[]A PEEP BEHIND THE CURTAIN; OR, THE NEW REHEARSAL.

SCENE I. Covent Garden.

MY dear Jack—ten thouſand thanks for your punctuality—ready equip'd, I ſee, to ſerve your friend.

But how can I ſerve you, my young Don Quix⯑ote? Am I to be your Sancho while your Knight Errantſhip is running away with this Dulcinea del Toboſo?

I have given orders that my poſt-chaiſe ſhall wait in the broad way by Exeter-Change, and the moment the lady ſteps from her chair to the chaiſe, [2] the poſtilions will crack their whips, and drive away like lightning.

You are a romantic fellow!—How can you poſ⯑ſibly imagine, that your hot-headed ſcheme to run away with this young lady can ever be executed?

From the juſtice of my cauſe, Jack.

Juſtice!—Make that out, and my conſcience will be eaſy.

Did not her father's uncle, who was a good lawyer and cheated my father of three-fourths of his fortune, leave her near thirty thouſand pounds?—Now, this is my reaſoning—Sir Toby's uncle ran away with ſome thouſands from my father, I ſhall run away with Sir Toby's daughter, this will bring the ſaid thouſands back to me again, with which I'll pay off old ſcores, ſtrike a balance in my favour, and get a good wife into the bargain—There's juſtice for you!

Aye, Juſtice with a vengeance! But why muſt Sir Toby be puniſhed for the ſins of his uncle?

I'll eaſe your conſcience there too—My mother, at my father's death, took me a boy to Sir Toby and my Lady, to ſolicit their kindneſs for me—He gave me half a crown to buy ginger-bread, and her Ladyſhip, who was combing a fat lap-dog, mutter'd—There was no end of maintaining poor relations.

I have not a qualm left—But did you really paſs for a ſtrolling player laſt ſummer, to have a pretence of being near her father's houſe?

Yes, I did, and as Polonius ſays, was account⯑ed a good Actor.

What could put that unaccountable frolic in your head?

To gain the favour of Sir Toby's family, as a ſtrolling player, which I could not as a poor re⯑lation—they are fond of acting to madneſs, and my plan ſucceeded; I was ſo alter'd they did not know me—they lik'd me much, came to a Bene⯑fit, which I pretended to have, invited me to their houſe, and Miſs met me privately, after I had played Ranger and Lothario.

Aye, aye, when a young lady's head is cram'd with combuſtible ſcraps of plays—ſhe is always ready prim'd, and will go off (if you will allow me a pun) the very firſt opportunity.

I diſcovered myſelf to the young lady, and her generoſity was ſo great, that ſhe reſolv'd to marry me to make me amends—there are refin'd feelings for you!

Aye, double refin'd!—ſhe is more romantic than you, WILL—But did not you run a great riſque of loſing her, when ſhe knew you was only a gentleman, and not a player?

Read that letter, and tell me if my caſtles are built in the air?

I ſhall be with my Papa and Mama to ſee a Re⯑hearſal at Drury-lane Playhouſe on Tueſday morning; if my preſent inclinations hold, and my heart does not fail me, I may convince honeſt Ranger, what confidence I have in his honour.—Poſtſcript.—If I don't ſee you then, I don't know when I ſhall ſee you, for we return into the country next week.—

Well, what think you?

O ſhe'll run away with you moſt certainly—

I muſt not loſe time then

I muſt go and take my ſtand, that the Deer may not eſcape me.

And I'll go and take mine, to help you to carry off the ven'ſon—This is very like poaching, WILL—But how will you get admittance into Drury⯑lane Theatre?

I was very near being diſappointed there, for unluckily the acting Manager, who ſcarce reach'd to my third button, cock'd up his head in my face, and ſaid I was much too tall for a Hero—however I got the liberty of the ſcenes by deſiring to rehearſe Hamlet next week—But I hope to croſs the Tweed with the fair Ophelia before that time, [5] and finiſh my ſtage adventures by appearing the firſt time in the character of a good huſband.

Succeſs attend you.

If I ſucceed, I ſhall be reſtor'd to my father's eſtate, drink claret, and live like a gentleman with the wife of my heart—and, egad, for aught I know, ſtand for the County.

If not—you muſt be confin'd to your little one hundred and twenty pounds a year farm, make your own cheeſe, marry the Curate's daughter, have a dozen children, and brew the beſt October in the Pariſh.

Which ever way fortune will diſpoſe of me, I ſhall be always happy to ſee my friends, and never ſhall forget my obligations to thee, my dear Jack.

Well, well—let us away—we have too much buſineſs to mind compliments.

