know—mum.

_Landlord_. Mum me no mums, Mr. Wheeler. Between you and me, my best hunter has been ruinationed; and I can’t afford to be mum. So you’ll take no offence if I speak; and as you’ll set off to-morrow, as soon as the Montem’s over, you’ll be pleased to settle with me some way or other to-day, as we’ve no other time.

_Wheel._ No time so proper, certainly. Where’s the little account?—I have money sent me for my Montem dress, and I can squeeze that much out of it. I came home from Eton on purpose to settle with you. But as to the hunter, you must call upon Talbot—do you understand? to pay for him; for though Talbot and I had him the same day, ’twas Talbot did for him, and Talbot must pay. I spoke to him about it, and charged him to remember you; for I never forget to speak a good word for my friends.

_Landlord_. So I perceive.

_Wheel._ I’ll make bold just to give you my opinion of these jellies whilst you are getting my account, Mr. Newington.

(_He swallows down a jelly or two_—_Landlord is going_.)

_Enter_ TALBOT.

_Talbot_. Hallo, Landlord! where are making off so fast? Here, your jellies are all going as fast as yourself.

_Wheel._ (_aside_). Talbot!—I wish I was a hundred miles off.

_Landlord_. You are heartily welcome, Mr. Talbot. A good morning to you, sir; I’m glad to see you—very glad to see you, Mr. Talbot.

_Talb._ Then shake hands, my honest landlord.

(_Talbot_, _in shaking hands with him_, _puts a purse into the landlord’s
hands_.)

_Landlord_. What’s here? Guineas?

_Talb._ The hunter, you know; since Wheeler won’t pay, I must—that’s all. Good morning.

_Wheel._ (_aside_). What a fool!

(_Landlord_, _as Talbot is going_, _catches hold of his coat_.)

_Landlord_. Hold, Mr. Talbot, this won’t do!

_Talb._ Won’t it? Well, then, my watch must go.

_Landlord_. Nay, nay! but you are in such a hurry to pay—you won’t hear a man. Half this is enough for your share o’ the mischief, in all conscience. Mr. Wheeler, there, had the horse on the same day.

_Wheel._ But Bursal’s my witness—

_Talb._ Oh, say no more about witnesses; a man’s conscience is always his best witness, or his worst. Landlord, take your money, and no more words.

_Wheel._ This is very genteel of you, Talbot. I always thought you would do the genteel thing as I knew you to be so generous and considerate.

_Talb._ Don’t waste your fine speeches, Wheeler, I advise you, this election time. Keep them for Bursal or Lord John, or some of those who like them. They won’t go down with me. Good morning to you. I give you notice, I’m going back to Eton as fast as I can gallop; and who knows what plain speaking may do with the Eton lads? I may be captain yet, Wheeler. Have a care! Is my horse ready there?

_Landlord_. Mr. Talbot’s horse, there! Mr. Talbot’s horse, I say.

_Talbot sings_.

“He carries weight—he rides a race—
’Tis for a thousand pound!”

(_Exit Talbot_.)

_Wheel._ And, dear me! I shall be left behind. A horse for me, pray; a horse for Mr. Wheeler!

(_Exit Wheeler_.)

_Landlord_ (_calls very loud_). Mr. Talbot’s horse! Hang the hostler! I’ll saddle him myself.

(_Exit Landlord_.)

SCENE II.

_A Dining room in the Inn at Salt Hill_.

MRS. TALBOT _and_ LOUISA.

_Louisa_ (_laughing_). With what an air Mrs. Landlady made her exit!

_Mrs. Talbot_. When I was young, they say, I was proud; but I am humble enough now: these petty mortifications do not vex me.

_Louisa_. It is well my brother was gone before Mrs. Landlady made her entree; for if he had heard her rude speech, he would at least have given her the retort courteous.

_Mrs. Talb._ Now tell me honestly, my Louisa—You were, a few days ago, at Bursal House. Since you have left it and have felt something of the difference that is made in this world between splendour and no splendour, you have never regretted that you did not stay there, and that you did not bear more patiently with Miss Bursal’s little airs?

