[]THE CRITIC.

SCENE I.

‘BRUTUS to LORD NORTH.’—‘Letter the ſecond, on the STATE OF THE ARMY.’—Pſhaw! ‘To the firſt L—daſh D of the A—daſh Y.’—‘Genuine Ex⯑tract of a Letter from ST. KITT's.’—‘COX⯑HEATH INTELLIGENCE.’—‘It is now confi⯑dently aſſerted that SIR CHARLES HARDY.’—Pſhaw!—Nothing but about the fleet, and the nation!—and I hate all politics but theatrical politics.—Where's the MORNING CHRONICLE?

Yes, that's your gazette.

So, here we have it.—

"Theatrical intelligence extraordinary,"—‘We hear there is a new tragedy in rehearſal at Drury-Lane Theatre, call'd the SPANISH AR⯑MADA, ſaid to be written by Mr. PUFF, a gentleman well known in the theatrical world; if we may allow ourſelves to give credit to the report of the performers, who, truth to ſay, are in general but indifferent judges, this piece abounds with the moſt ſtriking and received beauties of modern compoſition’—So! I am very glad my friend PUFF's tragedy is in ſuch forwardneſs.—Mrs. Dangle, my dear, you will be very glad to hear that PUFF's tragedy—

Lord, Mr. Dangle, why will you plague me about ſuch nonſenſe?—Now the plays are be⯑gun I ſhall have no peace.—Isn't it ſufficient to make yourſelf ridiculous by your paſſion for the theatre, without continually teazing me to join you? Why can't you ride your hobby-horſe without deſiring to place me on a pillion behind you, Mr. Dangle?

Nay, my dear, I was only going to read—

No, no; you never will read any thing that's worth liſtening to:—you hate to hear about your country; there are letters every day with Ro⯑man ſignatures, demonſtrating the certainty of an invaſion, and proving that the nation is ut⯑terly undone—But you never will read any thing to entertain one.

What has a woman to do with politics, Mrs. Dangle?

And what have you to do with the theatre, Mr. Dangle? Why ſhould you affect the cha⯑racter of a Critic? I have no patience with you! —haven't you made yourſelf the jeſt of all your acquaintance by your interference in matters where you have no buſineſs? Are not you call'd a theatrical Quidnunc, and a mock Maecenas to ſecond-hand authors?

True; my power with the Managers is pretty notorious; but is it no credit to have applica⯑tions from all quarters for my intereſt?—From lords to recommend fidlers, from ladies to get [4] boxes, from authors to get anſwers, and from actors to get engagements.

Yes, truly; you have contrived to get a ſhare in all the plague and trouble of theatri⯑cal property, without the profit, or even the cre⯑dit of the abuſe that attends it.

I am ſure, Mrs. Dangle, you are no loſer by it, however; you have all the advantages of it: —mightn't you, laſt winter, have had the read⯑ing of the new Pantomime a fortnight pre⯑vious to its performance? And doesn't Mr. Foſ⯑brook let you take places for a play before it is advertis'd, and ſet you down for a Box for every new piece through the ſeaſon? And didn't my friend, Mr. Smatter, dedicate his laſt Farce to you at my particular requeſt, Mrs. Dangle?

Yes; but wasn't the Farce damn'd, Mr. Dangle? And to be ſure it is extremely pleaſant to have one's houſe made the motley rendezvous of all the lackeys of literature!—The very high change of trading authors and jobbing critics!—Yes, my drawing-room is an abſolute regiſter-office for candidate actors, and poets without character;—then to be continually alarmed with Miſſes and Ma'ams piping hiſteric changes on [5] JULIETS and DORINDAS, POLLYS and OPHELIAS; and the very furniture trembling at the proba⯑tionary ſtarts and unprovok'd rants of would-be RICHARDS and HAMLETS!—And what is worſe than all, now that the Manager has monopoliz'd the Opera-Houſe, haven't we the Signors and Signioras calling here, ſliding their ſmooth ſe⯑mibreves, and gargling glib diviſions in their outlandiſh throats—with foreign emiſſaries and French ſpies, for ought I know, diſguiſed like fidlers and figure dancers!

Mercy! Mrs. Dangle!

And to employ yourſelf ſo idly at ſuch an alarming criſis as this too—when, if you had the leaſt ſpirit, you would have been at the head of one of the Weſtminſter aſſociations—or trailing a volunteer pike in the Artillery Ground!—But you—o'my conſcience, I believe if the French were landed to-morrow, your firſt enquiry would be, whether they had brought a theat⯑rical troop with them.

Mrs. Dangle, it does not ſignify—I ſay the ſtage is "the Mirror of Nature," and the ac⯑tors are "the Abſtract, and brief Chronicles of the Time:"—and pray what can a man of ſenſe [6] ſtudy better?—Beſides, you will not eaſily per⯑ſuade me that there is no credit or importance in being at the head of a band of critics, who take upon them to decide for the whole town, whoſe opinion and patronage all writers ſolicit, and whoſe recommendation no manager dares refuſe!

Ridiculous!—Both managers and authors of the leaſt merit, laugh at your pretenſions.—The PUBLIC is their CRITIC—without whoſe fair approbation they know no play can reſt on the ſtage, and with whoſe applauſe they welcome ſuch attacks as yours, and laugh at the malice of them, where they can't at the wit.

Very well, Madam—very well.

Mr. Sneer, Sir, to wait on you.

O, ſhew Mr. Sneer up.

Plague on't, now we muſt appear loving and affectionate, or Sneer will hitch us into a ſtory.

With all my heart; you can't be more ridicu⯑lous than you are.

Your are enough to provoke—

—Hah! my dear Sneer, I am vaſtly glad to ſee you. My dear, here's Mr. Sneer.

Good morning to you, Sir.

Mrs. Dangle and I have been diverting our⯑ſelves with the papers.—Pray, Sneer, won't you go to Drury-lane theatre the firſt night of Puff's tragedy?

Yes; but I ſuppoſe one ſhan't be able to get in, for on the firſt night of a new piece they always fill the houſe with orders to ſupport it. But here, Dangle, I have brought you two pieces, one of which you muſt exert your⯑ſelf to make the Managers accept, I can tell you that, for 'tis written by a perſon of conſe⯑quence.

So! now my plagues are beginning!

Aye, I am glad of it, for now you'll be happy. Why, my dear Dangle, it is a plea⯑ſure [8] to ſee how you enjoy your volunteer fa⯑tigue, and your ſolicited ſolicitations.

It's a great trouble—yet, egad, its pleaſant too.—Why, ſometimes of a morning, I have a dozen people call on me at breakfaſt time, whoſe faces I never ſaw before, nor ever deſire to ſee again.

That muſt be very pleaſant indeed!

And not a week but I receive fifty letters, and not a line in them about any buſineſs of my own.

An amuſing correſpondence!

"Burſts into tears, and exit." What, is this a tragedy?

No, that's a genteel comedy, not a tranſla⯑tion—only taken from the French; it is written in a ſtile which they have lately tried to run down; the true ſentimental, and nothing ridicu⯑lous in it from the beginning to the end.

Well, if they had kept to that, I ſhould not have been ſuch an enemy to the ſtage, there was ſome edification to be got from thoſe pieces, Mr. Sneer!

I am quite of your opinion, Mrs. Dangle; the theatre, in proper hands, might certainly be made the ſchool of morality; but now, I am ſorry to ſay it, people ſeem to go there princi⯑pally for their entertainment!

It would have been more to the credit of the Managers to have kept it in the other line.

Undoubtedly, Madam, and hereafter perhaps to have had it recorded, that in the midſt of a luxurious and diſſipated age, they preſerv'd two houſes in the capital, where the converſation was always moral at leaſt, if not entertaining!

