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THE
DRAMATIST;
OR,
STOP HIM WHO CAN!

A COMEDY,
IN FIVE ACTS;
By FREDERICK REYNOLDS.

AS PERFORMED AT THE
THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN.

PRINTED UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF THE MANAGERS FROM THE PROMPT BOOK.

WITH REMARKS
BY MRS INCHBALD.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN,
PATERNOSTER ROW.

Edinburgh:
Printed by James Ballantyne and Co.

REMARKS.

Plays of former times were written to be read, not seen. Dramatic authors succeeded in their aim; their works were placed in libraries, and the theatres were deserted.—Now, plays are written to be seen, not read—and present authors gain their views; for they and the managers are enriched, and the theatres crowded.

To be both seen and read at the present day, is a degree of honour, which, perhaps, not one comic dramatist can wholly boast, except Shakspeare. Exclusive of his, scarcely any of the very best comedies of the best of former bards will now attract an audience: yet the genius of ancient writers was assisted by various tales, for plots, of which they have deprived the moderns; they had, besides, the privilege to write without either political or moral restraint. Uncurbed by law or delicacy, they wrote at random; and at random wrote some pages worthy posterity—but along with these, they produced others, which disgrace the age that reprints and circulates them.

It might be deemed suspicious to insinuate, that those persons, perhaps, who so vehemently exclaim against modern dramas, give up with reluctance the old prerogative of listening to wit and repartee, which would make the refined hearer of the present day blush, and the moral auditor shudder.

To those who can wisely bear with the faults of their own time, nor think all that is good is gone by, the representation of the present comedy will give high entertainment; particularly in those scenes in which Vapid is concerned.—Reynolds could hardly mistake drawing a faithful portrait of this character, for it is said—he sat for himself.

Yet those, who expect to be highly delighted with "The Dramatist," must bring with them to the theatre a proper acquaintance with the stage, and also of its power over certain of its votaries.

If attraction, if bursts of applause, and still less equivocal approbation, bursts of laughter, constitute perfect success to a comic writer, Mr Reynolds, in this, as well as in other of his comedies, has been preeminently successful.

In this comedy, however, and, perhaps, in one or two more he has written, there is an obstacle to his independent merit as an author—an obstacle which too many dramatic writers willingly place in their path to lasting reputation. He has written for one particular actor to support his play—Lewis—more worthy to be thus considered than almost any other performer: but here his very skill gives the alarm—for Lewis possesses such unaffected spirit on the stage, a kind of vivid fire, which tempers burlesque with nature, or nature with burlesque, so happily, that it cannot be hoped any other man will easily support those characters written purposely for him.

Be that as it may—when Reynolds can no more enliven a theatre by his Dramatist, this comedy will grow dull in excellent company—for Congreve's "Way of the World" was hissed, it is said, from a London stage, the last time it was acted, for insipidity.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

THE
DRAMATIST.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

The Grove.—Lady Waitfor't's House.

Enter Marianne, and Letty, from the House.

Mari. But I tell you I will come out—I didn't come to Bath to be confined, nor I won't—I hate all their company, but sweet Miss Courtney's.

Letty. I declare, Miss Marianne, you grow worse and worse every day, your country manners will be the ruin of you.

Mari. Don't you talk about that, Letty—It was a shame to bring me up in the country—if I had been properly taken care of, I might have done great things—I might have married the poet I danced with at the ball—But it's all over now.—I shall never get a husband, and, what's worse, my aunt did it on purpose.—She ruined me, Letty, that nobody else might.

Letty. How you talk!—I hope Miss Courtney hasn't taught you all this?

Mari. No,—she's a dear creature,—she has taught me many things; but nothing improper, I'm sure.

Letty. Pray, has she taught you why she never plays any tune but the one we heard just now?

Mari. Yes—and if you'll keep it a secret, I'll tell you, Letty; Mr Harry Neville taught it her last summer,—and now she is always playing it, because it puts her in mind of the dear man;—when it is ended, don't you observe how she sighs from the bottom of her dear little heart?

Letty. Why, I thought they had quarrelled?

Mari. So they have—she won't see him, and I believe my aunt, Lady Waitfor't, has been the occasion of it;—poor Mr Neville!—I wish I could assist him, for indeed, Letty, I always pity any body that is crossed in love—it may be one's own case one day or other, you know.

