[] ENGLISH READINGS; A COMIC PIECE.

SCENE. A Room in BOOTEKIN'S Houſe.

PRAY let me alone, Captain Wilmot—you forget that you are making love to me inſtead of my miſtreſs.

"Why faith, Kitty, your beauty is ſo much a type of my dear Charlotte's, that, like a Roman Catholic, I almoſt adore the image for its likeneſs to the ſaint."

"Well," let us leave fooling—and conſi⯑der how you are to ſecure Miſs Charlotte—You find her father, old Bootekin, is reſolved to marry her to his nephew Bob.

I think I have a ſcheme to pre⯑vent that.—But tell me, Kitty, how did this rage for Engliſh Readings reach a town ſo far from London?

Mrs. Poplin, the Iriſh mantua-maker, who came down from London, introduced it— [6] You know from the moment that my maſter quit⯑ted buſineſs, as a ſhoemaker in town, and came down here to live on his means, Mrs. Poplin and he cou'd never ſet their horſes together.

"I think they quarrel'd who ſhou'd have the beſt pew at church."

"And ever ſince have been at open war.—Mrs. Poplin took the field by giving a ball; and tho' old Bootekin hates the ſound of a fiddle, he let all the heavy-heel'd ruſtics in the neighbourhood right hand and left in our hall, till they made the houſe ſhake to its founda⯑tion.—Next, the lady had card-parties;—deter⯑min'd not to be behind-hand, the old man quitted his pipe and bottle for Loo and Pope Joan."

And now the whim of burleſque⯑ing a rational and elegant amuſement—giving Readings, has ſeiz'd her ladyſhip—he is to have the ſame on a more extenſive ſcale of abſurdity—"as if reſolv'd that all his follies, like the ſhadows of her's, ſhall not only keep pace with, but become larger than their originals."

Well, my dear Charlotte, what news?

My father has juſt told me that I am to marry my hopeful couſin, Bob Bootekin, next week.

How unfortunate!

How fortunate you mean—if he had left my choice free, ten to one if I ſhou'd have come to a reſolution for this twelvemonth; but an attempt to force my inclinations drives me to a determination at once.

"Charming Charlotte!"

"Take her at her word, Sir.—The cap⯑tain [7] has got a ring and licence in his pocket, ma'am."

"Aye—but then I ſhall be ſo cloſely watch'd."

I'll contrive to put them off their guard, and make this ſcheme of the Read⯑ings turn to our advantage—"if we can but per⯑ſuade your father to alter the place of exhibi⯑tion from his own houſe to the large room at the George Inn."

Huſh!—Lud, Miſs Charlotte, here comes your father—and that booby, Diſmal.

Then I muſt e'en quit the field—but while I can carry off ſo charming a prize, retreat is victory.

Hold your tongue, ſirrah!—and don't contradict me—you know I can't bear oppoſi⯑tion.

Well, maſter, I have done—I'll ſay no more.

But what ſignifies your ſaying no more—your curſed inflexible countenance has contradiction in every feature.—When I liv'd in London, I dreaded your appearance in the ſhop—the very ſight of you put my cuſtomers in ill hu⯑mour—and they then were ſure to ſwear their ſhoes did not fit 'em.

Oh Lud! Oh Lud!

"How often have I ſtrapp'd you round the ſhop to cure your ſour aſpect?"

"I remember it as well as if it was yeſterday."

"And yet, egad, let me ſtrap you ever ſo often, I could never make you look [8] pleaſant—But" pray now let us know, good Mr. Diſmal, what are your objections to my Readings?

For my part I never knew, till now, that you was ſo given to reading.

No more I an't—I never read but two books in my life—my caſh-book, and my jour⯑nal—but I'm reſolved to like reading now, from mere oppoſition—What the devil, an't I a bet⯑ter gentleman, by a hundred a year, than any man in the neighbourhood?—and ſhall a paultry man⯑tua-maker—a walking pincuſhion—a remnant of old tabby, pretend to give Readings, when I hardly know whether I can read or not?

"She'll be too many for you yet—ſhe vows ſhe'll have the beſt pew at church to herſelf."

"I tell you ſhe ſhan't.—What a pro⯑voking dog it is!"

The firſt time ſhe can catch you ab⯑ſent from church, depend on't ſhe'll fill the pew with her own family, and hang her footboy's hat upon your peg.

I will not be abſent, I tell you.