Now, egad, I think the worſt alteration is in the nicety of the audience.—No double enten⯑dre, no ſmart inuendo admitted; even Van⯑burgh and Congreve oblig'd to undergo a bungling reformation!

Yes, and our prudery in this reſpect is juſt on a par with the artificial baſhfulneſs of a courte⯑zan, who encreaſes the bluſh upon her cheek in an exact proportion to the diminution of her modeſty.

Sneer can't even give the Public a good word!—But what have we here?—This ſeems a very odd—

O, that's a comedy, on a very new plan; replete with wit and mirth, yet of a moſt ſeri⯑ous moral! You ſee it is call'd "THE RE⯑FORMED HOUSEBREAKER;" where, by the mere force of humour, HOUSEBREAKING is put into ſo ridiculous a light, that if the piece has its proper run, I have no doubt but that bolts and bars will be entirely uſeleſs by the end of the ſeaſon.

Egad, this is new indeed!

Yes; it is written by a particular friend of mine, who has diſcovered that the follies and foi⯑bles of ſociety, are ſubjects unworthy the notice of the Comic Muſe, who ſhould be taught to ſtoop only at the greater vices and blacker crimes of humanity—gibbeting capital offences in five acts, and pillorying petty larcenies in two.—In ſhort, [11] his idea is to dramatize the penal laws, and make the Stage a court of eaſe to the Old Bailey.

It is truly moral.

Sir Fretful Plagiary, Sir.

Beg him to walk up.—

Now, Mrs. Dangle, Sir Fretful Plagiary is an author to your own taſte.

I confeſs he is a favourite of mine, becauſe every body elſe abuſes him.

—Very much to the credit of your charity, Madam, if not of your judgment.

But, egad, he allows no merit to any author but himſelf, that's the truth on't—tho' he's my friend.

Never.—He is as envious as an old maid verging on the deſperation of ſix-and-thirty: and then the inſiduous humility with which he ſeduces you to give a free opinion on any of his [12] works, can be exceeded only by the petulant arrogance with which he is ſure to reject your obſervations.

Very true, egad—tho' he's my friend.

Then his affected contempt of all newſpa⯑per ſtrictures; tho', at the ſame time, he is the ſoreſt man alive, and ſhrinks like ſcorch'd parch⯑ment from the fiery ordeal of true criticiſm: yet is he ſo covetous of popularity, that he had rather be abuſed than not mentioned at all.

There's no denying it—tho' he is my friend.

You have read the tragedy he has juſt fi⯑niſhed, haven't you?

O yes; he ſent it to me yeſterday.

Well, and you think it execrable, don't you?

Why between ourſelves, egad I muſt own—tho' he's my friend—that it is one of the moſt [13] —He's here

—finiſhed and moſt ad⯑mirable perform—

Mr. Sneer with him, did you ſay?

Ah, my dear friend!—Egad, we were juſt ſpeak⯑ing of your Tragedy.—Admirable, Sir Fretful, admirable!

You never did any thing beyond it, Sir Fret⯑ful —never in your life.

You make me extremely happy;—for without a compliment, my dear Sneer, there isn't a man in the world whoſe judgment I value as I do yours.—And Mr. Dangle's.

They are only laughing at you, Sir Fretful; for it was but juſt now that—

Mrs. Dangle!—Ah, Sir Fretful, you know Mrs. Dangle.—My friend Sneer was rallying juſt now—He knows how ſhe admires you, and—

O Lord—I am ſure Mr. Sneer has more taſte and ſincerity than to—A damn'd double-faced fellow!

Yes, yes,—Sneer will jeſt—but a better hu⯑mour'd—

O, I know—

He has a ready turn for ridicule—his wit coſts him nothing.—

No, egad—or I ſhould wonder how he came by it.

Becauſe his jeſt is always at the expence of his friend.

But, Sir Fretful, have you ſent your play to the managers yet?—or can I be of any ſervice to you?

No, No, I thank you; I believe the piece had ſufficient recommendation with it.—I thank you tho'.—I ſent it to the manager of COVENT⯑GARDEN THEATRE this morning.

I ſhould have thought now, that it might have been caſt (as the actors call it) better at DRURY-LANE

O lud! no—never ſend a play there while I live—harkee!

Writes himſelf!—I know he does—

I ſay nothing—I take away from no man's merit—am hurt at no man's good fortune—I ſay nothing.—But this I will ſay—through all my knowledge of life, I have obſerv'd—that there is not a paſſion ſo ſtrongly rooted in the human heart as envy!

I believe you have reaſon for what you ſay, indeed.

Beſides—I can tell you it is not always ſo ſafe to leave a play in the hands of thoſe who write themſelves.

What, they may ſteal from them, hey, my dear Plagiary?

Steal!—to beſure they may; and, egad, ſerve your beſt thoughts as gypſies do ſtolen children, disfigure them to make 'em paſs for their own.

But your preſent work is a ſacrifice to Melpo⯑mene, and HE, you know, never—

That's no ſecurity.—A dext'rous plagiariſt may do any thing.—Why, Sir, for ought I know, he might take out ſome of the beſt things in my tragedy, and put them into his own co⯑medy.

That might be done, I dare be ſworn.

And then, if ſuch a perſon gives you the leaſt hint or aſſiſtance, he is deviliſh apt to take the merit of the whole.—

If it ſucceeds.

Aye—but with regard to this piece, I think I can hit that gentleman, for I can ſafely ſwear he never read it.

I'll tell you how you may hurt him more—

How?—

Swear he wrote it.

Plague on't now, Sneer, I ſhall take it ill.—I believe you want to take away my character as an author!

Then I am ſure you ought to be very much oblig'd to me.

Hey!—Sir!—

O you know, he never means what he ſays.

Sincerely then—you do like the piece?

Wonderfully!

But come now, there muſt be ſomething that you think might be mended, hey?—Mr. Dangle, has nothing ſtruck you?

Why faith, it is but an ungracious thing for the moſt part to—

—With moſt authors it is juſt ſo indeed; they are in general ſtrangely tenacious!—But, for [18] my part, I am never ſo well pleaſed as when a judicious critic points out any defect to me; for what is the purpoſe of ſhewing a work to a friend, if you don't mean to profit by his opi⯑nion?

Very true.—Why then, tho' I ſeriouſly ad⯑mire the piece upon the whole, yet there is one ſmall objection; which, if you'll give me leave, I'll mention.

SIR, you can't oblige me more.

I think it wants incident.

Good God!—you ſurprize me!—wants in⯑cident!—

Yes; I own I think the incidents are too few.

Good God!—Believe me, Mr. Sneer, there is no perſon for whoſe judgment I have a more implicit deference.—But I proteſt to you, Mr. Sneer, I am only apprehenſive that the inci⯑dents are too crowded.—My dear Dangle, how does it ſtrike you?

Really I can't agree with my friend Sneer.—I [19] think the plot quite ſufficient; and the four firſt acts by many degrees the beſt I ever read or ſaw in my life. If I might venture to ſuggeſt any thing, it is that the intereſt rather falls off in the fifth.—

—Riſes; I believe you mean, Sir.

No; I don't upon my word.

Yes, yes, you do upon my ſoul—it certainly don't fall off, I aſſure you—No, no, it don't fall off.

Now, Mrs. Dangle, didn't you ſay it ſtruck you in the ſame light?

No, indeed, I did not—I did not ſee a fault in any part of the play from the beginning to the end.

Upon my ſoul the women are the beſt jud⯑ges after all!

Or if I made any objection, I am ſure it was to nothing in the piece; but that I was afraid it was, on the whole, a little too long.

Pray, Madam, do you ſpeak as to duration of [20] time; or do you mean that the ſtory is tediouſly ſpun out?