Letty. True—and for the same reason, I suppose, you rejoice when it is successful.—I'm sure now the intended marriage of Lady Waitfor't and Lord Scratch gives you great pleasure.

Mari. What! the country gentleman who has lately come to his title? No, if you'll believe me, I don't like him at all,—he's a sour old fellow—is always abusing our sex, and thinks there is only one good woman under heaven:—now, I'm sure that's a mistake, for I know I'm a good woman, and I think, Letty, you are another.

Letty. Yes,—I hope so, though I confess I think your aunt is better than either of us.

Mari. More shame for you—she is a woman of sentiment, and hums you over with her flourishes about purity, and feelings.—Feelings!—'faith, she ought to be ashamed of herself—no other woman would talk in that manner.

Letty. You mistake her—she is a woman of virtue, and can't help feeling for the vices and misfortunes of others.

Mari. Then why can't she do as I have done, Letty? keep her feelings to herself—If I had given way to them half so much as she has—Oh Lord! I don't know what might have been the consequence.

Letty. For shame! You never hear Lady Waitfor't speak ill of any body.

Mari. No,—How should she, when she talks of nobody but herself?

Letty. Well, your opinion is of little weight; my Lord sees her merit, and is come to Bath on purpose to marry her—he thinks her a prodigy of goodness.

Mari. Then, pray let him have her—every fool knows so, to be sure he does, Letty, that a prodigy of goodness is a very rare thing;—but when he finds her out!—'faith, it will be a rare joke, when he finds her out.

Letty. Shameful, Miss Marianne! do speak a little intelligibly, and remember your aunt's favourite observation.

Mari. What is it?—I have forgot.

Letty. That good sentiments are always plain.

Mari. Yes,—so are good women,—bid her remember that, Letty.

Letty. Hush:—say no more—here she comes, and Mr Willoughby with her.

Mari. Ay—that man is always with her of late—but come, Letty, let's get out of their way—let's take a walk, and look at the beaux.

Letty. The beaux! ah, I see you long to become a woman of fashion.

Mari. No—though I hate the country, I never will become a woman of fashion—I know too well what it is to do many things one don't like, and 'faith, while there is such real pleasure in following my own inclinations, I see no reason why, merely out of fashion, I should be obliged to copy other people's.

[Exit, with Letty.

Enter Lady Waitfor't and Willoughby.

Lady. [To Servant.] When my lord returns, tell him I'm gone to Lady Walton's, and shall be back immediately.

Will. Then your ladyship is certain Harry Neville is arrived.

Lady. Yes—the ungrateful man arrived last night, and, as I yet mean to consult his happiness, I have written to him to come to me this evening—but I will ever oppose his union with my lord's ward, Louisa Courtney, because I think it will be the ruin of them both; and you know, Willoughby, one cannot forget one's feelings on those occasions.

Will. Certainly—Ennui, the time-killer, whose only business in life is to murder the hour, is also just arrived; and my lord is resolved on his marrying Louisa instantly.

Lady. True—and only because he'll make a quiet member for his brother in the west. But, for various reasons, I am determined she shall be yours—yet it must be done artfully—my circumstances are deranged, and an alliance with my lord Scratch is the only hope of relief.—Such are the fruits of virtue, Willoughby.

Will. Well—but her fortune is entirely dependent on my Lord's consent, and how is that to be obtained? You know I am no favourite, and Ennui is a great one.

Lady. I know it, and therefore we must incense him against Ennui—let me see——can't we contrive some mode,—some little ingenious story—he is a singular character, you know, and has violent prejudices.

Will. True—and of all his prejudices, none is so violent, or entertaining, as that against authors and actors.

Lady. Yes,—the stage is his aversion, and some way or other——I have it—it's an odd thought, but may do much—suppose we tell him Ennui has written a play.

Will. The luckiest thought in the world! it will make him hate him directly.

Lady. Well, leave it to me—I'll explain the matter to him myself,—and my life on't it proves successful. You see, Willoughby, my only system is to promote happiness.

Will. It is indeed, Lady Waitfor't—but if this fails, may I still hope for your interest with Miss Courtney?

Lady. Yes,—I'm determined she shall be yours, and neither Neville's nor Ennui's.—But come, it's late—here he is.

Will. We'll get rid of him.

Enter Ennui.

Lady. Mr Ennui, your most obedient—we are going to the Parade—have you seen your cousin Neville?

