[]New Hay at the Old Market.

SCENE I.—An Antichamber in the Manager's Houſe; Fuſtian and Daggerwood diſcovered.— Fuſtian ſitting in one chair, Daggerwood, aſleep, in another.

EIGHT, nine, ten, eleven!—Zounds! Eleven o'clock; and here have I been waiting ever ſince Nine, for an interview with the Manager.

Harkye, young man! Is your maſter viſible yet?

Sir!

I ſay, can I ſee your maſter?

He has two gentlemen with him at preſent, Sir!

Aye—the old anſwer. Who is this aſleep here, in the corner?

Oh! that, Sir, is a gentleman who wants to come out.

Come out! Then wake him, and open the door. Gad, the great difficulty, at this houſe, is to get in.

Ha, Ha! I mean he wants to appear on the Stage, Sir. 'Tis Mr, Sylveſter Daggerwood, of the Dunſtable Company.

Oho! A country candidate for a London trun⯑cheon. A ſucking Prince of Denmark—damme, he ſnores like a Tinker. Fatigued with his jour⯑ney, I ſuppoſe.

No, Sir—he has taken a nap in this room theſe five mornings—but haſn't been able to obtain an audience, here, yet.

No, nor at Dunſtable neither, I take it.

I am ſo loth to diſturb him, poor gentleman, that I never wake him till a full half hour after my maſter is gone out.

Upon my ſoul, that's very obliging! I muſt keep watch, here, I find, like a Lynx. Well, friend, you'll let your maſter know Mr. Fuſtian [7] is here, when the two gentlemen have left him at leiſure.

The moment, Sir, they make their Exit.

Make their Exit! This fellow muſt have lived here ſome time, by his language: and I'll warrant him, lies by rote, like a Parrot.

If I could but nail this Manager for a minute, I'd read him ſuch a Tra⯑gedy!

"Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thee."

Eh? Damme, he's talking in his ſleep! acting Hamlet before twelve tallow candles in the coun⯑try.

"To be, or not to be"—

Yes—he's at it.—Let me ſee

I think there's no doubt of its running.

"That is the queſtion."—"Who would fardles bear."

Zouns! There's no bearing you!—His Grace's patronage will fill half the ſide Boxes—and I'll warrant we'll ſtuff the criticks into the Pit.

Quietus! I wiſh, with all my heart I could make your's. The Counteſs of Crambo inſiſts on the beſt places for the firſt night of performance. She'll ſit in the Stage Box.

"With a bare bodkin."

O, the devil! There's no enduring this! Sir, Sir!

Do you intend to ſleep any more?

Faith, Sir, you heard ſomething very like it; and that voice was mine.

Sir, I'm your moſt reſpectful ſervant to com⯑mand, Sylveſter Daggerwood—whoſe benefit is fixed for the eleventh of June, by particular de⯑ſire of ſeveral perſons of diſtinction. You'd make an excellent Macbeth, Sir.

Sir!

faith, and very often the firſt courſe, too; when a dinner is unavoidably defer'd, by your humble ſervant to command, Sylveſter Daggerwood.

I am ſorry Sir, you ſhould ever have occaſion to poſtpone ſo pleaſant a performance.

Eating, Sir, is a moſt popular entertainment. An entertainment for man and horſe, as I may ſay. But I am apt to appear nice, Sir—and, ſome how or other, I never could manage to ſit down to din⯑ner in a bad Company.

Has your company been bad, then, of late, Sir?

Damn'd bad indeed, Sir—The Dunſtable Com⯑pany:—where I have eight ſhillings a week, four bits of candle, one wife, three ſhirts, and nine children.

A very numerous family.

A crowded houſe, to be ſure, Sir; but not pro⯑fitable. Mrs. Daggerwood a fine figure, but un⯑fortunately ſtutters; ſo, of no uſe in the theatrieal line. Children too young to make a debut—except [10] my eldeſt, Maſter Apollo Daggerwood; a youth of only eight years old; who has twice made his ap⯑pearance in Tom Thumb, to an overflowing and brilliant barn—houſe, I mean—with unbounded and univerſal applauſe.

Have you been long upon the Stage Mr. Dag⯑gerwood?