O Lud! no.—I ſpeak only with reference to the uſual length of acting plays.

Then I am very happy—very happy indeed,—becauſe the play is a ſhort play, a remarkably ſhort play:—I ſhould not venture to differ with a lady on a point of taſte; but, on theſe occa⯑ſions, the watch, you know, is the critic.

Then, I ſuppoſe, it muſt have been Mr. Dangle's drawling manner of reading it to me.

O, if Mr. Dangle read it! that's quite ano⯑ther affair!—But I aſſure you, Mrs. Dangle, the firſt evening you can ſpare me three hours and an half, I'll undertake to read you the whole from beginning to end, with the Prologue and Epilogue, and allow time for the muſic between the acts.

I hope to ſee it on the ſtage next.

Well, Sir Fretful, I wiſh you may be able to [21] get rid as eaſily of the news-paper criticiſms as you do of ours.—

The NEWS-PAPERS!—Sir, they are the moſt villainous—licentious—abominable—infernal—Not that I ever read them—No—I make it a rule never to look into a news-paper.

You are quite right—for it certainly muſt hurt an author of delicate feelings to ſee the li⯑berties they take

No!—quite the contrary;—their abuſe is, in fact, the beſt panegyric—I like it of all things.—An author's reputation is only in dan⯑ger from their ſupport.

Why that's true—and that attack now on you the other day—

—What? where?

Aye, you mean in a paper of Thurſday; it was compleatly ill-natur'd to be ſure.

O, ſo much the better.—Ha! ha! ha!—I wou'dn't have it otherwiſe.

Certainly it is only to be laugh'd at; for—

—You don't happen to recollect what the fellow ſaid, do you?

Pray, Dangle—Sir Fretful ſeems a little anxi⯑ous—

—O lud, no!—anxious,—not I,—not the leaſt. —I—But one may as well hear you know.

Sneer, do you recollect?—Make out ſomething.

I will,

—Yes, yes, I remember perfectly.

Well, and pray now—Not that it ſignifies—what might the gentleman ſay?

Why, he roundly aſſerts that you have not the ſlighteſt invention, or original genius what⯑ever; tho' you are the greateſt traducer of all other authors living.

Ha! ha! ha!—very good!

That as to COMEDY, you have not one idea of your own, he believes, even in your com⯑mon place-book—where ſtray jokes, and pil⯑fered witticiſms are kept with as much me⯑thod as the ledger of the LOST-and-STOLEN-OFFICE.

—Ha! ha! ha!—very pleaſant!

Nay, that you are ſo unlucky as not to have the ſkill even to ſteal with taſte.—But that you gleen from the refuſe of obſcure volumes, where more judicious plagiariſts have been before you; ſo that the body of your work is a compoſition of dregs and ſediments—like a bad tavern's worſt wine.

Ha! ha!

In your more ſerious efforts, he ſays, your bombaſt would be leſs intolerable, if the thoughts were ever ſuited to the expreſſion; but the homelineſs of the ſentiment ſtares thro' the fantaſtic encumbrance of it's fine language, like a clown in one of the new uniforms!

Ha! ha!

That your occaſional tropes and flowers ſuit the general coarſeneſs of your ſtile, as tambour ſprigs would a ground of linſey-wolfey; while your imitations of Shakeſpeare reſemble the mimicry of Falſtaff's Page, and are about as near the ſtandard of the original.

Ha!—

—In ſhort, that even the fineſt paſſages you ſteal are of no ſervice to you; for the poverty of your own language prevents their aſſimilating; ſo that they lie on the ſurface like lumps of marl on a barren moor, encumbering what it is not in their power to fertilize!—

—Now another perſon would be vex'd at this.

Oh! but I wou'dn't have told you, only to di⯑vert you.

I know it—I am diverted,—Ha! ha! ha!—not the leaſt invention!—Ha! ha! ha! very good!—very good!

Yes—no genius! Ha! ha! ha!

A ſevere rogue! Ha! ha! ha! But you are quite right, Sir Fretful, never to read ſuch non⯑ſenſe.

To be ſure—for if there is any thing to one's praiſe, it is a fooliſh vanity to be gratified at it, and if it is abuſe,—why one is always ſure to hear of it from one damn'd good natur'd friend or another!

Sir, there is an Italian gentleman, with a French Interpreter, and three young ladies, and a dozen muſicians, who ſay they are ſent by LADY RONDEAU and MRS. FUGE.

Gadſo! they come by appointment. Dear Mrs. Dangle do let them know I'll ſee them directly.

You know, Mr. Dangle, I ſhan't underſtand a word they ſay.

But you hear there's an interpreter.

Well, I'll try to endure their complaiſance till you come.

And Mr. PUFF, Sir, has ſent word that the laſt rehearſal is to be this morning, and that he'll call on you preſently.

That's true—I ſhall certainly be at home.

Now, Sir Fretful, if you have a mind to have juſtice done you in the way of anſwer—Egad, Mr. PUFF's your man.

Pſhaw! Sir, why ſhould I wiſh to have it an⯑ſwered, when I tell you I am pleaſed at it?

True, I had forgot that.—But I hope you are not fretted at what Mr. Sneer—

—Zounds! no, Mr. Dangle, don't I tell you theſe things never fret me in the leaſt.

Nay, I only thought—

—And let me tell you, Mr. Dangle, 'tis [27] damn'd affronting in you to ſuppoſe that I am hurt, when I tell you I am not.

But why ſo warm, Sir Fretful?

Gadſlife! Mr. Sneer, you are as abſurd as Dangle; how often muſt I repeat it to you, that nothing can vex me but your ſuppoſing it poſſible for me to mind the damn'd nonſenſe you have been repeating to me!—and let me tell you, if you continue to believe this, you muſt mean to inſult me, gentlemen—and then your diſreſpect will affect me no more than the news⯑paper criticiſms—and I ſhall treat it—with ex⯑actly the ſame calm indifference and philoſophic contempt—and ſo your ſervant.

Ha! ha! ha! Poor Sir Fretful! Now will he go and vent his philoſophy in anonymous abuſe of all modern critics and authors—But, Dangle, you muſt get you friend PUFF to take me to the rehearſal of his tragedy.

I'll anſwer for't, he'll thank you for deſiring it. But come and help me to judge of this muſical family; they are recommended by people of conſequence, I aſſure you.

I am at your diſpoſal the whole morning—but I thought you had been a decided critic in muſick, as well as in literature?

So I am—but I have a bad ear.—Efaith, Sneer, tho', I am afraid we were a little too ſevere on Sir Fretful—tho' he is my friend.

Why, 'tis certain, that unneceſſarily to mor⯑tify the vanity of any writer, is a cruelty which mere dulneſs never can deſerve; but where a baſe and perſonal malignity uſurps the place of literary emulation, the aggreſſor deſerves nei⯑ther quarter nor pity.

That's ture egad!—tho' he's my friend!

SCENE II.

Je dis madame, ja'i l'honneur to introduce & de vous demander votre protection pour le Signor PASTICCIO RETORNELLO & pour ſa charmante famille.

Ah! Voſignoria noi vi preghiamo di favori tevi colla voſtra protezione.

Voſignoria fatevi queſti grazzie.

Si Signora.

Madame—me interpret.—C'eſt à dire—in Engliſh—quils vous prient de leur faire l'hon⯑neur—

—I ſay again, gentlemen, I don't underſtand a word you ſay.

Queſto Signore ſpiegheró.

Oui—me interpret.—nous avons les lettres de recommendation pour Monſieur Dangle de—

—Upon my word, Sir, I don't underſtand you.

La CONTESSA RONDEAU e noſtra padrona.

Si, padre, & mi LADI FUGE.