Ennui. I've an idea—I've just left him.

Lady. I suppose we shall see you at Lady Walton's this evening?—till then, adieu.

[Exeunt Lady Waitfor't and Willoughby.

Ennui. I've an idea, I don't like this Lady Waitfor't—she wishes to trick me out of my match with Miss Courtney, and if I could trick her in return—[Takes out his Watch.] How goes the enemy?—only one o'clock!—I thought it had been that an hour ago!—heigho!—here's my patron, Lord Scratch.

Enter Lord Scratch.

Lord. What a wonderful virtue is the art of hearing!—may I die, if a listener be found any where:—Zounds! am not I a peer, and don't I talk by prerogative?—and, if I mayn't talk ten times as much as another person, what's the use of my peerage?

Ennui. I've an idea—I don't comprehend you.

Lord. That fellow Neville wouldn't hear a word I had to say:—abandoned young dog!—he's come to Bath to invent tales against that divinity, Lady Waitfor't, again, I suppose—but my ward, Louisa, shall be put out of his power for ever—she shall marry you to-morrow.

Ennui. In fact—I always forgot to give your lordship joy of your title, though not of your dress.

Lord. Not of my dress!—ay, ay;—that's the difference—you poor devils, in humble life, are obliged to dress well, to look like gentlemen—we peers may dress as we please—[Looking at his watch.] but I shall lose my appointments—past two o'clock.

Ennui. Past two o'clock!—delightful!

Lord. Delightful!—what, at your old tricks?

Ennui. I'd an idea—it had been only one.

Lord. And you're delighted because it's an hour later?

Ennui. To be sure I am—my dear friend, to be sure I am—the enemy has lost a limb.

Lord. So you're happy, because you're an hour nearer the other world?—tell me now,—do you wish to die?

Ennui. No.—But I wish somebody would invent a new mode of killing time—in fact, I think I've found one—private acting.

Lord. Acting!—never talk to me about the stage—I detest a theatre, and every thing that belongs to it: and if ever—but no matter—I must to Lady Waitfor't, and prevail on her to marry me at the same time you marry my ward.—But, remember our agreement—you are to settle your estate on Louisa, and I am to bring you into parliament.

Ennui. In fact, I comprehend—I am to be a hearer and not a speaker.

Lord. Speaker!—if you open your mouth, the Chiltern Hundreds is your portion.—Look ye—you are to be led quietly to the right side—to sleep during the debate—give a nod for your vote,—and in every respect, move like a mandarin, at my command;—in short, you are to be a mandarin member.—So, fare you well till we're both married.

[Exit.

Ennui. I've an idea, here's Neville.—In fact—he knows nothing of my marrying Louisa, nor shall he, till after the happy day.—Strange news, Neville.

Enter Neville.

Nev. I've heard it all. Louisa is going to be married; but to whom I know not,—and my Lord persists in his fatal attachment to Lady Waitfor't.

Ennui. In fact—Why fatal?

Nev. Because it is the source of every mischief.—While she maintains her power over him, I have no hope of love or fortune:—When my father died, he left his estate to my brother, relying on my lord providing for me—and now, how he deserts me!—and all owing to the artifices of an insidious woman.

Ennui. I've an idea, I comprehend her motive—she loves you.

Nev. Yes, 'tis too plain—and, because I would not listen to her advances, she has ruined me in my uncle's opinion, and degraded me in Louisa's;—but I will see Miss Courtney herself—I will hear my doom from her own mouth; and if she avoids me, I will leave her, and this country, for ever.

Enter Peter.

Peter. A letter, sir.

Nev. Without direction!—What can it mean?

Peter. Sir, 'tis from Lady Waitfor't.—The servant, who brought it, said, her ladyship had reasons for not directing it, which she would explain to you when she saw you.

[Exit.

Nev. Oh, the old stratagem:—as it is not directed, she may swear it was designed for another person.

[Reads.

Sir,

I have heard of your arrival at Bath, and, strange as my conduct may appear, I think it a duty I owe to the virtuous part of mankind, to promote their happiness as much as I can; I have long beheld your merit, and long wished to encourage it.—I shall be at home at six this evening. Yours,

A. Waitfor't.

Ennui. In fact—a very sentimental assignation, that would do as well for any other man.