_Louisa_. Never for a moment. At first Miss Bursal paid me a vast deal of attention; but, for what reason I know not, she suddenly changed her manner, grew first strangely cold, then condescendingly familiar, and at last downright rude. I could not guess the cause of these variations.

_Mrs. Talb._ (_aside_) I guess the cause too well.

_Louisa_. But as I perceived the lady was out of tune, I was in haste to leave her. I should make a very bad, and, I am sure, a miserable toad eater. I had much rather, if I were obliged to choose, earn my own bread, than live as toad eater with anybody.

_Mrs. Talb._ Fine talking, dear Louisa!

_Louisa_. Don’t you believe me to be in earnest, mother! To be sure, you cannot know what I would do, unless I were put to the trial.

_Mrs. Talb._ Nor you either, my dear.

(_She sighs_, _and is silent_.)

_Louisa_ (_takes her mother’s hand_). What is the matter, dear mother? You used to say, that seeing my brother always made you feel ten years younger; yet even while he was here, you had, in spite of all your efforts to conceal them, those sudden fits of sadness.

_Mrs. Talb._ The Montem—is not it to-morrow? Ay, but my boy is not sure of being captain.

_Louisa_. No; there is one Wheeler, who, as he says, is most likely to be chosen captain. He has taken prodigious pains to flatter and win over many to his interest. My brother does not so much care about it; he is not avaricious.

_Mrs. Talb._ I love your generous spirit and his! but, alas! my dear, people may live to want, and wish for money, without being avaricious. I would not say a word to Talbot; full of spirits as he was this morning, I would not say a word to him, till after the Montem, of what has happened.

_Louisa_. And what has happened, dear mother? Sit down,—you tremble.

_Mrs. Talb._ (_sits down and puts a letter into Louisa’s hand_.) Read that, love. A messenger brought me that from town a few hours ago.

_Louisa_ (_reads_). “By an express from Portsmouth, we hear the _Bombay Castle_ East Indiaman is lost, with all your fortune on board.” _All_! I hope there is something left for you to live upon.

_Mrs. Talb._ About 150 pounds a year for us all.

_Louisa_. That is enough, is it not, for _you_?

_Mrs. Talb._ For me, love? I am an old woman, and want but little in this world, and shall be soon out of it.

_Louisa_ (_kneels down beside her_). Do not speak so, dearest mother.

_Mrs. Talb._ Enough for me, love! Yes, enough, and too much for me. I am not thinking of myself.

_Louisa_. Then, as to my brother, he has such abilities, and such industry, he will make a fortune at the bar for himself, most certainly.

_Mrs. Talb._ But his education is not completed. How shall we provide him with money at Cambridge?

_Louisa_. This Montem. The last time the captain had eight hundred, the time before a thousand, pounds. Oh, I hope—I fear! Now, indeed, I know that, without being avaricious, we may want, and wish for money.

(_Landlady’s voice heard behind the scenes_.)

_Landlady_. Waiter!—Miss Bursal’s curricle, and Mr. Bursal’s _vis-à-vis_. Run! see that the Dolphin’s empty. I say run!—run!

_Mrs. Talb._ I will rest for a few moments upon the sofa, in this bedchamber, before we set off.

_Louisa_ (_goes to open the door_). They have bolted or locked it. How unlucky!

(_She turns the key_, _and tries to unlock the door_.)

_Enter_ WAITER.

_Waiter_. Ladies, I’m sorry—Miss Bursal and Mr. Bursal are come—just coming upstairs.

_Mrs. Talb._ Then, will you be so good, sir, as to unlock this door?

(_Waiter tries to unlock the door_.)

_Waiter_. It must be bolted on the inside. Chambermaid! Sally! Are you within there? Unbolt this door.

_Mr. Bursal’s voice behind the scenes_. Let me have a basin of good soup directly.

_Waiter_. I’ll go round and have the door unbolted immediately, ladies.

(_Exit Waiter_.)

_Enter_ MISS BURSAL, _in a riding dress_, _and with a long whip_.