O!—me interpret.—Madame, ils diſent—in Engliſh—Qu'ils ont l'honneur d'etre proteges de ces Demes.—You underſtand?

No, Sir,—no underſtand!

Ah voici Monſieur Dangle!

A! Signor Dangle!

Mr. Dangle, here are two very civil gentle⯑men trying to make themſelves underſtood, and I don't know which is the interpreter.

Ebien!

Monſieur Dangle—le grand bruit de vos talents pour la critique & de votre intereſt avec Meſſieurs les Directeurs a tous les Theatres.

Voſignoria ſiete ſi famoſo par la voſtra conoſcenſa e voſtra intereſſa colla le Diret⯑tore da—

Egad I think the Interpreter is the hardeſt to be underſtood of the two!

Why I thought, Dangle, you had been an ad⯑mirable linguiſt!

So I am, if they would not talk ſo damn'd faſt.

Well I'll explain that—the leſs time we loſe in hearing them the better,—for that I ſuppoſe is what they are brought here for.

—They ſing trios, &c. Dangle beating out of time. Servant enters and whiſpers Dangle.]

Shew him up.

Bravo! admirable! braviſſimo! admirabliſ⯑ſimo! —Ah! Sneer! where will you find ſuch as theſe voices in England?

Not eaſily.

But PUFF is coming.—Signor and little Sig⯑nora's—obligatiſſimo!—Spoſa Signora Danglena [32] —Mrs. Dangle, ſhall I beg you to offer them ſome refreſhments, and take their addreſs in the next room.

Mr. PUFF, Sir!

My dear PUFF!

My dear Dangle, how is it with you?

Mr. Sneer, give me leave to introduce Mr. PUFF to you.

Mr. Sneer is this? Sir, he is a gentleman whom I have long panted for the honour of knowing—a gentleman whoſe critical talents and tranſcendant judgment—

—Dear Sir—

Nay, don't be modeſt, Sneer, my friend PUFF only talks to you in the ſtile of his profeſſion.

His profeſſion!

Yes, Sir; I make no ſecret of the trade I fol⯑low—among friends and brother authors, Dangle knows I love to be frank on the ſub⯑ject, and to advertiſe myſelf vivâ voce.—I am, Sir, a Practitioner in Panegyric, or to ſpeak more plainly—a Profeſſor of the Art of Puffing, at your ſervice—or any body elſe's.

Sir, you are very obliging!—I believe, Mr. Puff, I have often admired your talents in the daily prints.

Yes, Sir, I flatter myſelf I do as much buſi⯑neſs in that way as any ſix of the fraternity in town—Deviliſh hard work all the ſummer—Friend Dangle? never work'd harder!—But harkee,—the Winter Managers were a little ſore I believe.

No—I believe they took it all in good part.

Aye!—Then that muſt have been affecta⯑tion in them, for egad, there were ſome of the attacks which there was no laughing at!

Aye, the humourous ones.—But I ſhould think Mr. Puff, that Authors would in general be able to do this ſort of work for themſelves.

Why yes—but in a clumſy way.—Beſides, we look on that as an encroachment, and ſo take the oppoſite ſide.—I dare ſay now you conceive half the very civil paragraphs and advertiſe⯑ments you ſee, to be written by the parties con⯑cerned, or their friends?—No ſuch thing—Nine out of ten, manufactured by me in the way of buſineſs.

Indeed!—

Even the Auctioneers now,—the Auctioneers I ſay, tho' the rogues have lately got ſome cre⯑dit for their language—not an article of the merit their's!—take them out of their Pulpits, and they are as dull as Catalogues.—No, Sir;—'twas I firſt enrich'd their ſtyle—'twas I firſt taught them to crowd their advertiſements with panegyrical ſuperlatives, each epithet riſing above the other—like the Bidders in their own Auction-rooms! From ME they learn'd to enlay their phraſeology with variegated chips of exo⯑tic metaphor: by ME too their inventive facul⯑ties [35] were called forth.—Yes Sir, by ME they were inſtructed to clothe ideal walls with gra⯑tuitous fruits—to inſinuate obſequious rivulets into viſionary groves—to teach courteous ſhrubs to nod their approbation of the grateful ſoil! or on emergencies to raiſe upſtart oaks, where there never had been an acorn; to create a de⯑lightful vicinage without the aſſiſtance of a neighbour; or fix the temple of Hygeia in the fens of Lincolnſhire!

I am ſure, you have done them infinite ſer⯑vice; for now, when a gentleman is ruined, he parts with his houſe with ſome credit.

Service! if they had any gratitude, they would erect a ſtatue to him, they would figure him as a preſiding Mercury, the god of traffic and fiction, with a hammer in his hand inſtead of a caduceus.—But pray, Mr. Puff, what firſt put you on exerciſing your talents in this way?

Egad ſir,—ſheer neceſſity—the proper parent of an art ſo nearly allied to invention: you muſt know Mr. Sneer, that from the firſt time I tried my hand at an advertiſement, my ſucceſs was ſuch, that for ſometime after, I led a moſt ex⯑traordinary life indeed!

How, pray?

Sir, I ſupported myſelf two years entirely by my misfortunes.

By your misfortunes!

Yes Sir, aſſiſted by long ſickneſs, and other occaſional diſorders; and a very comfortable liv⯑ing I had of it.

From ſickneſs and misfortunes!—You prac⯑tiſed as a Doctor, and an Attorney at once?

No egad, both maladies and miſeries were my own.

Hey!—what the plague!

'Tis true, efaith.

Harkee!—By advertiſements—"To the cha⯑ritable and humane!" and "to thoſe whom Providence hath bleſſed with affluence!"

Oh,—I underſtand you.

And in truth, I deſerved what I got, for I ſuppoſe never man went thro' ſuch a ſeries of calamities in the ſame ſpace of time!—Sir, I was five times made a bankrupt, and reduced from a ſtate of affluence, by a train of unavoid⯑able misfortunes! then Sir, tho' a very in⯑duſtrious tradeſman, I was twice burnt out, and loſt my little all, both times!—I lived upon thoſe fires a month.—I ſoon after was con⯑fined by a moſt excruciating diſorder, and loſt the uſe of my limbs!—That told very well, for I had the caſe ſtrongly atteſted, and went about to collect the ſubſcriptions myſelf.

Egad, I believe that was when you firſt called on me.—

—In November laſt?—O no!—I was at that time, a cloſe priſoner in the Marſhalſea, for a debt benevolently contracted to ſerve a friend!—I was afterwards, twice tapped for a dropſy, which declined into a very profitable conſumption!—I was then reduced to—O no—then, I became a widow with ſix helpleſs children,—after having had eleven huſbands preſſed, and being left every time eight months [38] gone with child, and without money to get me into an hoſpital!

And you bore all with patience, I make no doubt?

Why, yes,—tho' I made ſome occaſional at⯑tempts at felo de ſe; but as I did not find thoſe raſh actions anſwer, I left off killing myſelf very ſoon.—Well, Sir,—at laſt, what with bankrupt⯑cies, fires, gouts, dropſies, impriſonments, and other valuable calamities, having got together a pretty handſome ſum, I determined to quit a buſineſs which had always gone rather againſt my conſcience, and in a more liberal way ſtill to indulge my talents for fiction and embelliſh⯑ment, thro' my favourite channels of diurnal communication—and ſo, Sir, you have my hiſ⯑tory.

Moſt obligingly communicative indeed; and your confeſſion if publiſhed, might certainly ſerve the cauſe of true charity, by reſcuing the moſt uſeful channels of appeal to benevolence from the cant of impoſition.—But ſurely, Mr. PUFF, there is no great myſtery in your preſent profeſſion?

Myſtery! Sir, I will take upon me to ſay the matter was never ſcientifically treated, nor reduced to rule before.