Suppoſe you ſhould be taken ill.

But I won't be taken ill.

"But how can you help it?—She will certainly have the pew."

"'Sblood! I'll go to church on Sun⯑day-morning and afternoon, beſides pray'r-days, I'll be damn'd if I dont."

Well—well—I hope all will turn out for the beſt—but ſuppoſe—

Zounds! I'll ſuppoſe nothing—Out of the room directly.

Perhaps you'll think of my words.

Not if I can help it—they always give me the vapours.

Sir, there is Mr. Stately, the great law⯑yer, come to pay you a viſit—he is juſt getting off his horſe.

Odd's ſo, Mr. Stately!—ſhew him up directly—Bleſs me, I'm vaſtly glad he's come.—

A formal old prig—has a ſcull with nothing in it but pride—and yet thinks all the world fools but himſelf—However, I expect ſomething at his death, and ſo I muſt not quarrel with him.

Mr. Bootekin, I rejoice to ſee you look ſo well—tho' indeed I don't wonder at it—when I conſider that you take ſo much exerciſe—it will do you good—you have been uſed to it—being a working man, I mean to ſay.

My dear friend, I heartily thank you for what you mean to ſay.—Well, and how d'ye do?—I ſuppoſe you are pretty well—I'm heartily glad of it—and ſo much for compliments.—Now, my dear Mr. Stately—

"Perhaps I did not explain myſelf for you to underſtand me."

"Yes, you did—and ſo let us proceed to buſineſs."

Mr. Bootekin, your ideas are confuſ⯑ed—tho', indeed, how ſhou'd you have ideas—do you know what an idea is?—it is—I'll tell you an⯑other time what it is—I ſtudied the noble ſcience of the law—it was at the bar I learnt to think.

Yes, you had leiſure enough for thinking then—I believe you never had the trou⯑ble to ſpeak at the bar in your life.

Explanation was always my motto.

"And it ſuits you juſt as badly as many other mottos ſuit thoſe who adopt them."—I ſuppoſe you have heard how Mrs. Poplin has crow'd over me, becauſe, forſooth, I can't jab⯑ber gibberiſh out of a printed book as faſt as ſhe can—now is it not—

Permit me to interrupt you—Reading you know—indeed I need not ſay you know—but I know—that reading—

Permit me to interrupt you—I only wiſh to aſk you if my caſe is not a curſed hard one.—After working like a horſe to get a fortune, I quitted buſineſs, and came down "here to ſmoke a comfortable pipe—walk about the green fields—look at the trees, and enjoy the pleaſure of doing nothing—Well, down I came," and bought a large eſtate here, to make myſelf reſpected—and reſpected I was—"was com⯑plimented by being made churchwarden imme⯑diately on my arrival, and gave a feaſt to the pariſh"—the parſon declared I ſpoke monſtrous well at the veſtry, and liked my company ſo well that he has dined with me three or four times a week—all my letters came directed to Robert Bootekin, Eſquire—and the member for the coun⯑ty ſhook me by the hand laſt election, when he came round to canvas.—"Nay, Sir Charles Courtly came down from London t'other day to dine with me, and apologize for not paying two hundred pounds he owes me."—Now I call this being reſpected.

You may call it ſo, Mr. Bootekin—you have not much idea of reſpect—He! He! [11] He!—I don't mean to offend you—but give me leave to explain to you—it is my opinion—

Zounds! my dear friend, when you were in the law did you give opinions before the caſe was ſtated?—I was going to tell you, that ſince this Iriſh woman has ſet it about the town that I'm a vulgar dog, egad things begin to change—fellows in carters frocks and hob⯑nail'd ſhoes contradict me at the veſtry—the parſon had the impudence to preach about the badneſs of my wine at my own table—and, egad, nobody in the place bow to me now but old women and children, and that's only when I give them halfpence—all becauſe, forſooth, I'm a vulgar fellow.—Zounds! how can a man be vulgar with £.20,000 in his pocket?

Look ye, Mr. Bootekin—I knew you in London—you made ſhoes for me many years—you are a well-meaning man, and I have a regard for you—but you have been brought up in a low way—and your ideas are confin'd—He! He! He! "Your arguments are loud and heavy, like a lap-ſtone dropt in a pond—they make a noiſe for a moment, and then ſink in the mud—He! He! He!—ſink in the mud"—

"Firſt raiſing circles in the pond, which, like your round-about explanations, be⯑come wider of the mark every moment, 'till at laſt they leave no trace of what occaſioned them." He! He! He!