Fifteen years ſince I firſt ſmelt the lamp, Sir. My father was an eminent Button-maker, at Bir⯑mingham; and meant to marry me to Miſs Molly Metre, daughter to the rich Director of the Coal-works, at Wolverhampton: but I had a ſoul above buttons, and abhorred the idea of a mer⯑cenary marriage. I panted for a liberal profeſſion —ſo ran away from my father, and engaged with a travelling company of Comedians. In my travels, I had ſoon the happineſs of forming a romantick attachment with the preſent Mrs. Daggerwood— wife to Sylveſter Daggerwood, your humble ſer⯑vant to command, whoſe benefit is fixed for the eleventh of June, by the particular deſire of ſeveral perſons of diſtinction. So, you ſee, Sir, I have a taſte.

Have you! Then ſit down, and I'll read you my Tragedy. I am determined ſomebody ſhall hear it before I go out of the houſe.

A Tragedy!—Sir, Ill be ready for you in a moment. Let me prepare for woe.

Faith, I ſhould think ſo:—and, to all appear⯑ance one of the Norwood party.

Now, Sir, your title; and then for the Dram. Perſ.

The title, I think will ſtrike. The faſhion of Plays, you know, now, is to do away old preju⯑dices; and to reſcue certain characters from the illiberal odium with which cuſtom has mark'd them. Thus we have a generous Iſraelite, an amiable Cynick, and ſo on. Now, Sir, I call my play—The Humane Footpad.

What!

There's a title for you! Iſn't it happy?—eh? How do you like my footpad?

Humph!—Why I think he'll ſtrike—but then he ought to be properly executed.

Oh, Sir, let me alone for that. An exception to a general rule is, now, the grand ſecret for dra⯑matick compoſition. Mine is a freebooter of be⯑nevolence, and plunders with ſentiment.

There may be ſomething in that: and for my part, I was always with Shakeſpeare. ‘"Who ſteals my purſe ſteals traſh."’ I never had any weighty reaſons, yet, for think⯑ing otherwiſe. Now, Sir, as we ſay, pleaſe to "leave your damnable faces, and begin."

My damnable faces!

Come—"we'll to't like french faulconers."

Scene firſt: a dark wood: night.

A very awful beginning.

The moon behind a cloud.

That's new. An audience never ſaw a moon behind a cloud before.—but it will be deviliſh difficult to paint.

Don't interrupt.—Where was I?—Oh—behind a cloud.

"The cloud capt towers, the gorgeous palaces—"

Hey, the devil! what are you at?

Beg pardon: But that ſpeech never comes into my head but it runs away with me. Pro⯑ceed.

Enter—

"The ſolemn temples"—

Nay then, I've done.

So have I. I'm dumb.

Enter Egbert, muſing.

O, P?

Pſhaw! what does that ſignify?

Not much. "The great Globe itſelf"—

Egbert muſing. Clouded in night I come.—

Damme, he's mad! A bedlamite! raves like Lear, and foams out a folio of Shakeſpeare with⯑our drawing breath. I'm almoſt afraid to ſtay in the room with him.

Oh, I'm glad you are come, friend! Now I ſhall be deliver'd. Your maſter would be glad to ſee me, I warrant.

My Maſter is juſt gone out, Sir.

Gone out!

"O, day and night, but this is wond'rous ſtrange!"

What without ſeeing me—who have been waiting for him theſe three hours!

Three hours! Pugh!—I've ſlept, here, for five mornings in his old arm Chair.

He ordered me to tell you, Gentlemen, he was particularly ſorry—but he is obliged to hurry [15] down to the Hay-Market. The Theatre opens this Evening—and Mr. Banniſter Jun. and Mr. Suett, are to meet him there, on particular buſineſs.

They are? and what the devil, friend, have I to do with Mr. Banniſter Jun.? Damn Mr. Ban⯑niſter Jun.

And damn Mr. Suett; what the devil have I to do with Mr. Suett? Now he has ſhirk'd us, I'll lay an even bet he is gone to neither of 'em.

Pretty treatment! pretty treatment truly! to be kept here, half the morning, kicking my heels in a Manager's anti-room, ſhut up with a mad Dunſtable actor.

Mad! Zounds! Sir I'd have you to know that "when the wind's ſoutherly, I know a hawk from a handſaw."

Tell your maſter, friend, tell your maſter— but no matter.—He done catch me here again that's all. Damme, I'll go home, turn my play into a pageant, put a triumphal proceſſion at the end on't, and bring it out at one of the Winter Theatres.

Young man you know me. I ſhall come to the old arm chair again, tomorrow—but muſt go [16] to Dunſtable the day after, for a week, to finiſh my engagement. Wiſh for an interview,—inclination to tread the London boards, and ſo on. You re⯑member my name—Mr. Sylveſter Daggerwood; whoſe benefit is fix'd for the eleventh of June, by particular deſire of ſeveral perſons of diſtinction.