Reduced to rule?

O lud, Sir! you are very ignorant, I am afraid.—Yes Sir,—PUFFING is of various ſorts—the principal are, The PUFF DIRECT—the PUFF PRELIMINARY—the PUFF COLLATERAL—the PUFF COLLUSIVE, and the PUFF OBLIQUE, or PUFF by IMPLICATION.—Theſe all aſſume, as circumſtances require, the various forms of LETTER TO THE EDITOR—OCCASIONAL ANEC⯑DOTE—IMPARTIAL CRITIQUE—OBSERVATION from CORRESPONDENT,—or ADVERTISEMENT FROM THE PARTY.

The puff direct, I can conceive—

O yes, that's ſimple enough,—for inſtance—A new Comedy or Farce is to be produced at one of the Theatres (though by the bye they don't bring out half what they ought to do) The author, ſuppoſe Mr. Smatter, or Mr. Dapper—or any particular friend of mine—very well; [40] the day before it is to be performed, I write an account of the manner in which it was re⯑ceived—I have the plot from the author,—and only add—Characters ſtrongly drawn—highly coloured—hand of a maſter—fund of genuine humour—mine of invention—neat dialogue—attic ſalt! Then for the performance—Mr. DODD was aſtoniſhingly great in the character of SIR HARRY! That univerſal and judicious actor Mr. PALMER, perhaps never appeared to more advantage than in the COLONEL;—but it is not in the power of language to do juſtice to Mr. KING!—Indeed he more than merited thoſe repeated burſts of applauſe which he drew from a moſt brilliant and judicious audience! As to the ſcenery—The miraculous power of Mr. DE LOUTHER BOURG's pencil are univerſally acknow⯑ledged!—In ſhort, we are at a loſs which to ad⯑mire moſt,—the unrivalled genius of the author, the great attention and liberality of the ma⯑nagers—the wonderful abilities of the painter, or the incredible exertions of all the perfor⯑mers!—

That's pretty well indeed, Sir.

O cool—quite cool—to what I ſometimes do.

And do you think there are any who are in⯑fluenced by this.

O, lud! yes, Sir;—the number of thoſe who go thro' the fatigue of judging for themſelves is very ſmall indeed!

Well, Sir,—the PUFF PRELIMINARY?

O that, Sir, does well in the form of a Caution.—In a matter of gallantry now—Sir FLIMSY GOSSIMER, wiſhes to be well with LADY FANNY FETE—He applies to me—I open trenches for him with a paragraph in the Morning Poſt.—It is recommended to the beautiful and accompliſhed Lady F four ſtars F daſh E to be on her guard againſt that dangerous character, Sir F daſh G; who, however pleaſing and inſinuating his man⯑ners may be, is certainly not remarkable for the conſtancy of his attachments!—in Italics.—Here you ſee, Sir FLIMSY GOSSIMER is introduced to the particular notice of Lady FANNY—who, perhaps never thought of him before—ſhe finds herſelf publickly cautioned to avoid him, which naturally makes her deſirous of ſeeing him;—the obſervation of their acquaintance cauſes a [42] pretty kind of mutual embarraſſment, this pro⯑duces a ſort of ſympathy of intereſt—which, if Sir Flimſy is unable to improve effectually, he at leaſt gains the credit of having their names mentioned together, by a particular ſet, and in a particular way,—which nine times out of ten is the full accompliſhment of modern gallantry!

Egad, Sneer, you will be quite an adept in the buſineſs.

Now, Sir, the PUFF COLLATERAL is much uſed as an appendage to advertiſements, and may take the form of anecdote.—Yeſterday as the celebrated GEORGE BON-MOT was ſaun⯑tering down St. James's-ſtreet, he met the lively Lady MARY MYRTLE, coming out of the Park,—'Good God, LADY MARY, I'm ſurpriſed to meet you in a white jacket,—for I expected never to have ſeen you, but in a full-trim⯑med unifor, and a light-horſeman's cap!'—"Heavens, GEORGE, where could you have learned that?"—'Why, replied the wit, I juſt ſaw a print of you, in a new publication called The CAMP MAGAZINE, which, by the bye, is a deviliſh clever thing,—and is ſold at No. 3, on the right hand of the way, two doors from the [43] printing-office, the corner of Ivy-lane, Pater-noſter-row, price only one ſhilling!'

Very ingenious indeed!

But the PUFF COLLUSIVE is the neweſt of any; for it acts in the diſguiſe of determined hoſtility.—It is much uſed by bold bookſellers and enterpriſing poets.—An indignant correſ⯑pondent obſerves—that the new poem called BEELZEBUB's COTILLION, or PROSERPINE's FETE CHAMPETRE, is one of the moſt unjuſtifi⯑able performances he ever read! The ſeverity with which certain characters are handled is quite ſhocking! And as there are many deſcriptions in it too warmly coloured for female delicacy, the ſhameful avidity with which this piece is bought by all people of faſhion, is a reproach on the taſte of the times, and a diſgrace to the delicacy of the age!—Here you ſee the two ſtrongeſt inducements are held forth;—Firſt, that nobody ought to read it;—and ſecondly, that every body buys it; on the ſtrength of which, the publiſher boldly prints the tenth edi⯑tion, before the had ſold ten of the firſt; and then eſtabliſhes it by threatening himſelf with the pillory, or abſolutely indicting himſeif for SCAN. MAG.!

Ha! ha! ha!—'gad I know it is ſo▪

As to the PUFF OBLIQUE, or PUFF BY IM⯑PLICATION, it is too various and extenſive to be illuſtrated by an inſtance;—it attracts in titles, and preſumes in patents; it lurks in the limitation of a ſubſcription, and invites in the aſſurance of croud and incommodation at public places; it delights to draw forth conceal⯑ed merit, with a moſt diſintereſted aſſiduity; and ſometimes wears a countenance of ſmiling cen⯑ſure and tender reproach.—It has a wonderful memory for Parliamentary Debates, and will of⯑ten give the whole ſpeech of a favoured mem⯑ber, with the moſt flattering accuracy. But, above all, it is a great dealer in reports and ſup⯑poſitions.—It has the earlieſt intelligence of in⯑tended preferments that will reflect honor on the patrons; and embryo promotions of modeſt gentlemen—who know nothing of the matter themſelves. It can hint a ribband for implied ſervices, in the air of a common report; and with the careleſneſs of a caſual paragraph, ſug⯑geſt officers into commands—to which they have no pretenſion but their wiſhes. This, Sir, is the laſt principal claſs in the ART of PUFFING—An art which I hope you will [45] now agree with me, is of the higheſt dignity—yielding a tablature of benevolence and public ſpirit; befriending equally trade, gallantry, cri⯑ticiſm, and politics:—the applauſe of genius! the regiſter of charity! the triumph of heroiſm! the ſelf defence of contractors! the fame of orators!—and the gazette of miniſters!

Sir, I am compleatly a convert both to the importance and ingenuity of your profeſſion; and now, Sir, there is but one thing which can poſſibly encreaſe my reſpect for you, and that is, your permitting me to be preſent this morning at the rehearſal of your new trage—

—Huſh, for heaven's ſake.—My tragedy!—Egad, Dangle, I take this very ill—you know how apprehenſive I am of being known to be the author.

'Efaith I would not have told—but it's in the papers, and your name at length—in the Morn⯑ing Chronicle.

Ah! thoſe damn'd editors never can keep a ſecret!—Well, Mr. Sneer—no doubt you will do me great honour—I ſhall be infinitely hap⯑py—highly flattered—

I believe it muſt be near the time—ſhall we go together.

No; It will not be yet this hour, for they are always late at that theatre: beſides, I muſt meet you there, for I have ſome little mat⯑ters here to ſend to the papers, and a few para⯑graphs to ſcribble before I go.