_Miss Bursal_. Those creatures, the ponies, have a’most pulled my ’and off. Who ’ave we ’ere? Ha! Mrs. Talbot! Louisa, ’ow are ye? I’m so vastly glad to see you; but I’m so shocked to ’ear of the loss of the Bombay Castle. Mrs. Talbot, you look but poorly; but this Montem will put everybody in spirits. I ’ear everybody’s to be ’ere; and my brother tells me, ’twill be the finest ever seen at _H_Eton. Louisa, my dear, I’m sorry I’ve not a seat for you in my curricle for to-morrow; but I’ve promised Lady Betty; so, you know, ’tis impossible for me.

_Louisa_. Certainly; and it would be impossible for me to leave my mother at present.

_Chambermaid_ (_opens the bedchamber door_). The room’s ready now, ladies.

_Mrs. Talb._ Miss Bursal, we intrude upon you no longer.

_Miss Burs._ Nay, why do you decamp, Mrs. Talbot? I ’ad a thousand things to say to you, Louisa; but am so tired and so annoyed—

(_Seats herself_. _Exeunt Mrs. Talbot, Louisa and Chambermaid_.)

_Enter_ MR. BURSAL, _with a basin of soup in his hand_.

_Mr. Burs._ Well, thank my stars the Airly Castle is safe in the Downs.

_Miss Burs._ Mr. Bursal, can you inform me why Joe, my groom, does not make his appearance?

_Mr. Burs._ (_eating and speaking_). Yes, that I can, child; because he is with his ’orses, where he ought to be. ’Tis fit they should be looked after well; for they cost me a pretty penny—more than their heads are worth, and yours into the bargain; but I was resolved, as we were to come to this Montem, to come in style.

_Miss Burs._ In style, to be sure; for all the world’s to be here—the King, the Prince of W_h_ales, and Duke o’ York, and all the first people; and we shall cut a dash! Dash! dash! will be the word to-morrow!—(_playing with her whip_).

_Mr. Burs._ (_aside_). Dash! dash! ay, just like her brother. He’ll pay away finely, I warrant, by the time he’s her age. Well, well, he can afford it; and I do love to see my children make a figure for their money. As Jack Bursal says, what’s money for, if it e’nt to make a figure. (_Aloud_). There’s your brother Jack, now. The extravagant dog! he’ll have such a dress as never was seen, I suppose, at this here Montem. Why, now, Jack Bursal spends more money at Eton, and has more to spend, than my Lord John, though my Lord John’s the son of a marchioness.

_Miss Burs._ Oh, that makes no difference nowadays. I wonder whether her ladyship is to be at this Montem. The only good I ever got out of these stupid Talbots was an introduction to their friend Lady Piercefield. What she could find to like in the Talbots, heaven knows. I’ve a notion she’ll drop them, when she hears of the loss of the Bombay Castle.

_Enter a_ WAITER, _with a note_.

_Waiter_. A note from my Lady Piercefield, sir.

_Miss B._ Charming woman! Is she here, pray, sir?

_Waiter_. Just come. Yes, ma’am.

(_Exit Waiter_.)

_Miss B._ Well, Mr. Bursal, what is it?

_Mr. B._ (_reads_). “Business of importance to communicate—” Hum! what can it be?—(_going_).

_Miss B._ (_aside_). Perhaps some match to propose for me! (_Aloud_). Mr. Bursal, pray before you go to her ladyship, do send my _ooman_ to me to make me presentable.

(_Exit Miss Bursal at one door_.)

_Mr. B._ (_at the opposite door_). “Business of importance!” Hum! I’m glad I’m prepared with a good basin of soup. There’s no doing business well upon an empty stomach. Perhaps the business is to lend cash; and I’ve no great stomach for that. But it will be an honour, to be sure.

(_Exit_.)

SCENE III.

_Landlady’s Parlour_.

LANDLADY—MR. FINSBURY, a man-milliner, with bandboxes—a fancy cap, or helmet, with feathers, in the Landlady’s hand—a satin bag, covered with gold netting, in the man-milliner’s hand—a mantle hanging over his arm. A rough looking Farmer is sitting with his back towards them, eating bread and cheese, and reading a newspaper.