Nev. If I show it to my lord, I know his bigotry is such, that he would, as usual, only suppose it a trick of my own—the more cause there is to condemn, the more he approves.

Ennui. I've an idea, he's incomprehensible.—In fact—who have we here?

Nev. As I live, Vapid, the dramatic author—he is come to Bath to pick up characters, I suppose.

Ennui. In fact—pick up!

Nev. Yes—he has the ardor scribendi upon him so strong, that he would rather you'd ask him to write an epilogue to a new play, than offer him your whole estate—the theatre is his world, in which are included all his hopes and wishes.—In short, he is a dramatic maniac. And to such an extent does he carry his folly, that if he were not the best natured fellow in the world, every body would kick him out of doors.

Ennui. Has he not a share of vanity in his composition?

Nev. Oh yes—he fancies himself a great favourite with the women.

Ennui. Then I've an idea—I've got a thought, by which you may revenge yourself on Lady Waitfor't—in fact—give him the letter—he'll certainly believe 'tis meant for himself.

Nev. My dear friend, ten thousand thanks!—We'll flatter his vanity, by persuading him she is young and beautiful, and my life on't it does wonders;—but, hush, he comes.

Enter Vapid.

Nev. Vapid! I rejoice to see you,—'tis a long time since we met; give me leave to introduce you to a particular friend of mine—Mr Ennui—Mr Vapid.

Ennui. I've an idea—you do me honour—Mr Vapid, I shall be proud to be better acquainted with you—in fact—any thing of consequence stirring in the fashionable or political world?

Vapid. Some whispers about a new pantomime, sir,—nothing else.

Nev. And I'm afraid, in the present scarcity of good writers, we have little else to expect.—Pray, Vapid, how is the present dearth of genius to be accounted for; particularly dramatic genius?

Vapid. Why, as to dramatic genius, sir, the fact is this—to give a true picture of life, a man should enter into all its scenes,—should follow nature, sir—but modern authors plunder from one another—the mere shades of shadows.—Now, sir, for my part, I dive into the world—I search the heart of man;—'tis true I'm called a rake—but, upon my soul, I only game, drink, and intrigue, that I may be better able to dramatize each particular scene.

Nev. A good excuse for profligacy.—But tell me, Vapid, have you got any new characters since you came to Bath?

Vapid. 'Faith, only two—and those not very new either.

Ennui. In fact—may we ask what they are?

Vapid. If you don't write.

Nev. No, we certainly do not.

Vapid. Then I'll tell you:—The first is a charitable divine, who, in the weighty consideration how he shall best lavish his generosity, never bestows it at all:—and the other is a cautious apothecary, who, in determining which of two medicines is best for his patient, lets him die for want of assistance.—You understand me, I think, this last will do something, eh?

Ennui. I've an idea—the apothecary would cut a good figure in a comedy.

Vapid. A comedy! pshaw! I mean him for a tragedy.

Ennui. In fact—I don't comprehend, nor, possibly, the town.

Vapid. I know it—that's the very thing—hark ye, I've found out a secret—what every body understands, nobody approves; and people always applaud most where they least comprehend.—There is a refinement, sir, in appearing to understand things incomprehensible—else whence arises the pleasure at an opera, a private play, or a speech in parliament? why, 'tis the mystery in all these things—'tis the desire to find out what nobody else can—to be thought wiser than others—therefore—you take me—the apothecary is the hero of my tragedy.

Nev. 'Faith, there is some reason in all this—and I'm amazed we have so many writers for the stage.

Vapid. So am I—and I think I'll write no more for an ungrateful public—you don't know any body that has a play coming out, do you?

Nev. No—why do you ask?

Vapid. He'll want an epilogue you know, that's all.

Nev. Why, you won't write him one, will you?

Vapid. I! oh Lord! no;—but genius ought to be encouraged, and as he's a friend of yours,—what's the name of the play?

Nev. I really don't know any body that has written one.

Vapid. Yes——yes——you do.

Nev. Upon my word, I do not—a cousin of mine, indeed, wrote one for his amusement, but I don't think he could ever be prevailed on to produce it on the stage.

Vapid. He prevailed on!—the manager you mean—but what did you think of it?

Nev. I never read it, but am told it is a good play—and if performed, Vapid, he will be proud of your assistance.

Vapid. I speak in time, because it is material—many a dull play has been saved by a good epilogue.