—Here is 'a CONSCIENTIOUS BAKER, on the Subject of the Army Bread;' and 'a DE⯑TESTER OF VISIBLE BRICK-WORK, in favor of the new invented Stucco;' both in the ſtyle of JUNIUS, and promiſed for to-morrow.—The Thames navigation too is at a ſtand—MISO⯑MUD or ANTI-SHOAL muſt go to work again di⯑rectly. —Here too are ſome political memoran⯑dums I ſee; aye—To take PAUL JONES, and get the INDIAMEN out of the SHANNON—reinforce BYRON—compel the DUTCH to—ſo!—I muſt do that in the evening papers, or reſerve it for the Morning Herald, for I know that I have undertaken to-morrow; beſides, to eſtabliſh the unanimity of the fleet in the Public Advertiſer, and to ſhoot CHARLES Fox in the Morning Poſt.—So, egad, I ha'n't a moment to loſe!

Well!—we'll meet in the Green Room.

SCENE I.
The THEATRE.

NO, no, Sir; what Shakeſpeare ſays of ACTORS may be better applied to the pur⯑poſe of PLAYS; they ought to be 'the abſtract and brief Chronicles of the times.' Therefore when hiſtory, and particularly the hiſtory of our own country, furniſhes any thing like a caſe in point, to the time in which an author writes, if he knows his own intereſt, he will take advan⯑tage of it; ſo, Sir, I call my tragedy The SPANISH ARMADA; and have laid the ſcene be⯑fore TILBURY FORT.

A moſt happy thought certainly!

Egad it was—I told you ſo.—But pray now I dont underſtand how you have contrived to introduce any love into it.

Love!—Oh nothing ſo eaſy; for it is a received point among poets, that where hiſtory gives you a good heroic out-line for a play, you may fill up with a little love at your own diſ⯑cretion; in doing which, nine times out of ten, you only make up a deficiency in the private hiſtory of the times.—Now I rather think I have done this with ſome ſucceſs.

No ſcandal about Queen ELIZABETH, I hope?

O Lud! no, no.—I only ſuppoſe the Gover⯑nor of Tilbury Fort's daughter to be in love with the ſon of the Spaniſh Admiral.

Oh, is that all?

Excellent, Efaith!—I ſee it at once.—But won't this appear rather improbable?

To be ſure it will—but what the plague! a play is not to ſhew occurrences that happen every day, but things juſt ſo ſtrange, that tho' they never did, they might happen.

Certainly nothing is unnatural, that is not phyſically impoſſible.

Very true—and for that matter DON FEROLO WISKERANDOS—for that's the lover's name, might have been over here in the train of the Spaniſh Ambaſſador; or TILBURINA, for that is the lady's name, might have been in love with him, from having heard his character, or ſeen his picture; or from knowing that he was the laſt man in the world ſhe ought to be in love with—or for any other good female reaſon.—However, Sir, the fact is, that tho' ſhe is but a Knight's daughter, egad! ſhe is in love like any Princeſs!

Poor young lady! I feel for her already! for I can conceive how great the conflict muſt be between her paſſion and her duty; her love for her country, and her love for DON FEROLO WISKERANDOS!

O amazing!—her poor ſuſceptible heart is ſwayed to and fro, by contending paſſions like—

Sir, the ſcene is ſet, and every thing is ready to begin if you pleaſe.—

'Egad; then we'll loſe no time.

Tho' I believe, Sir, you will find it very ſhort, for all the performers have profited by the kind permiſſion you granted them.

Hey! what!

You know, Sir, you gave them leave to cut out or omit whatever they found heavy or un⯑neceſſary to the plot, and I muſt own they have taken very liberal advantage of your indulgence.

Well, well.—They are in general very good judges; and I know I am luxuriant.—Now, Mr. HOPKINS, as ſoon as you pleaſe.

Gentlemen, will you play a few bars of ſome⯑thing, juſt to—

Aye, that's right,—for as we have the ſcenes, and dreſſes, egad, we'll go to't, as if it was the firſt night's performance;—but you need not mind ſtopping between the acts.

Soh! ſtand clear gentlemen.—Now you know there will be a cry of down!—down!—hats off! ſilence!—Then up curtain,—and let us ſee what our painters have done for us.

SCENE II.

Tilbury Fort!—very fine indeed!

Now, what do you think I open with?

Faith, I can't gueſs—

A clock.—Hark!—(clock ſtrikes.) I open with a clock ſtriking, to beget an aweful at⯑tention [52] in the audience—it alſo marks the time, which is four o'clock in the morning, and ſaves a deſcription of the riſing fun, and a great deal about gilding the eaſtern hemiſphere.

But pray, are the centinels to be aſleep?

Faſt as watchmen.

Isn't that odd tho' at ſuch an alarming criſis?

To be ſure it is,—but ſmaller things muſt give way to a ſtriking ſcene at the opening; that's a rule.—And the caſe is, that two great men are coming to this very ſpot to begin the piece; now, it is not to be ſuppoſed they would open their lips, if theſe fellows were watching them, ſo, egad, I muſt either have ſent them off their poſts, or ſet them aſleep.

O that accounts for it!—But tell us, who are theſe coming?—

Theſe are they—SIR WALTER RALEIGH, and SIR CHRISTOPHER HATTON.—You'll know Sir [53] CHRISTOPHER, by his turning out his toes—fa⯑mous you know for his dancing. I like to preſerve all the little traits of character.—Now attend.

What, they had been talking before?

O, yes; all the way as they came along.—I beg pardon gentlemen

but theſe are particular friends of mine, whoſe remarks may be of great ſervice to us.—Don't mind in⯑terrupting them whenever any thing ſtrikes you.

Pray, Mr. Puff, how came Sir Chriſtopher Hatton never to aſk that queſtion before?

What, before the Play began? how the plague could he?

That's true efaith!

But you will hear what he thinks of the matter.

A very cautious conjecture that.

Yes, that's his character; not to give an opi⯑nion, but on ſecure grounds—now then.

He calls him by his chriſtian name, to ſhew that they are on the moſt familiar terms.

Figurative!

—Mr. Puff, as he knows all this, why does Sir Walter go on telling him?

But the audience are not ſuppoſed to know any thing of the matter, are they?

True, but I think you manage ill: for there certainly appears no reaſon why Sir Walter ſhould be ſo communicative.

For, egad now, that is one of the moſt ungrate⯑ful obſervations I ever heard—for the leſs in⯑ducement he has to tell all th [...]s, the more I think, you ought to be oblig'd to him; for I am ſure you'd know nothing of the matter without it.

That's very true, upon my word.

But you will find he was not going on.

Here, now you ſee, Sir Chriſtopher did not in fact aſk any one queſtion for his own informa⯑tion.

No indeed:—his has been a moſt diſintereſted curioſity!

Really, I find, we are very much oblig'd to them both.

To be ſure you are. Now then for the Com⯑mander in Chief, the EARL OF LEICESTER! who, you know, was no favourite but of the Queen's.—We left off—"in amazement loſt!"—

Aye, they envy him.

But who are theſe with him?

O! very valiant knights; one is the Governor of the fort, the other the maſter of the horſe.—And now, I think you ſhall hear ſome better language: I was obliged to be plain and intel⯑ligible in the firſt ſcene, becauſe there was ſo much matter of fact in it; but now, efaith, you have trope, figure, and metaphor, as plenty as noun-ſubſtantives.

There it is,—follow'd up!

Nem. con. egad!

O yes, where they do agree on the ſtage, their unanimity is wonderful!

What the plague, is he going to pray?

Yes, huſh!—in great emergencies, there is nothing like a prayer!