Mr. Bootekin, you are ignoramus, as we ſay in the courts, and therefore—

I beg pardon, Mr. Stately—I was too warm.—

Egad I ſhall loſe the legacy.—

I thank you much for the honour of [12] this viſit—this afternoon I give my Readings—I'll convince you and all the world that I am not a vulgar fellow.

I ſhall be very happy to ſee it, Mr. Bootekin, He! He! He!—Pray, do you read yourſelf?—

No,—my nephew, Bob, to whom I gave my buſineſs, will read—he is a ſmart lad, I aſſure you—and very much of a gentleman, though I ſay it.—

—Is Bob come home?

This very moment, Sir—he deſires to ſpeak to you.

I'll introduce him to you, Mr. Stately, you'll be vaſtly pleas'd with him.

A mighty pretty girl, i'faith!—My dear, you ſeem in a hurry.

Had you any thing to ſay to me, Sir?

Why, yes, my dear, I ſhould like to have ſomething to ſay to you.—

If I could but tell what—but theſe girls are ſo apt to laugh at a middle-aged man, when he makes love to them, that I am half afraid to venture.—

I ſuppoſe you have a ſweetheart, my pretty maid?

Dear Sir, what ſhould there be about me for people to fall in love with me?

Oh! ho!—it will do.—

Fall in love with you!—why, who could help it?—Come here, child—don't be afraid of me.

Oh dear—no, Sir, I am not at all afraid of you—Ha! ha! ha!

There—now it won't do—ſhe begins to laugh—

I am ſure, Sir, you are too good-na⯑tur'd a gentleman.

Yes, my dear, you'll find me ſo.—

Egad, it will do after all.

My ſweet little Kitty, will you favour me ſo far as to—to—

—to tell 'em to give my horſe ſome corn?—do, my dear, go directly—

—

To be inter⯑rupted in ſuch an intereſting ſituation!

Sir, I have the honour to be your moſt obedient, devoted, very humble ſervant.

Mr. Stately, this is my nephew, Bob.

Young man, I hear you are an orator, I ſuppoſe you have claſſical learning.

Claſſical learning!—Ho! ho! ho! Bleſs your ignorance—why I went through all the claſſes—but my genius was too great to remem⯑ber any thing I learnt at ſchool.

I muſt explain to you, that without claſſical learning genius is but a kind of—a—a—

Aye, aye—you mean to ſay 'tis all my eye.

All my eye!

Nay, if you like it, I'll take t'other ſide of the queſtion—'tis all the ſame to me—I'll engage to ſpeak on any thing for a quarter of an hour at leaſt—what ſay you to that, old gen⯑tleman?

Mr. Stately, pray excuſe my ne⯑phew's freedom of ſpeech, he! he!—

At him again, Bob.

I perceive, Sir, you have reſided in the country lately—you muſt come to town and viſit our diſputing ſociety—we have queſtions to ſuit every body, and I ſpeak upon all queſtions.

No doubt, and with equal ability— [14] but, pray Sir, don't you find it neceſſary, ſome⯑times, to underſtand your ſubject.

Not at all, Sir—I am a natural ſpeaker—never ſtudy, but ſay whatever comes uppermoſt;—my opinion is, that a ſpeech is a ſpeech, if there are but words enough in it—and I am allowed to have the [...] of ſaying more in a given time than any ſpeaker in the ſociety.

I ſuppoſe you talk faſter.

Exactly ſo, Sir.—But, à-propos, I can give you a ſpecimen or two of our queſtions—Let me ſee, where are my memorandums—Oh, here! The queſtions to be debated, as they ſtand in order on our liſt, are; Firſt—Is war or peace beſt for this country?—we were favour'd with this queſtion by a navy agent, and we expect it will produce a warm debate.—Second in the liſt ſtands the queſtion, Whether the lady who has black, blue, or grey eyes, is likely to make the beſt wife?—

A very inſtructive and amuſing ſpecu⯑lation—

—Upon Charlotte's firſt introduction to Werter, did not ſhe behave rather ungenteelly, in not offering him a diſh of tea?

Very material to be aſcertained.

The next—no, faith, the next queſtion was debated laſt week, out of its turn, on ac⯑count of its peculiar importance, and at the deſire of ſeveral reſpectable members—

What may that be?