I ſhall be ſure to tell him, Sir.

SCENE II.—The inſide of the Theatre. Two women, diſcovered ſweeping the Stage. A pail and mop in the corner.

Come, buſtle, child! Buſtle, Molly Beezom, buſtle! We ſha'n't have the ſtage ready againſt our gentlefolks come to rehearſal.

There, mother, I ha' done.

Have you? Well then, now, Molly, as we have a little leiſure—foh! how it tires a body to ſcrub down theſe duſty boards, after a long winter!—As we have a little leiſure, Molly, I'll juſt give you a bit of advice.

Do, mother;—for I be a freſh comer from the country. Yeſterday was my firſt ſweep⯑ing [17] day, you do know. I cod, it be pure fun to be among theſe Actor-folks!

Hold your tongue, huſſey! Liſten to me. I have ſwept the boards of a Winter, and Summer Houſe, theſe eighteen years; and am old enough to have ſome experience.

That you be, mother.—Old enough in all conſcience.

Take care, then, of theſe Actors. I had you up from the country, after begging this here place for you, with great entreaties and impre⯑cations; ſo mind you be mean yourſelf. Take care of theſe Actors, I ſay. 'Tis a tickliſh ſitivation for a young girl. Don't let them palaver you over.

Palaver me! Law, mother, what's that?

Aye—there it is now, to want experience. Why it's juſt as they ſerv'd me, when I was ſuch a green gooſe as yourſelf.

Why, ſure, there be no harm in 'em:— and they be main civil. One on 'em chuck'd me under the chin, as good natur'd,—and told me I was a pretty little Duſdemony.

Huſſey, huſſey! I muſt hear no more of theſe doings. You'll be devour'd.

La, mother! ſure and ſure, they wont eat me?

Eat you! There's no knowing what may happen.

Ben't there indeed!—Well, if I hant been told, in our village, that your Actor men be hungry enough to eat any thing; and that the gentry ſometimes throws oranges to 'em, from the two-ſhilling gallery, out o' compaſſion.

Ha! Ha!—Lord help your ſimple head! Oranges out of the gallery!—The thing is poſſible here, to be ſure; but in the winter Houſes—why, child, they would never reach half way to the ſtage. 'Tis as much as they can do to ſee the actors, there. But no matter for that:—take you care of yourſelf, Molly—you are raw, child, and unexperienced. I be uneaſy enough about you, I can tell you that.

Don't you be in a ſantigue, mother, about I. Iſe warant me, when I ha been here awhile, Iſe be as knowing as the beſt of 'em.

Go up ſtairs, huſſey, directly, and duſt out the dreſſing-rooms.

I doesn't like to go up alone, mother: I be afeard.

Afeard!—Of what, you gooſe-cap?

Why, at the top of the—the Flys be the name on't, I fancy—where all the clouds be— juſt at the landing place, there be a huge man— A Polly, I do think the carpenters call him— ſtuff'd out wi' ſtraw: they ha' ſquatted him there to ſit bolt upright: and, tho' he be dead, he looks ſo mortal frightful, I doeſn't care to go a near him.

Simpleton! it's the ſtuff'd Apollo, in Midas. Why you are n't afraid of a ſtraw figure, are you?

No—not in the country:—but this be the uglieſt ſcare-crow I ever put my eyes upon. I be timberſome at a dead actor, mother, tho' I doeſn't much mind facing a live one.

Come, come; take your broom, and follow me.

Yes, mother—but, as we have a little bit leiſure, as you do ſay, there be one thing I wiſh to ax you to do for me. But you wont be angry, now?

Well, child, what is it?

Why, if you would but go down, under this here ſtage—there be ſuch mortal funny things —do, now, mother, juſt go down, and ſcrew I up a trap.

I'll trap you, you idle minx! I will. Fine doings, truly! The girl will be ruin'd. Screw you up a trap, indeed!

La, mother, why not? Iſe warrant me, now, if I was to ax the Carpenter, he would not have any dejection.

Any of the Performers come yet?

No, Sir. It wants ten minutes of the time.

There! I'll be hang'd if it isn't Mr. Waldron, the Prompter, come to rehearſal.

Prompter! Oh! that be the gentleman as reads in a book; and do blow a little whiſtle, to call the actor-folks about un.