But why ſhould he pray to Mars?

Now, pray all together.

A very orthodox quintetto!

Vaſtly well, gentlemen.—Is that well managed or not? Have you ſuch a prayer as that on the ſtage?

Not exactly.

But, Sir, you hav'nt ſettled how we are to get off here.

You could not go off kneeling, could you?

O no, Sir! impoſſible!

It would have a good effect efaith, if you could! exeunt praying!—Yes, and would vary the eſtabliſhed mode of ſpringing off with a glance at the pit.

O never mind, ſo as you get them off, I'll anſwer for it the audience wont care how.

Well then, repeat the laſt line ſtanding, and go off the old way.

Bravo! a fine exit.

Well, really Mr. Puff.—

Stay a moment.—

Hey!—why, I thought thoſe fellows had been aſleep?

Only a pretence, there's the art of it; they were ſpies of Lord Burleigh's.

—But isn't it odd, they were never taken no⯑tice of, not even by the commander in chief.

O lud, Sir, if people who want to liſten, or overhear, were not always conniv'd at in a Tragedy, there would be no carrying on any plot in the world.

That's certain!

But take care, my dear Dangle, the morning gun is going to fire.

Well, that will have a fine effect.

I think ſo, and helps to realize the ſcene.—

What the plague!—three morning guns!—there never is but one!—aye, this is always the [65] away at the Theatre—give theſe fellows a good thing, and they never know when to have done with it. You have no more cannon to fire?

No Sir.

Now then, for ſoft muſick.

Pray what's that for?

It ſhews that TILBURINA is coming; nothing introduces you a heroine like ſoft muſick.—Here ſhe comes.

And her confidant, I ſuppoſe?

To be ſure: here they are—inconſolable to the minuet in Ariadne!

Your white handkerchief madam—

I thought, Sir, I wasn't to uſe that'till, 'heart rending woe.'

O yes madam—at 'the finches of the grove,' if you pleaſe.

Vaſtly well madam!

Vaſtly well indeed!

O!—'tis too much.

Oh!—it is indeed

That's certain.

Hey, what the plague!—what a cut is here!—why, what is become of the deſcription of her firſt meeting with Don Wiſkerandos? his gal⯑lant behaviour in the ſea fight, and the ſimile of the canary bird?

Now, pray gentlemen mind.—This is one of the moſt uſeful figures we tragedy writers have, by which a hero or heroine, in conſideration of their being often obliged to overlook things that are on the ſtage, is allow'd to hear and ſee a number of things that are not.

Yes—a kind of poetical ſecond-ſight!

Yes—now then madam.

Egad tho', the governor ſeems to make no allowance for this poetical figure you talk of.

No, a plain matter-of-fact man—that's his character.

All who aſks Mr. Puff? Who is—

Egad Sir, I can't tell.—Here has been ſuch cutting and ſlaſhing, I don't know where they have got to myſelf.

O,—if they had'nt been ſo deviliſh free with their cutting here, you would have found that Don Wiſkerandos has been tampering for his li⯑berty, and has perſuaded Tilburina to make this propoſal to her father—and now pray obſerve the conciſeneſs with which the argument is con⯑ducted. Egad, the pro & con goes as ſmart a hits in a fencing match. It is indeed a ſort of ſmall-ſword logic, which we have borrowed from the French.

There you ſee—ſhe threw in Tilburina, Quick, parry cart with England!—Hah! thruſt in teirce a title!—parried by honor.—Hah! a penſion over the arm!—put by by conſcience.—Then flankonade with a thouſand pounds—and a palpable hit egad!

Aye, that antitheſis of perſons—is a moſt eſtabliſh'd figure.

O dear ma'am, you muſt ſtart a great deal more than that; conſider you had juſt deter⯑mined in favour of duty—when in a moment the ſound of his voice revives your paſſion,—overthrows your reſolution, deſtroys your obe⯑dience.—If you don't expreſs all that in your ſtart—you do nothing at all.

Speaking from within, has always a fine effect.

Very.

The wind you know, is the eſtabliſhed re⯑ceiver of all ſtolen ſighs, and caſt off griefs and apprehenſions.

Hey day! here's a cut!—What, are all the mutual proteſtations out?

Now, pray Sir, don't interrupt us juſt here, you ruin our feelings.

Your feelings!—but zounds, my feelings, ma'am!

No; pray don't interrupt them.

S'death and fury!—Gadſlife! Sir! Madam! if you go out without the parting look, you might as well dance out—Here, here!

You, pſhaw! what the devil ſignifies how you get off! edge away at the top, or where you will—

Now ma'am you ſee—

O charming!

Hey!—'tis pretty well I believe—you ſee I don't attempt to ſtrike out any thing new—but I take it I improve on the eſtabliſhed modes.

You do indeed.—But pray is not Queen Eli⯑zabeth to appear?

No not once—but ſhe is to be talked of for ever; ſo that egad you'll think a hundred times that ſhe is on the point of coming in.

Hang it, I think its a pity to keep her in the green room all the night.

O no, that always has a fine effect—it keeps up expectation.

But are we not to have a battle?

Yes, yes, you will have a battle at laſt, but, egad, it's not to be by land—but by ſea—and that is the only quite new thing in the piece.

What, Drake at the Armada, hey?

Yes, efaith—fire ſhips and all—then we ſhall end with the proceſſion.—Hey! that will do I think.

No doubt on't.

Come, we muſt not loſe time—ſo now for the UNDER PLOT.

What the plague, have you another plot?

O lord, yes—ever while you live, have two plots to your tragedy.—The grand point in ma⯑naging them, is only to let your under plot have as little connexion with your main plot as poſſi⯑ble. —I flatter myſelf nothing can be more diſ⯑tinct than mine, for as in my chief plot, the [77] characters are all great people—I have laid my under plot in low life—and as the former is to end in deep diſtreſs, I make the other end as happy as a farce.—Now Mr. Hopkins, as ſoon as you pleaſe.

Sir, the carpenter ſays it is impoſſible you can go to the Park ſcene yet.

The Park ſcene! No—I mean the deſcription ſcene here, in the wood.

Sir, the performers have cut it out.

Cut it out!

Yes Sir.

What! the whole account of Queen Eliza⯑beth?

Yes Sir.

And the deſcription of her horſe and ſide-ſaddle?

Yes Sir.

So, ſo, this is very fine indeed! Mr. Hopkins, how the plague could you ſuffer this?

Sir, indeed the pruning knife—

The pruning knife—zounds the axe! why, here has been ſuch lopping and topping, I ſhan't have the bare trunk of my play left preſently.—Very well, Sir—the performers muſt do as they pleaſe, but upon my ſoul, I'll print it every word.

That I would indeed.

Very well—Sir—then we muſt go on—zounds! I would not have parted with the deſcription of the horſe!—Well, Sir, go on—Sir, it was one of the fineſt and moſt laboured things—Very well, Sir, let them go on—there you had him and his accoutrements from the bit to the crup⯑per —very well, Sir, we muſt go to the Park ſcene.

Sir, there is the point, the carpenters ſay, that unleſs there is ſome buſineſs put in here before the drop, they ſhan't have time to clear away the fort, or ſink Graveſend and the river.

So! this is a pretty dilemma truly!—Gentle⯑men —you muſt excuſe me, theſe fellows will never be ready, unleſs I go and look after them myſelf.

O dear Sir—theſe little things will happen—

To cut out this ſcene!—but I'll print it—egad, I'll print it every word!

SCENE I.
Before the Curtain.

WELL, we are ready—now then for the juſtices.

This, I ſuppoſe, is a ſort of ſenate ſcene.

To be ſure—there has not been one yet.

It is the under plot, isn't it?

Yes. What, gentlemen, do you mean to go at once to the diſcovery ſcene?