Is the tinker, the taylor, or the lamp⯑lighter, the moſt uſeful member of ſociety?

"And how might it have been deter⯑mined?"

"Why, Sir—as our advertiſement in the newſpapers next day very properly ſtated—this [15] queſtion gave riſe to a moſt important and in⯑tereſting debate, in which inſtruction was mingled with amuſement.—The arguments were, from time to time, enliven'd by the moſt brilliant flaſhes of wit and humour from ſeveral gentlemen of the firſt-rate abilities, who ho⯑nour'd the queſtion with their attention—(by the bye, I was prodigiouſly great that night)—with their attention.—But the variety of mate⯑rial points which preſented for diſcuſſion pro⯑tracting the debate to an unuſual length, and the friends of the lamp-lighter (I ſupported him)—the friends of the lamp-lighter wiſhing for an opportunity of anſwering the arguments of their opponents, the debate was adjourned till next week."

And, pray, young Mr. Bootekin, do you never touch on politics?

Oh, yes, Sir,—politics are my forte—we had a moſt glorious debate the other day—Whether ſome great men ought not to loſe their heads for not doing ſomething?—but, egad, I forget what—however I ſupported the queſtion, and beat Dick Dab hollow, though he ſported a dozen Latin mottos, which he ſtole from the Spectators and Tatlers the day before—I ſat down amidſt a thunder of applauſe from hands, feet, and ſticks:—in ſhort, the miniſter totter'd—when, within ten minutes of the debate cloſing, in came a poſſe of treaſury-runners, as we ſuſpect, who by dint of coughing, laughing, and hooting, put a ſtop to the debate—a battle en⯑ſued between two ladies—the moderator flew into a violent paſſion—conſtables were ſent for—and the debate ended—

As moſt political diſputes end—nei⯑ther party giving up the point.—Well, I muſt go [16] and pay a few viſits to ſome of my old ac⯑quaintance—and—

You'll be back time enough for our Readings—what d' ye think of Bob—is not his converſation vaſtly amuſing?

Oh, yes—like the bells of a team of horſes, it makes a pleaſant jingling noiſe, though there is no meaning in it—He! he! he!—I don't mean to be ſevere, I aſſure you.

A ſtupid old put!

Stupid indeed!—I never knew him do but one ſenſible thing in his life—and that was putting my name down in his will.—But, Bob, you have not told me what preparations you have made for our Readings.

I have got you plenty of company, how⯑ever—and that's the principal part of the buſi⯑neſs.

So it is—Well, and who are we to have, eh, Bob?

Faith, I don't know—they are of all ſorts, like the county militia—however, you'll have enough of 'em—our great parlour will be ſo cramm'd that we ſha'nt have room to ſtir.

Odd's my life, that will be comfortable—"we'll ſhew old Mother Poplin what a rich man can do, tho' he is a vulgar fellow."

"Nay, what's more, I have engag'd Sam Scrape, the fiddler, to touch up his catgut a little between the Readings—and his ſon will ſing."

"Thank ye, my dear Bob!—Odſo, I am ſo overjoy'd"—But what will you read to them?—ſuppoſe you give them a touch from Burn's Juſtice, or the Pariſh Laws.

Oh Lord, no, uncle;—here, I have made out a bill of the evening's entertainment.

Let's ſee it—why, what the devil is all this?—Overture for two orcheſtras—Sam Scrape.—John Gilpin from Sterne, by Mr. Bootekin.—'He gave them hail-ſtones for rain'—Grand chorus—by a young gentleman, accompanied on the fiddle by Sam Scrape.—Zounds! Bob, what the devil is this?

Faſhion, Sir, faſhion.

Faſhion!—But what's the reaſon?

Oh, Lord, Sir—reaſon has nothing to do with faſhion.

Mr. Bootekin, your moſt obedient—I have great pleaſure in waiting on you, with a meſſage from a fair Lady—your neighbour, Mrs. Poplin.

A fig for Mrs. Poplin!—here's Bob ſhall read with her for fifty pounds; aye, and ſpell any word in the dictionary.

"I don't doubt it, Sir—I have every reſpect for the gentleman's abilities; and, I am ſure, Mr. Bootekin, your candour and good⯑ſenſe will lead you to adopt a ſcheme which will ſhew Mr. Robert Bootekin's ſuperior ta⯑lents to advantage."

"Upon my ſoul, uncle, he ſeems to be a mighty civil man."