Come, run Molly, run! Take up your pail, and be off.

I be a coming, mother.

Dear, now! I ſhould like hugely to ſtay and ſee a bit o' their May-games. Dear, dear! what pure ſport it be to live among theſe here ſhew-folks!

It doeſn't ſignifye talking, maſter Carpenter: —new ſcenes, and fly-flaps, when there's occaſion, to be ſure:—but no extravagance.

Extravagance!—Lord help you, Mr. Waldron! We only wont to keep pace a bit with our neigh⯑bours. Look at 'em in the winter.

Winter! and how are we to keep pace with them there, you ninny hammer? They are too magnificent for us. They have a ſtud of Ele⯑phants at one houſe, and a ſtable full of Bulls at the other. We are too humble to vie with our neighbours in giving the publick any thing to ſee.

But you know they will expect ſome novelty, maſter Waldron.

Well, then, we'll give 'em ſomething to hear: —that's a novelty, now, you know. But come, to buſineſs. What do you want?

Why, I want a new Moon.

What's become of the old one?

Torn down.

And pray, Sir, how came the Moon to be down?

The man that work'd it, run his hand through it, laſt year, when he was ſnuffing the candle. He was diſcharged for negligence.

Then, we want a new man in the Moon. Let me make a memorandum.

"Moon in decreaſe—new one want⯑ed.—Man in it."—Well?

Five waves of the ſea:—ſplit all to pieces in the laſt dry weather. They muſt be made of deal.

Memorandum—"The ſea:—Deal." What next?

A ſcaffold for the Surrender of Calais. Mr. Banniſter, jun. broke it down, the laſt time he was going to be hanged.

"New ſcaffold—Surrender of Calais."—Ah! but where ſhall we get ſuch another Hangman?— Poor fellow! Poor Parſons! The old cauſe, of our mirth is, now, the cauſe of our melancholy. [22] He, who ſo often made us forget our cares, may well claim a ſigh to his memory.

He was one of the comicaleſt fellows I ever ſee!

Aye, and one of the honeſteſt, maſter Carpen⯑ter. When an individual has combined private worth with publick talent, he quits the buſtling ſcene of life with two-fold applauſe, and we doubly deplore his exit.—But come, we have ſtill, ſome favourites among our Hundred, who are ambi⯑tious to pleaſe; and whoſe continued exertions, we doubt not, will be honoured with the continued patronage of our benefactors.—Is there any thing more?

Yes:—New ropes for all the drop ſcenes.— There's great difficulty, at preſent, in drawing up the curtain.

That's true enough;—for it ought to have been drawn up a month ago. Well, obviate the diffi⯑culty as ſoon as you can, and ſend in that item of your bill to the Winter Managers.

Beſides this, there's a —

Why, zounds! you'll never have done! don't I tell you we muſt have no extravagance—nothing needleſs. What is it?

Why, it's a new chair for the Prompter.

Oh! that alters the caſe. Well, let it be hand⯑ſome; do you mind? Stud it with braſs nails, and cover it with the beſt Morocco—and tell the Pro⯑perty-woman to put a good ſoft velvet cuſhion in it, dye hear?

I've a nice bit of old hard cherry-tree, that would come cheaper—and ſuit you to a T. maſter Waldron.

Cherry-tree! Why, you villain, have you no mercy on my bones?—I'll cherry tree you, with a plague!—

Pooh, nonſenſe! If the Manager iſn't here, I'll ſpeak to the Prompter.—Oh! your ſervant, Mr. Waldron. Can I ſee the Manager?

He is not, yet, come to the Theatre, Sir. But, if you have any buſineſs to communicate, perhaps I may anſwer the purpoſe.

Well, then, we'll do the matter by deputy. My name's Apewell. I want to appear on the ſtage.

Your application is too late, Sir; our Company is full.

That's unlucky:—but, in caſe of illneſs, I may probably be of uſe as a ſubſtitute.

A ſubſtitute!—for whom, pray, Sir?

Why, for any body.—Tragedy, Comedy, any thing. Nay, upon emergency, I may even ſup⯑ply the place of a Prompter.

Ha! Ha!—You don't know what you under⯑take; young gentleman. The place of a Promp⯑ter requires ſome experience.

I begin to apprehend you are a wag, Mr. Ape⯑well.

Faith, if I am, Sir; however my waggery may be taken, I mean it to be perfectly harmleſs. There is no man without his peculiar manner— and, in ſtudying the tones of others, I hope to [25] improve my own, without giving offence to much better Actors than myſelf.