If you pleaſe, Sir.

O very well—harkee, I don't chuſe to ſay any thing more, but efaith, they have mangled my play in a moſt ſhocking manner!

It's a great pity!

Now then, Mr. Juſtice, if you pleaſe.

Quick, Sir!—

But, Mr. Puff, I think not only the Juſtice, but the clown ſeems to talk in as high a ſtyle as the firſt hero among them.

Heaven forbid they ſhould not in a free country!—Sir, I am not for making ſlaviſh diſ⯑tinctions, and giving all the fine language to the upper ſort of people.

That's very noble in you indeed.

Now pray mark this ſcene.

What, Sir, do you leave out the account of your birth, parentage and education?

They have ſettled it ſo, Sir, here.

Oh! oh!

There, you ſee relationſhip, like murder, will out.

What do you think of that?

One of the fineſt diſcovery-ſcenes I ever ſaw. —Why, this under-plot would have made a tragedy itſelf.

Aye, or a comedy either.

And keeps quite clear you ſee of the other.

The ſcene remains, does it?

Yes, Sir.

You are to leave one chair you know—But it is always awkward in a tragedy, to have you [85] fellows coming in in your playhouſe liveries to remove things—I wiſh that could be managed better.—So now for my myſterious yeoman.

Haven't I heard that line before?

No, I fancy not—Where pray?

Yes, I think there is ſomething like it in Othello.

Gad! now you put me in mind on't, I believe there is—but that's of no conſequence—all that can be ſaid is, that two people happened to hit on the ſame thought—And Shakeſpeare made uſe of it firſt, that's all.

Very true.

Now, Sir, your ſoliloquy—but ſpeak more to the pit, if you pleaſe—the ſoliloquy always to the pit—that's a rule.

That's a very ſhort ſoliloquy.

Yes—but it would have been a great deal longer if he had not been obſerved.

A moſt ſentimental Beefeater that, Mr. Puff.

Hearke—I would not have you be too ſure that he is a Beefeater.

What! a hero in diſguiſe?

No matter—I only give you a hint—But now for my principal character—Here he comes—LORD BURLEIGH in perſon! Pray, gentlemen, ſtep this way—ſoftly—I only hope the Lord High Treaſurer is perfect—if he is but perfect!

Mr. Puff!

Huſh!—vaſtly well, Sir! vaſtly well! a moſt intereſting gravity!

What, isn't he to ſpeak at all?

Egad, I thought you'd aſk me that—yes it is a very likely thing—that a Miniſter in his ſitua⯑tion, [87] with the whole affairs of the nation on his head, ſhould have time to talk!—but huſh! or you'll put him out.

Put him out! how the plague can that be, if he's not going to ſay any thing?

There's a reaſon!—why, his part is to think, and how the plague! do you imagine he can think if you keep talking?

That's very true upon my word!

He is very perfect indeed—Now, pray what did he mean by that?

You don't take it?

No; I don't upon my ſoul.

Why, by that ſhake of the head, he gave you to underſtand that even tho' they had more juſtice in their cauſe and wiſdom in their mea⯑ſures—yet, if there was not a greater ſpirit ſhown on the part of the people—the country would at laſt fall a ſacrifice to the hoſtile ambi⯑tion of the Spaniſh monarchy.

The devil!—did he mean all that by ſhaking his head?

Every word of it—If he ſhook his head as I taught him.

Ah! there certainly is a vaſt deal to be done on the ſtage by dumb ſhew, and expreſſion of face, and a judicious author knows how much he may truſt to it.

O, here are ſome of our old acquaintance.

What is all this?

Ah! here has been more pruning!—but the fact is, theſe two young ladies are alſo in love with Don Whiſkerandos.—Now, gentlemen, this ſcene [89] goes entirely for what we call SITUATION and STAGE EFFECT, by which the greateſt applauſe may be obtained, without the aſſiſtance of lan⯑guage, ſentiment or character: pray mark!

O dear madam, you are not to ſay that to her face!—aſide, ma'am, aſide.—The whole ſcene is to be aſide.

There's ſituation for you!—there's an heroic group!—You ſee the ladies can't ſtab Whiſke⯑randos —he durſt not ſtrike them for fear of their uncles—the uncles durſt not kill him, becauſe of their nieces—I have them all at a dead lock!—for every one of them is afraid to let go firſt.

Why, then they muſt ſtand there for ever.

So they would, if I hadn't a very fine contri⯑vance for't—Now mind—

That is a contrivance indeed.

Aye—in the Queen's name.

There, egad! he comes out to be the very Captain of the privateer who had taken Whiſ⯑kerandos priſoner—and was himſelf an old lover of Tilburina's.

Admirably manag'd indeed.

Now, ſtand out of their way.

That's excellently contrived!—it ſeems as if the two uncles had left their ſwords on purpoſe for them.

No, egad, they could not help leaving them.

O, my dear Sir, you are too ſlow, now mind me.—Sir, ſhall I trouble you to die again?

No, Sir—that's not it—once more if you pleaſe—

I wiſh, Sir—you would practiſe this without me—I can't ſtay dying here all night.

Very well, we'll go over it by and bye—I muſt humour theſe gentlemen!

Dear Sir, you needn't ſpeak that ſpeech as the body has walked off.

That's true, Sir—then I'll join the fleet.

If you pleaſe.

Now, who comes on?

Poor gentleman!

Yes—and no one to blame but his daughter!

And the planets—

True.—Now enter Tilburina!—

Egad, the buſineſs comes on quick here.

Yes, Sir—now ſhe comes in ſtark mad in white ſatin.

Why in white ſatin?

O Lord, Sir—when a heroine goes mad, ſhe always goes into white ſatin—don't ſhe, Dangle?

Always—it's a rule.

Yes—here it is—

'Enter Tilburina ſtark mad in white ſatin, and her confidant ſtark mad in white linen.'

But what the deuce, is the confidant to be mad too?

To be ſure ſhe is, the confidant is always to do whatever her miſtreſs does; weep when ſhe weeps, ſmile when ſhe ſmiles, go mad when ſhe goes mad.—Now madam confidant—but —keep your madneſs in the back ground, if you pleaſe.

There, do you ever deſire to ſee any body madder than that?

Never while I live!

You obſerved how ſhe mangled the metre?

Yes—egad, it was the firſt thing made me ſuſpect ſhe was out of her ſenſes.

And pray what becomes of her?

She is gone to throw herſelf into the ſea to be ſure—and that brings us at once to the ſcene of action, and ſo to my cataſtrophe—my ſea-fight, I mean.

What, you bring that in at laſt?

Yes—yes—you know my play is called the Spaniſh Armada, otherwiſe, egad, I have no oc⯑caſion for the battle at all.—Now then for my magnificence!—my battle!—my noiſe!—and my proceſſion!—You are all ready?

Yes, Sir.

Is the Thames dreſt?

Here I am, Sir.

Very well indeed—See, gentlemen, there's a river for you!—This is blending a little of the maſque with my tragedy—a new fancy you know—and very uſeful in my caſe; for as there muſt be a proceſſion, I ſuppoſe Thames and all his tributary rivers to compliment Britannia with a fete in honor of the victory.

But pray, who are theſe gentlemen in green with him.

Thoſe?—thoſe are his banks.

His banks?

Yes, one crown'd with alders and the other with a villa!—you take the alluſions?—but hey! what the plague! you have got both your banks on one ſide—Here Sir, come round—Ever while you live, Thames, go between your banks.

—There, ſoh! now for't!—Stand aſide my dear friends!—away Thames!

Well, pretty well—but not quite perfect—ſo ladies and gentlemen, if you pleaſe, we'll re⯑hearſe this piece again to-morrow.