Landlady. Well, this, to be sure, will be the best dressed Montem that ever was seen at Eton; and you Lon’on gentlemen have the most fashionablest notions; and this is the most elegantest fancy cap—

_Finsbury_. Why, as you observe, ma’m, that is the most elegant fancy cap of them all. That is Mr. Hector Hogmorton’s fancy cap, ma’m; and here, ma’m, is Mr. Saul’s rich satin bag, covered with gold net. He is college salt bearer, I understand, and has a prodigious superb white and gold dress. But, in my humble opinion, ma’m, the marshal’s white and purple and orange fancy dress, trimmed with silver, will bear the bell; though, indeed, I shouldn’t say that,—for the colonel’s and lieutenant’s, and ensign’s, are beautiful in the extreme. And, to be sure, nothing could be better imagined than Mr. Marlborough’s lilac and silver, with a Roman cap. And it must be allowed that nothing in nature can have a better effect than Mr. Drake’s flesh-colour and blue, with this Spanish hat, ma’m, you see.

(_The farmer looks over his shoulder from time to time during this
speech_, _with contempt_.)

_Farmer_ (_reads the newspaper_). French fleet at sea—Hum!

_Landlady_. O gemini: Mr. Drake’s Spanish hat is the sweetest, tastiest thing! Mr. Finsbury, I protest—

_Finsb._ Why, ma’m, I knew a lady of your taste couldn’t but approve of it. My own invention entirely, ma’m. But it’s nothing to the captain’s cap, ma’m. Indeed, ma’m, Mr. Wheeler, the captain that is to be, has the prettiest taste in dress. To be sure, his sandals were my suggestion; but the mantle he has the entire credit of, to do him justice; and when you see it, ma’m, you will be really surprised; for (for contrast, and elegance, and richness, and lightness, and propriety, and effect, and costume) you’ve never yet seen anything at all to be compared to Captain Wheeler’s mantle, ma’m.

_Farmer_ (_to the Landlady_). Why, now, pray, Mrs. Landlady, how long may it have been the fashion for milliners to go about in men’s clothes?

_Landlady_ (_aside to Farmer_). Lord, Mr. Hearty, hush! This is Mr. Finsbury, the great man-milliner.

Farm. The great man-milliner! This is a sight I never thought to see in Old England.

_Finsb._ (_packing up band boxes_). Well, ma’m, I’m glad I have your approbation. It has ever been my study to please the ladies.

_Farm._ (_throws a fancy mantle over his frieze coat_). And is this the way to please the ladies, Mrs. Landlady, nowadays?

_Finsb._ (_taking off the mantle_). Sir, with your leave—I ask pardon—but the least thing detriments these tender colours; and as you have just been eating cheese with your hands—

_Farm._ ’Tis my way to eat cheese with my mouth, man.

_Finsb._ _Man_!

_Farm._ I ask pardon—man-milliner, I mean.

_Enter_ LANDLORD.

_Landlord_. Why, wife!

_Landlady_. Wife!

_Landlord_. I ask pardon—Mrs. Newington, I mean. Do you know who them ladies are that you have been and turned out of the Dolphin?

_Landlady_ (_alarmed_). Not I, indeed. Who are they, pray? Why, if they are quality it’s no fault of mine. It is their own fault for coming, like scrubs, without four horses. Why, if quality will travel the road this way, incognito, how can they expect to be known and treated as quality? ’Tis no fault of mine. Why didn’t you find out sooner who they were, Mr. Newington? What else, in the ’versal world have you to do, but to go basking about in the yards and places with your tankard in your hand, from morning till night? What have you else to ruminate, all day long, but to find out who’s who, I say?

_Farm._ Clapper! clapper! clapper! like my mill in a high wind, landlord. Clapper! clapper! clapper!—enough to stun a body.

_Landlord_. That is not used to it; but use is all, they say.

_Landlady_. Will you answer me, Mr. Newington? Who are the grandees that were in the Dolphin?—and what’s become on them?

_Landlord_. Grandees was your own word, wife. They be not to call grandees; but I reckon you’d be sorry not to treat ’em civil, when I tell you their name is Talbot, mother and sister to our young Talbot, of Eton; he that paid me so handsome for the hunter this very morning.