That's handſomely ſaid, however. Give me your hand:—you ſeem to have ſome fun and ſpi⯑rit about you; and we may be better acquainted.

I hope we ſhall. Who knows, if I become one of the Company, but we may have a bowl of punch together, at the Blue Poſts:—or take a whet in a walk over the fields to Bagnigge.— "Fetch a walk this fine evening, Miſs Dolly?— Eh, Miſs Dolly?"

You ſeem pretty converſant in the drama. Have you ſtudied much?

A good deal. I'll give you a touch of blank verſe, to begin with:

Upon my word that was very well. Reſpect⯑ably delivered, and much in the manner of the original.

Oh, Sir, if it was like the original, it could not fail of being reſpectable.—But if you think from the ſpecimen, I may be of ſervice, Mrs. Apewell and myſelf, will be willing to join you.

Does Mrs. Apewell perform principal charac⯑ters, Sir?

Why I can't ſay much for her acting; but ſhe's a deviliſh good wife."

You have Shakeſpeare at your fingers ends, Mr. Apewell.

Why yes—‘But I am talking here by words of mouth, when I could ſay it all in reading, as I have it by heart in my deſcribing book. Now I deſire you'll hold your tongue, for if you talk you'll put me out —Theſe gardens which are now the admiration of the larned and curiſh, &c. &c.’

Bravo, young Gentleman. Well play'd in⯑deed.

‘Well play'd, Clifford! Good air and emphaſis; and well ſuited to the trick of the ſcene.’— Shall I go on?

Oh, by all means.

‘He would do, now, if the practical part of deceit were as eaſy at his age, as the diſcern⯑ment of it is at mine.’ &c. &c.—Upon my ſoul, though, this is very fatiguing!

I wiſh I had any refreſhment to offer you. But we are unprovided here, you know.

‘Come, you know there's a cake in the houſe. Odsfleſh, Robin, I'm heartily glad to ſee you. Bring us the lamb.’

Egad, if you were at my lodgings, you ſhould have that, and a bottle of wine too.

"Come I like that."—But can you give me an engagement?

I can't—but I ſhall mention your talents this morning to the Manager, and I make no doubt he will be ready to employ you.

Come, you had better cloſe with me yourſelf, at once, while we are about it.

No; Sir I daren't venture that.

‘Lord, Sir, you are as queer as a quartern of ſoap, after a week's waſh. Your poor dear father wouldn't have uſed me in this way. He uſed to like to hear me talk. Dicky Goſſip, ſays he—he always call'd me Dicky. Dicky Goſſip ſays he, you are my Barbatick—Barba⯑tick!—Wasn't that droll, Sir?—He uſed to call me his Barbatick!’

Well I ſhall call in the evening to know the Manager's anſwer. You may tell him what I am fit for.

Faith you ſeem fit for any thing. But pray do you ſing.

I'll give you a ſpecimen and then leave you to think on't.

Waldron, how goes it? well here we are in the old little ſhop again! Gad I feel like a giant, here, in Lilliput, after the huge Brobdignag boards of old Drury. Where's our little Ma⯑nager?

Not come yet.

He muſt ſtir his ſtumps, I can tell him that, now he has ſet up for himſelf. He gives a good round ſum for the Property, they tell me. I hope he may be reimburſed.

There he truſts to the town.

He can't truſt to any thing better. The pub⯑lick never fail to encourage Induſtry, or to give [30] ample reward to thoſe who embark with zeal in their ſervice, and rely with confidence on their liberality. I ſhall be finely work'd for it, though, through the ſummer, I take it, Maſter Waldron.

Well then, as you ſay, the publick will en⯑courage your induſtry,

Oh, faith, you need not tell me that:—I truſt I have always been found to work willingly—and at preſent I have a double motive to activity, in ſerving the town, and aſſiſting an old friend, who ventures largely for its amuſement. So here's defiance to heat, and a fig for the Dog-days, old Waldron!

The Ladies and Gentlemen are all ready in the Green-Room, Sir.

Then we'll attend them. Oh, Banniſter, here's a ſong I am to give you. It's intended for our opening.

Let me ſee it, um—why zouns! there muſt be ſome miſtake, it ſeems meant for the winter—for it begins with an eulogy upon grand ſpectacles, ſpacious buildings, and large Theatres.

Well, well—hum it over, before we go into the Green-Room.

Eh!—and here come ſome of our Chorus who may bear a burden.

Here goes then.