Nev. True—but I had almost forgot.—Why, Vapid, the lady in the Grove will enlarge your knowledge amazingly.

Ennui. I've an idea—she's the pattern of perfection.

Nev. The paragon of beauty! Ah, Vapid! I would give worlds for the coldest expression in this letter.

Vapid. That letter!—what do you mean by that letter?

Nev. And you really pretend not to know the young Lady Waitfor't?

Vapid. No,—I hav'n't spoke to a woman at Bath,—but a sweet girl I danced with at the ball; and who she is, by the Lord, I don't know.

Nev. Well, but, Vapid—young Lady Waitfor't—she loves you to distraction.

Vapid. As I hope for fame, I never heard her name before.

Nev. Then she has heard yours, and admires your genius; however, read the letter, and be satisfied she loves you.

[Vapid reads.

Arrived at Bath—duty I owe—virtuous part of mankind—beheld your merit—wish to encourage—six this evening.—A. Waitfor't—Grove.

Vapid. Yes, yes, it's plain enough now—she admires my talents!—It isn't the first time, Neville, this has happened.—Sweet fond fool!—I'll go and prepare myself directly.

Nev. Ay do, Vapid,—she'll be all on fire to see you.

Vapid. All on fire! I suppose so.—Write a play, Neville, write a play—you see the effect of the muses and graces when they unite—you see, Neville, you see——but, hold, hold—how the devil came you by this letter?

Nev. That's true enough. [Aside.] I'll tell you—I was at her party last night, and on coming out of the room she slipt it into my hand, and desired me to direct it, and give it to you—She has often spoke to me in your favour, and I did you all the good I could—however, to be sure it's no mistake, ask the servant, who admits you, if the name at the bottom is not her own hand-writing.

Vapid. Oh, no!—it's no mistake,—there's no doubt of the matter.—Write a play, Neville, write a play—and charm the ladies, you dog!—adieu!

[Exit.

Ennui. I've an idea—if we've common fortune, this will do every thing.

Nev. No,—Lady Waitfor't's arts are numberless—she is so perfect a hypocrite, that I even doubt her confessing her real sentiments to her minion Willoughby; and when she does a bad action, she ever pretends 'tis from a good motive.

Enter Vapid.

Vapid. Gad, I forgot—you'll recollect the epilogue, Neville.

Nev. Yes,—I'll write to my cousin to-day.

Vapid. But, not a word of the love affair to him—any where else indeed it might do one a service—but never tell an intrigue to a dramatic author.

Ennui. In fact—why not sir?

Vapid. Because it may furnish a scene for a comedy—I do it myself.—Indeed, I think the best part of an intrigue is the hopes of incident, or stage effect—however, I can't stay.

Nev. Nay, we'll walk with you—I, in pursuit of my brother—you, of your mistress.

Vapid. Ay, Neville, there it is—now, do take my advice, and write a play—if any incident happens, remember, it is better to have written a damned play, than no play at all—it snatches a man from obscurity—and being particular, as this world goes, is a very great thing.

Nev. But I confess I have no desire to get into print.

Vapid. Get into print!—pshaw! every body gets into print now.—Kings and quacks—peers and poets—bishops and boxers—tailors and trading justices—can't go lower, you know—all get into print!—But we soar a little higher,—we have privileges peculiar to ourselves.—Now, sir, I—I, for my part, can talk as I please,—say what I will, it is sure to excite mirth,—for, supposing you don't laugh at my wit, I laugh myself, Neville, and that makes every body else do the same—so allons!

Ennui. I've an idea—no bad mode of routing the enemy.

[Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in Lady Waitfor't's House.—Two Chairs.

Enter Vapid and a Servant.

Serv. Sir, my lady will wait on you immediately.

Vapid. Hark ye, sir—Is this young lady of yours very handsome?

Serv. Sir?

Vapid. Is your young mistress, sir, very handsome?

Serv. Yes, sir.—My young mistress is thought a perfect beauty.

Vapid. Charming!—What age do you reckon her?

Serv. About twenty, sir.

Vapid. The right interesting age! and fond of the drama, I suppose?

Serv. Sir?

Vapid. Very fond of plays, I presume?

Serv. Yes, sir, very fond of plays, or any thing relating to them.

