LUCY. O, burn it, ma'am. The hairdresser has torn away as far as "Proper Pride."
LYDIA. Never mind; open at "Sobriety." Fling me "Lord Chesterfield's Letters." Now for 'em!
It will be perceived that the property-master of the theatre is here required to produce quite a library of stage-books. Does he buy them by the dozen, from the nearest book-stall—out of that trunk full of miscellaneous volumes, boldly labelled, "All these at fourpence"? And does he then recover them with the bright blue or scarlet that is so dear to him, daubing them here and there with his indispensable Dutch metal? Of course their contents can matter little. Like all the other things of the theatre, they are not what they pretend to be, nor what they would have the audience think them. The "book of the play" is something of a mystery. Let us take for granted, however, that it is rarely interesting to the reader, that it is not one of those volumes which, when once taken up, cannot again be laid down—which thrill, enchain, and absorb. For otherwise what might happen? When some necessary question of the play had to be considered, the actor, over-occupied with the volume in his hand, fairly tied and bound by its chain of interest, might forget his part—the book might ruin the play. Of course such an accident could not be permitted. The stage-book is bound to be a dull book, however much it may seem to entertain Brutus and Henry, the Stranger and Bisarre, Hamlet and Joseph Surface, Imogen and Lydia Languish. It is in truth, a book for all stage-readers. Now it is a prayer-book—as in the case of Richard III.; and now, in "The Hunchback," it is "Ovid's Art of Love." According to the prompt-book of the play, Modus is to enter "with a neatly-bound book."
HELEN. What is the book?
MODUS. Tis "Ovid's Art of Love."
HELEN. That Ovid was a fool.
MODUS. In what?
HELEN. In that.
To call that thing an art which art is none.
She strikes the book from his hand, and reproves him for reading in the presence of a lady.
MODUS. Right you say,
And well you served me, cousin, so to strike
The volume from my hand. I own my fault:
So please you—may I pick it up again?
I'll put it in my pocket.