SCENE II. The PLAY-HOUSE.

Come Betty, duſt away, duſt away girl, the Managers will be here preſently; there's no lying in bed for them now, we are up early and late; all hurry and buſtle from morning to night; I won⯑der what the deuce they have got in their heads?

Why to get money, Mrs. Beſom, to be ſure; the folks ſay about us, that the other houſe will make them ſtir their ſtumps, a [...]d they'll make us ſtir ours: If they are in motion, we muſt not ſtand ſtill, Mrs. Beſom.

Ay, ay, girl, they have met with their match, and we ſhall all ſuffer for it—for my part I can't go thro' the work, if they are always in this plaguy hurry; I have not drank a comfortable diſh of tea ſince the houſe open'd.

One had better die, than be ſcolded and hur⯑ried about as we are by the houſe-keeper; he takes us all for a parcel of Negers I believe: pray give us a pinch of your ſnuff, Mrs. Beſom.

Between you and I, Betty, and our two brooms, the houſe-keeper is grown a little purſe-proud; he thinks himſelf a great Actor forſooth, ſince he play'd the Scotch fellow, and the fat cook in Queen Mab.

The Quality ſpoils him too: why woman, he talks to them for all the world as if he was a Lord.

I ſhall certainly reſign, as the great folks call it in the News Paper, if they won't promiſe to give me the firſt Dreſſer's place that falls, and make our little Tommy a Page; what, woman, tho' we are well paid for our work, we ought to make ſure of ſomething when our brooms are taken from us,—'tis the faſhion Betty.

Right, right, Mrs. Beſom, ſervice is no inherit⯑ance, and to be always doing dirty work, and to have no proſpect to reſt, and clean ourſelves, is the curſe only of us poor folks.

You and I will drink a diſh of tea together in comfort this afternoon, and talk over theſe and other matters—but mum—here's the Promp⯑ter.

Come, come, away with your brooms, and clear the Stage; the Managers will be here directly.

Where are the Carpenters?—Carpenters!

What do you want, Mr. Hopkins?

What do I want? Come down and ſet the Scenes for the new Burletta of Orpheus.

We an't ready for it, the Beaſts are now in hand—they an't finiſh'd.

Not finiſh'd the Beaſts! here's fine work! the Managers and Author will be here directly, and nothing ready;—fie, fie, fie.—Saunders!—Saunders!—

Here! here!—Zooks what a bawling you make, do keep your breath for your prompting, Maſter Hopkins, and not ſend it after me at this rate—I'm not deaf.

But your men are, and aſleep too I believe; I can't get a ſoul of 'em near me, 'tis ten o'clock,

and not a Scene prepared for the Rehearſal; 'tis I ſhall be blam'd, and not you.

Blam'd for what? 'Tis but a rehearſal, and of one Act only—wou'd you have us to finiſh our work, before the Poet has done his? Don't you know that Carpenters are always the laſt in a houſe; and yet you want us to get out of it, before the Author has cover'd in.

You may be as witty as you pleaſe; but the Managers will do as they pleaſe, and they have promis'd the Author to rehearſe the firſt Act of his Burletta of Orpheus this Morning, as he pleaſes, with all the proper Scenes, Dreſſes, Ma⯑chinery, [9] and Muſick; ſo what ſignifies all our prating?

Very little as you ſay—but damn all theſe new vagaries, that put us all upon our heads topſy verſy—my men have ſat up all night, and I have finiſh'd every thing but the Dancing Cows.

Bleſs my heart, man, the Author depends moſt upon his Cows.

His Cows!—How came they to be his; they are my Cows;—theſe Poets are pretty fellows faith; they ſay I'll have a flying Devil, or a dancing Bear, or any ſuch conundrum; why 'tis eaſily ſaid, but who is to make 'em fly, and dance? ha, Mr. Prompter? Why poor Pill Garlick;—The Au⯑dience applauds, the Author is conceited; but the Carpenter is never thought of.

Theſe are bold truths, Mr. Saunders.

Why then out with 'em, I ſay—great men ſpin the brains of the little ones, and take the cre⯑dit of 'em.—Do you know how I was ſerv'd in our dramatic romance of Cymon?

You did your buſineſs well there, particularly in the laſt Scene.

And what was the conſequence? One fine gen⯑tleman in the boxes ſaid,—my maſter brought it from Italy;—No, damn it (ſays another, taking ſnuff) I ſaw the very ſame thing at Paris; when [10] you all know here behind the Scenes, that the whole deſign came from this head; and the execution from theſe hands,—but nothing can be done by an Engliſhman now a days, and ſo your ſervant, Mr. Hopkins—

Harkee Saunders,—the Managers have order'd me to diſcharge the man at the lightning; he was ſo drunk the laſt time he flaſh'd, that he has ſing'd all the clouds on that ſide the Stage.