_Landlady_. Mercy! is that all? What a combustion for nothing in life!

_Finsb._ For nothing in life, as you say, ma’m; that is, nothing in high life, I’m sure, ma’m; nay, I dare a’most venture to swear. Would you believe it, Mr. Talbot is one of the few young gentlemen of Eton that has not bespoke from me a fancy dress for this grand Montem?

_Landlady_. There, Mr. Newington; there’s your Talbot for you! and there’s your grandees! O trust me, I know your scrubs at first sight.

_Landlord_. Scrubs, I don’t, nor can’t, nor won’t call them that pay their debts honestly. Scrubs, I don’t, nor won’t, nor can’t, call them that behave as handsome as young Mr. Talbot did here to me this morning about the hunter. A scrub he is not, wife. Fancy-dress or no fancy-dress, Mr. Finsbury, this young gentleman is no scrub.

_Finsb._ Dear me! ’Twas not I said _scrub_. Did I say scrub?

_Farm._ No matter if you did.

_Finsb._ No matter, certainly; and yet it is a matter; for I’m confident I wouldn’t for the world leave it in anyone’s power to say that I said—that I called—any young gentleman of Eton a _scrub_! Why, you know, sir, it might breed a riot!

_Farm._ And a pretty figure you’d make in a riot!

_Landlady_. Pray let me hear nothing about riots in my house.

_Farm._ Nor about scrubs.

_Finsb._ But I beg leave to explain, gentlemen. All I ventured to remark or suggest was, that as there was some talk of Mr. Talbot’s being captain to-morrow, I didn’t conceive how he could well appear without any dress. That was all, upon my word and honour. A good morning to you, gentlemen; it is time for me to be off. Mrs. Newington, you were so obliging as to promise to accommodate me with a return chaise as far as Eton.

(_Finsbury bows and exit_.)

_Farm._ A good day to you and your bandboxes. There’s a fellow for you now! Ha! ha! ha!—A man-milliner, forsooth!

_Landlord_. Mrs. Talbot’s coming—stand back.

_Landlady_. Lord! why does Bob show them through this way?

_Enter_ MRS. TALBOT, _leaning on_ LOUISA; _Waiter showing the way_.

_Landlady_. You are going on, I suppose, ma’am?

_Waiter_ (_aside to Landlord_). Not if she could help it; but there’s no beds, since Mr. Bursal and Miss Bursal’s come.

_Landlord_. I say nothing, for it is vain to say more. But isn’t it a pity she can’t stay for the Montem, poor old lady! Her son—as good and fine a lad as ever you saw—they say, has a chance, too, of being captain. She may never live to see another such a sight.

(_As Mrs. Talbot walks slowly on_, _the Farmer puts himself across her
way_, _so as to stop her short_.)

_Farm._ No offence, madam, I hope; but I have a good snug farm house, not far off hand; and if so be you’d be so good to take a night’s lodging, you and the young lady with you, you’d have a hearty welcome. That’s all I can say and you’d make my wife very happy; for she’s a good woman, to say nothing of myself.

_Landlord_. If I may be so bold to put in my word, madam, you’d have as good beds, and be as well lodged, with Farmer Hearty, as in e’er a house at Salt Hill.

_Mrs. Talb._ I am very much obliged—

_Farm._ O, say nothing o’ that, madam. I am sure I shall be as much obliged if you do come. Do, miss, speak for me.

_Louisa_. Pray, dear mother—

_Farm._ She will. (_Calls behind the scenes_.) Here, waiter! hostler! driver! what’s your name? drive the chaise up here to the door, smart, close. Lean on my arm, madam, and we’ll have you in and home in a whiff.

(_Exeunt Mrs. Talbot_, _Louisa_, _Farmer_, _Landlord and Waiter_.)

_Landlady_ (_sola_). What a noise and a rout this farmer man makes! and my husband, with his great broad face, bowing, as great a nincompoop as t’other. The folks are all bewitched with the old woman, I verily believe. (_Aloud_.) A good morning to you, ladies.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

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