"Aye, Bob—and talks very ſenſibly too."—

"Well, Captain Wilmot."

"In ſhort, Sir," Mrs. Poplin wiſhes to enter into a treaty of amity with you, and has named me her ambaſſador.

And ſo ſhe has choſen you to nego⯑ciate a peace, becauſe your trade is war—a de⯑viliſh [18] good choice of hers, and worthy of an Iriſh woman.

"Vaſtly well, indeed, Mr. Boote⯑kin—I am really charm'd with your wit."

"Aye, but you muſt dine with me, to taſte my wit in perfection—I am told I ſhine prodigiouſly at the head of my own ta⯑ble—and, egad, I believe it is ſo, for people never laugh at my jokes half ſo much as when they dine with me"—but I beg pardon, I in⯑terrupt you.

In a word, Sir, you know Mrs. Pop⯑lin gives Readings this evening in the great room at the George—ſhe is willing to have a friendly trial of ſkill with your nephew; "and if he and you are equally deſirous of it, ſhe invites you to meet her there, and to bring all your friends with you"—the room is large enough to contain us all, and—

A dev'liſh good thought, i'faith—I'll meet the lady, Captain—let her chuſe her ſub⯑ject, from Johnny Gilpin up to Milton—proſe, rhyme, or blank verſe, all the ſame to me—I read 'em all alike.—Pray now, my dear uncle, conſent.

Well, Bob, pleaſe yourſelf, and you'll pleaſe me.

I'll do more, I'll pleaſe the whole com⯑pany.—Captain, we'll be with you—give me your hand!

I ſee you are a lad of ſpirit—you'll live to be a great man—I ſee that.

What a glorious triumph!—I long for the engagement:—the men will applaud me—the women—I mean the ladies—will be in raptures—ſuch acclamations and bravoing, and encoring, [19] from thoſe who do underſtand me, and thoſe who don't underſtand me!—

Hey day, Bob!—

Such a delightful confuſion—every body clapping as if the devil was in 'em—and nobody hearing a word I ſay—whilſt I—bowing, and out of breath—

Zounds! I wiſh you were out of breath.

Come along, uncle!—To the attack!—upon them!—charge!—the word St. George for England—huzza!

SCENE changes to a Room at the George Inn—Servants are ſetting up the Benches, and lighting the Candles.

And ſo this conceited vulgar crature will attempt to rade with me, and make himſelf ridiculous!—I, who know theſe things!—faith and troth it will be mighty pleaſant—and I am extremely obligated to you, Captain Wilmot, for procuring me the entertainment.

My dear Mrs. Poplin, you owe me no thanks—the ſervice is its own reward.

The ſarvice its own reward—Faith, and ſo it ſeems, by our being bother'd ſo with the wooden-legged gentry—plaguing one at every corner for a tirteener.—What the divil are you ſo buſy about there, Mr. Spatula?

Fair idol of my ſoul, I am only ſnuf⯑fing the candles—you know they are my patients at preſent—you have put them under my care.

Mind you don't ſarve 'em as you do ſome of your patients, Mr. Spatula—make a miſtake, and ſnuff 'em out—However, I ſha'nt want much light—whatever I am to read, I al⯑ways larn firſt by heart; becaſe, d' ye ſee, there's no reading well while one looks at the book.

"True, thou matchleſs work of na⯑ture.—

She's in a deviliſh good hu⯑mour—now's my time to renew the attack.—

May I hope, divine eſſence of beauty, that my love may kindle up a paſſion in your breaſt?"

"You may believe that, Mr. Spatula—you'll kindle up a divil of a paſſion in my breaſt preſently, if I hear any more of your ſtuff."

"I hope not, bright excellence—you are all mildneſs and condeſcenſion—conſerve of roſes and milk of ſweet almonds—thou cata⯑plaſm to my aching boſom—thou ſtyptic to my bleeding heart—thou ſal volatile to my fainting ſpirits."

"What!"

"You are a mixture of beauties, compounded with perfection's beſt peſtle and mortar—a choice bolus of nature, gilded with the accompliſhments of art."

"A bolus!"

"Your charms comprehend the whole circle of Cupid's materia medica—and in ſhort you are a walking diſpenſary of love."

"And, I ſuppoſe, you think this mighty fine, now?"

"Your perſon—"

"You had better let my perſon alone, Mr. Spatula."