Yes, yes, I ſee it, and harkee—he has burnt a hole in the new caſcade, and ſet fire to the ſhower of rain—but mum—

The deuce—he muſt be diſcharg'd directly.

Where's the Prompter?

Here I am, Sir.

Make haſte with your ſcenes, Saunders; ſo, clear the Stage, Mr. Hopkins, and let us go to bu⯑ſineſs. Is the extraordinary Author of this very extraordinary performance come yet?

Not yet, Sir, but we ſhall be ſoon ready for him—'Tis a very extraordinary thing, indeed, to rehearſe only one act of a performance, and with [11] dreſſes and decorations, as if it were really before an Audience.

It is a novelty, indeed, and a little expenſive too, but we cou'd not withſtand the ſolicitations tha t were made to us; we ſhan't often repeat the ſame experiment.

I hope not, Sir,—'tis a very troubleſome one, and the Performers murmur greatly at it.

When do the performers not murmur, Mr. Hop⯑kins?—Has any morning paſs'd in your time with⯑out ſome grievance or another?

I have half a dozen now in my pocket for you.

O pray let's have 'em, my old breakfaſt—

And the old ſtory—Actreſſes quarrelling about parts; there's not one of 'em but thinks herſelf young enough for any part; and not a young one but thinks herſelf capable of any part—but their betters quarrel about what they are not fit for, So our Ladies have at leaſt great precedents for their folly.

The young fellow from Edinburgh won't accept of the ſecond Lord; he deſires to have the firſt.

I don't doubt it—Well, well, if the Author can make him ſpeak Engliſh, I have no objection.

Mr. Rantly is indiſpoſed, and can't play to-mor⯑row.

Well, well, let his lungs reſt a little, they want it, I'm ſure—What a campaign ſhall we make of it; all our ſubalterns will be general officers, and our generals will only fight when they pleaſe.

O he's upon the Stage, is he?—I'll go to him—

Here comes the Author, do you prepare the people for the Rehearſal—deſire them to be as careful, as if they were to perform before an Audience.

I will, Sir—Pray let us know when we muſt begin.

Dear Mr. Patent, am not I too late? Do make me happy at once—I have been upon the rack this half hour—But the Ladies, Mr. Patent—the Ladies—

But where are the Ladies, Sir?

They'll be here in the drinking of a cup of tea—I left 'em all at breakfaſt—Lady Fuz can't ſtir from home without ſome refreſhment—Sir Ma⯑caroni Virtu was not come when I left them; he [13] generally ſits up all night, and if he gets up before two o'clock he only walks in his ſleep all the reſt of the day—He is perhaps the moſt accompliſh⯑ed connoiſſeur in the three kingdoms; yet he is never properly awake 'till other people go to bed;—however, if he ſhou'd come, our little perform⯑ance, I believe, will rouſe him—ha, ha, ha!—you underſtand me?—A pinch of cephalic only.

I have the honour of knowing him a little—Will Sir Macaroni be here?

Why he promis'd, but he's too polite to be punc⯑tual—You underſtand me?—ha, ha, ha!—how⯑ever, I am pretty ſure we ſhall ſee him;—I have a ſecret for you—not a ſoul muſt know it—he has compos'd two of the ſongs in my Burletta—An admirable muſician—but particular—He has no great opinion of me, nor indeed of any body elſe, a very tolerable one of himſelf—and ſo I be⯑lieve he'll come—You underſtand me? ha, ha, ha!

I do, Sir—But pray, Mr. Glib, why did not you compleat your Burletta—'tis very new with us to rehearſe but one act only?

By a ſample, Mr. Patent, you may know the piece: if you approve you ſhall never want no⯑velty—I am a very ſpider at ſpinning my own brains, ha, ha, ha! always at it—ſpin, ſpin, ſpin—you underſtand me?

Extreamly well—In your ſecond act, I ſuppoſe, you intend to bring Orpheus into hell—

O yes—I make him play the devil there—I ſend him for ſome better purpoſe than to fetch his wife, ha, ha, ha!—Don't miſtake me—while he is upon earth, I make him a very good ſort of a man—He keeps a Miſtreſs, indeed, but his wife's dead, you know—and were ſhe alive not much harm in that—for I make him a man of faſhion—Fa⯑ſhion, you know, is all in all—You underſtand me?—Upon a qualm of conſcience, he quits his miſtreſs, and ſets out for hell with a reſolution to fetch his wife—

Is that too like a man of faſhion, Mr. Glib?