Vapid. Delightful!—now am I the happiest dog alive:—yes, yes, Vapid! let the town damn your plays, the women will never desert you. [Seats himself.] You needn't stay, sir. [Exit Servant.] That's a good sign, that fellow isn't used to this kind of business—so much the better—practice is the destruction of love——yes, I shall indulge a beautiful woman,—gratify myself, and, perhaps, get the last scene for my unfinished comedy.

Enter Lady Waitfor't.

Lady. Sir, your most obedient.

Vapid. Ma'am.

[Bowing.

Lady. Pray keep your seat, sir—I beg I mayn't disturb you.

Vapid. By no means, ma'am, give me leave—[Both sit.] Who the devil have we here?

[Aside.

Lady. I am told, sir, you have business for Lady Waitfor't?

Vapid. Yes, ma'am—being my first appearance in that character, but I could wait whole hours for so beautiful a woman.

Lady. Oh, sir!

Vapid. Yes—I am no stranger to her charms——sweet young creature!

Lady. Nay, dear sir, not so very young.

Vapid. Your pardon, ma'am,—and her youth enhances her other merits.—But, oh! she has one charm that surpasses all.

Lady. Has she, sir?—What may that be?

Vapid. Her passion for the stage.

Lady. Sir!

Vapid. Yes, her passion for the stage; that, in my mind, makes her the first of her sex.

Lady. Sir, she has no passion for the stage.

Vapid. Yes, yes, she has.

Lady. But I protest she has not.

Vapid. But I declare and affirm it as a fact, she has a strong passion for the stage, and a violent attachment for all the people that belong to it.

Lady. Sir, I don't understand you—explain.

Vapid. Hark ye,—we are alone—I promise it shall go no further, and I'll let you into a secret—I know——

Lady. Well, what do you know?

Vapid. I know a certain dramatic author with whom she——he had a letter from her this morning.

Lady. What?

Vapid. Yes,—an assignation—don't be alarmed—the man may be depended on—he is safe—very safe!—Long in the habit of intrigue—a good person too!—a very good person indeed.

Lady. Amazement!

Vapid. [Whispering her.] Hark ye, he means to make her happy in less than half an hour.

Lady. [Rising.] Sir, do you know who you're talking to?—do you know who I am?

Vapid. No,—How the devil should I?

Lady. Then know I am Lady Waitfor't!

Vapid. You Lady Waitfor't!

Lady. Yes, sir—the only Lady Waitfor't!

Vapid. Mercy on me!—here's incident!

Lady. Yes, and I am convinced you were sent here by that traitor, Neville.—Speak, is he not your friend?

Vapid. Yes, ma'am:—I know Mr Neville.—Here's equivoque!

Lady. This is some trick, some stratagem of his.—He gave you the letter to perplex and embarrass me.

Vapid. Gave the letter! 'gad that's great.—Pray, ma'am, give me leave to ask you one question—Did you write to Mr Neville?

Lady. Yes, sir,—to confess the truth, I did—but from motives——

Vapid. Stop, my dear ma'am, stop—I have it—now,—let me be clear—first, you send him a letter; is it not so? yes: then he gives it to me—very well: then I come (supposing you only twenty) mighty well!—then you turn out ninety—charming!—-then comes the embarrassment: then the eclaircissement! Oh! it's glorious!—Give me your hand—you have atoned for every thing.

Lady. O! I owe all this to that villain, Neville—I am not revengeful—but 'tis a weakness to endure such repeated provocations, and I am convinced the mind, that too frequently forgives bad actions, will at last forget good ones.

Vapid. Bravo! encore, encore—it is the very best sentiment I ever heard—say it again, pray say it again—I'll take it down, and blend it with the incident, and you shall be gratified, one day or other, with seeing the whole on the stage.—"The mind that too frequently forgives bad actions will at last forget good ones."

[Taking it down in his common place book.

Lady. This madman's folly is not to be borne—if my Lord too should discover him. [Vapid sits, and takes notes.] Here, the consequences might be dreadful, and the scheme of Ennui's play all undone.—Sir, I desire you'll quit my house immediately—Oh! I'll be revenged, I'm determined.

[Exit.

Vapid. What a great exit!—--Very well!—I've got an incident, however.—'Faith, I have noble talents—to extract gold from lead has been the toil of numberless philosophers; but I extract it from a baser metal, human frailty—Oh! it's a great thing to be a dramatic genius!—a very great thing indeed.