"Madam, I beg pardon, I only meant to ſay, that, judging by the ſymmetry and beautiful proportion of your perſon, I ſhould preſume you would be—a—fine ſubject—"

"For what, Sir?"

"A fine ſubject for a lecture."

"Why, you old broken gallipot—you bit of dry lint—you ſcrap of an apothe⯑cary—who have killed more people in the pariſh than ever liv'd there—how dare you bother me with your nonſenſe?—Anatomize me!—Look ye, Mr. Spatula, if you ever dare even to think about my bones again, take care of your own—you old animal!"

Hey day, Mrs Poplin!—why you ſeem to be rehearſing with a great deal of anima⯑tion.

I hope, Sir, I never want anima⯑tion, when a proper ſubject preſents itſelf.

"The beſt ſubject I ever remember was at Surgeon's-Hall—it was a caſe the moſt extraordinary—in the year—"

"What ſignifies the year?—I'll not ſtay an hour in the room if you don't quit it immediately."

"It was a caſe of murder—but, thou killing creature, I obey."

And now, Mrs. Poplin, you muſt ſoon give us a proof of your animation—ſome of your audience are below, ſtrutting about among a groupe of gaping ruſtics, in all the incumbrance of their beſt ſuits, like ſo many court cards, diſtinguiſh'd from the reſt of the pack by their aukward finery! He! he! he!—by their aukward finery!

Ah now, that is pity—I told 'em to come quite undreſs'd, with nothing but their every-day clothes on.

With reſpect to the choice of your ſubject, you will not take my advice ill—but—

Take it ill!—Oh no—'Tis ten to one if I take it at all—You muſt know I like to chuſe for myſelf, Mr. Stately.—The pathetic is my forte—A ſentimental ſtory makes one ſo charmingly miſerable.—Oh, I love to touch the feelings—and my voice has power, Mr. Stately.

Great power, indeed, Madam—you muſt have improved it by conſtant exerciſe.

Sterne is my favourite author—if you were to hear me read his ſtory of Maria—and then his tale of Le Fevre—and then his Uncle Toby—Oh, how I doat upon his Toby!

Cruel beauty!—The neighbours are come to have a doſe of your reading.—

Ladies and gentlemen, your moſt obedient.—Mr. Gewgaw, I am mighty glad to ſee you—and you too, neighbour Furrow.—Ah, my dear Miſs Figg.—Mr. Ruſhlight, many thanks for this favour.

—

Your ſervant, Madam—Here we are come to hear you and my nephew Bob knock the hard words about.—Bob, this is Mrs. Poplin.

Now is your time, my dear Charlotte, you ſee your father's attention is engaged—ſlip in⯑to the next room, and I'll follow you—

—"Our ſole dependance is on you, Kitty—keep the old man from following us—and in caſe he ſhould be very troubleſome, remember [23] what we have agreed upon.—Now kind fortune ſmile but for once!"

Come, let us loſe no time—let's have the Readings firſt, and Sam Scrape may give us 'hail-ſtones' bye-and-bye.—Bob, are you ſure your pipe is in order—ſuppoſe you ſuck an orange.—Make room there, they are juſt going to begin.

And pray, Sir, of what author do you mean to give us a ſpecimen?

'Tis perfectly the ſame to me, Ma'am—all ſubjects, and all ſtyles, are alike to us pub⯑lic ſpeakers.

Suppoſe, Bob, you give us that ſpeech out of Romeo, which made your couſin Charlotte cry laſt night—Egad—ſuppoſe, Mrs. Poplin and you give us a ſcene—a confab between Romeo and Juliet—a bit of love diſcourſe, eh?—What ſay you, Mrs. Poplin?

I have no objection, if the lady has none.

Oh dear, no, Sir.—

—I am quite at home in Juliet—I uſed to perform the character to a few ſelect friends—and was told I did it to a miracle.

I dare ſay it was a wonderful perform⯑ance.—

Here, Madam, is an edition of the play, in which I have obliterated many of the leſs im⯑portant paſſages—taken out all the nonſenſe of Shakeſpear.

Silence there!—Now for it, Bob.

Shall I begin, Sir?

No, Ma'am—I begin, if you pleaſe.—

Bravo! bravo!—there, Mr. Stately! there is power—did you ever hear any body read ſo loud in your life? "What d' ye ſay to that, Charlotte?"—

"Huſh, my dear Sir—you'll interrupt Mrs. Poplin."

' Ah me!'

O dulciſſime!

' She ſpeaks!

Hear more!—Aye to be ſure.—Why, Sir, I have not half finiſhed the ſpeech—

"But where the devil is Charlotte?"

"I tell you, Sir, you'll interrupt the Readings—there is your nephew beginning."

Let me go on, Ma'am.—

"A very judicious reſolution, egad!"

Upon my word, young gentle⯑man, this is mighty pretty—you have ſcratched [25] out all Juliet's ſpeeches—you have all the reading to yourſelf—if this is a dialogue, it is a dialogue where only one perſon ſpeaks.

She is nettled at the applauſe I have received.

A farewell compliment! ſo it ſeems, indeed.—You ſee, Ma'am, the author—

Sir, I don't care for the author nor you neither—here are my friends come to hear me read, and they ſhan't be diſappointed.

"Charlotte gone, and Captain Wil⯑mot gone too!—Oh, Lord, my mind miſ⯑gives me.—

Let me alone, huſſey, I will find her."

"Then I muſt e'en put our ſcheme in practice."

Sir, I ſay I will go on.

Nay, Ma'am, if you come to that, ſo will I.—Now, lungs, do your office.

Confound ye both—can't ye be quiet for a moment—I have loſt my daughter!—"Come here, Bob—and let us go."

"Aye, Sir, you'll go—before a juſtice preſently—here are a poſſe of conſtables, with a warrant to apprehend us all for reading in a public houſe."—

"Oh! my unlucky fortune—at theſe years to be taken up before the juſtices!—I, who was in hopes to have made one of the quorum!"

"A fig for the juſtices!—To in⯑terrupt one's Readings in this manner!"

"Oh, a plague on your Readings!—I don't believe I ſhall ever bear the ſight of a book again—there is my daughter Charlotte loſt."

Pardon me, Sir—here is your daughter, and my wife.

Your wife?

"You may retire—I have ſettled this matter with the juſtices."—In ſhort, Sir, this lady and myſelf have finiſhed our Engliſh Readings in the next room, from the Chapter of Matrimony.

I give you joy, Mr. Bootekin, of your Engliſh Readings—a pretty ſpot of work you have made of it!—i'faith, if you had been born on my ſide of the water, and learnt to blunder from your infancy, you could not have done it more naturally.

"I can't bear to be taunted by her.—

You careleſs dog, 'twas all your fault—"

"My fault!"

"Don't mutter, ſirrah—though, on ſecond thoughts, I'd have you make a ſpeech on the ſubject—"

"Not I, indeed, uncle—I am one of thoſe orators who always ſpeak beſt when they don't care a ſtraw about their ſubject."

"Well, Mr. Spatula, I ſuppoſe you have heard the whole ſtory."

"Yes, I find that young couple have agreed to take a compound of Hymen's comforts—Ah, Madam, if you would but ſuffer your humble ſervant to make up a draught of ditto for you."

"Whenever I take that medi⯑cine, Mr. Spatula, you may depend upon not being my apothecary."

"Never mind 'em, Spatula—you can ſtill be Romeo's apothecary.—You had better go on with the play, and ſell the poor lad ſome rats-bane.—Ah, Bootekin, if you had not been a vulgar man, this wou'd not have happen'd to you."

And you promiſe to make a gentlewoman of Charlotte, and that ſhe ſhall take place of Mrs. Poplin?

Sir, I'll introduce your daughter to all the people of rank in the country—"ſhe ſhall dance with a peer at the next race ball; and make ſuch a figure that Mrs. Poplin ſhall break her heart with vexation in a fortnight."

Give me your hand.—Here, Charlotte—I forgive all that's paſt.—Bob, you're a block⯑head—Mother Poplin, I begin to think you are a curſed low woman—Old Spatula, you ſhall dine with me now and then, I ſhall want ſomebody to laugh at.—As for you, Jack Stately, I'm re⯑ſolv'd to unburthen my conſcience—you are a d—d fool—I've long'd to tell you ſo for ten years paſt, and now I have done it—ſo you may leave my legacy to the pariſh.

And what's to become of me, uncle?

Go to town, and make ſpeeches.

Faith I'll take your advice, and ſtrive to loſe my diſappointment in the ſweet intoxicating draught of public approbation.—Thoſe who, like me, have been honour'd with its genial influence, can alone judge of the feelings excited by the applauſe of an audience.