[As he is going,

Enter Lord Scratch.

Vapid. Sir, your most devoted,——How d'ye do?

Lord. Sir, your most obedient.

Vapid. Very warm tragedy weather, sir!—but, for my part, I hate summer, and I'll tell you why,—the theatres are shut, and when I pass by their doors in an evening, it makes me melancholy—I look upon them as the tombs of departed friends that were wont to instruct and delight me—I don't know how you feel—perhaps you are not in my way?

Lord. Sir!

Vapid. Perhaps you don't write for the stage—if you do,—hark ye—there is a capital character in this house for a farce.

Lord. Why! what is all this—who are you?

Vapid. Who am I?—here's a question! in these times who can tell who he is?—for aught I know I may be great uncle to yourself, or first cousin to Lady Waitfor't—the very woman I was about to—but no matter—since you're so very inquisitive, do you know who you are?

Lord. Look ye, sir, I am Lord Scratch.

Vapid. A peer! pshaw! contemptible;—when I ask a man who he is, I don't want to know what are his titles, and such nonsense; no, Old Scratch, I want to know what he has written, when he had the curtain up, and whether he's a true son of the drama.—Harkye, don't make yourself uneasy on my account—In my next pantomime, perhaps, I'll let you know who I am, Old Scratch.

[Exit.

Lord. Astonishing! can this be Lady Waitfor't's house—"Very warm tragedy weather, sir!" "In my next pantomime, let you know who I am."—Gad, I must go and investigate the matter immediately, and if she has wronged me, by the blood of the Scratches, I'll bring the whole business before parliament, make a speech ten hours long, reduce the price of opium, and set the nation in a lethargy.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A Library in Lady Waitfor't's House.—A Sofa and two Chairs.

Enter Vapid.

Vapid. Either this house is a labyrinth, or I, in reflecting on my incident, have forgot myself; for so it is I can't find my way out—who have we here? by the sixtieth night, my little partner!

Enter Marianne, with a Book in her Hand.

Mari. The poet I danced with!—he little thinks how much I've thought of him since—Sir.

[Courtesying.

Vapid. Ma'am.

[Bowing.]

Mari. I hope, sir, you caught no cold the other night?

Vapid. No, ma'am, I was much nearer a fever than a cold.—Pray, ma'am, what is your study?

Mari. I have been reading "All for Love."—Pray, sir, do you know any thing about plays?

Vapid. Know any thing about plays!—there's a question!

Mari. I know so much about them, that I once acted at a private theatre.

Vapid. Did you? Then you acted for your own amusement, and nobody's else: what was the play?

Mari. I can't tell!

Vapid. Can't tell?

Mari. No,—nobody knew,—it's a way they have.

Vapid. Then they never act a play of mine.—With all this partiality for the stage—perhaps you would be content with a dramatist for life—particularly if his morals were fine?

Mari. Lord! I don't care about fine morals—I'd rather my husband had fine teeth,—and I'm told most women of fashion are of the same opinion.

Vapid. To be sure they are,—but could you really consent to run away with a poet?

Mari. 'Faith—with all my heart—they never have any money, you know, and, as I have none, our distress would be complete; and, if we had any luck, our adventures would become public, and then we should get into a novel at last.

Vapid. Into a prison, more probably—if she goes on in this way, I must dramatize her first,—and run away with her afterwards. [Aside.] Come, are you ready?

Lady W. [Without.] Tell my lord, sir, I'll wait in the library.

Mari. Oh lord! my aunt, what's to be done?

Vapid. What's to be done!—why?

Mari. She mustn't find you here—she'll be the death of us, she is so violent.

Vapid. Well, I'm not afraid—she's no manager.

Mari. If you have any pity for me—here—hide yourself for a moment behind this sofa, and I'll get her out of the room directly.

Vapid. Behind the sofa! here's an incident!

Mari. Nay—pray—she's here! come—quick!—quick!—

[Vapid gets behind the Sofa, Marianne sits on it, takes out her work bag, and begins singing——

Mari. Toll de roll, &c.

Enter Lady Waitfor't.

Lady. Marianne, how came you here? I desire you'll leave the room directly.

Mari. Leave the room, aunt?

Lady. Yes, leave the room immediately—what are you looking at?

Mari. Nothing, aunt, nothing—Lord! lord! what will become of poor, poor Mr Poet?

[Exit.