No, that's the moral part of him—He's a mix'd character—but as he approaches and gets into the infernal regions, his principles melt away by de⯑grees, as it were, by the heat of the climate—and finding that his wife, Eurydice, is kept by Pluto, he immediately makes up to Proſerpine, and is kept by her, then they all four agree matters amicably—Change partners, as one may ſay, make a genteel partie quarrée, and finiſh the whole with a ſong and a chorus—and a ſtinger it is—The ſubject of the ſong is—the old proverb, exchange is no rob⯑bery, and the chorus runs thus,

I believe that's true ſatire, Mr. Patent—ſtrong and poignant—You underſtand me?

O very well—'tis chian pepper indeed—a little will go a great way.

I make Orpheus ſee in my hell all ſorts of peo⯑ple, of all degrees, and occupations—ay, and of both ſexes—that's not very unnatural, I believe—there ſhall be very good company too, I aſſure you; high life below ſtairs, as I call it, ha, ha, ha! you take me—a double edge—no boys play—rip and tear—the times require it—fortè—fortiſſimè—

Won't it be too fortè?—Take care, Mr. Glib, not to make it ſo much above proof that the boxes can't taſte it—Take care of empty boxes.

Empty boxes!—I'll engage that my Cerberus alone ſhall fill the boxes for a month.

Cerberus!

Be quiet a little—You know, I ſuppoſe, that Cerberus is a dog, and has three heads?

I have heard as much.

Then you ſhall ſee ſome ſport—He ſhall be a comical dog too, I warrant you—ha, ha, ha!

What, is Cerberus a character in your perform⯑ance?

Capital, capital—I have thrown all my fancy and invention into his mouth, or rather mouths—there are three of 'em, you know.

Moſt certainly, if there are three heads.

Poh, that's nothing to what I have in petto for you—Obſerve me now—when Orpheus comes to the gates of hell—Cerberus ſtops him—but how, how—now for it—gueſs—

Upon my ſoul I can't gueſs.

I make his three heads ſing a trio.

A Trio!

A trio! I knew I ſhou'd hit you—a trio, treble, tenor and baſs—and what ſhall they ſing? nothing in the world but, Bow, wow, wow!—Orpheus be⯑gins—

Treble, tenor and baſs—Then Orpheus ſhall tickle his lyre, and treble, tenor and baſs, ſhall fall aſleep by degrees, and one after another, fainter and fainter—Bow, wow, wow—faſt—You underſtand me?

Very ingenious, and very new—I hope the cri⯑tics will underſtand it.

I will make every body underſtand it, or my name is not Derry down Glib—When I write the whole town ſhall underſtand me—You underſtand me?

Not very clearly, Sir—but it is no matter—Here's your company.

Ladies and Gentlemen, you do me honour; Mr. Patent—Sir Toby and Miſs Fuz, and this Sir Macaroni Virtu—

Sir Toby, one of the managers.

I am one of the managers moſt humble and obedient.

I take it as a moſt particular compliment, Sir Macaroni, that you wou'd attend my trifle at ſo early an hour.

Why, faith, Glib, without a compliment, I had much rather be in bed than here, or any where elſe.

I have a prodigious curioſity to ſee your Play⯑houſe by day-light, Mr. Manager; have not you, Sir Macaroni?

O no, my Lady—I never have any curioſity to ſee it at all.

I will prepare ſome tea and chocolate in the Green Room for the Ladies, while the Prompter prepares matters for the Rehearſal.

I never breakfaſt but once a day, Mr. Manager; Sir Toby indeed never refuſes any thing at any time; he's at it from morning till night.

I love to be ſocial my dear,—beſides trifling with tea, chocolate, macaroons, biſkets, and ſuch things, is never reckon'd eating, you know.

You are indefatigably obliging, Mr. Patent.

Bleſs me, papa, what a ſtrange place this is!—I am ſure I ſhou'd not have known it again—I won⯑der where he is! I wiſh I cou'd get a peep at him—and yet I am frighted out of my wits.

Now the Manager is gone, one may venture to ſay, that the Play-houſe is no morning beauty; paint and candle light are as great friends to the theatres, as to the ladies; they hide many wrinkles—don't they, Mr. Glib? ha, ha, ha!

You have hit it, Sir Toby, and this is the old houſe too, ha, ha, ha!

My dear Sir Toby, you, you may be as ſarcaſti⯑cal as you pleaſe; but I proteſt a Play-houſe is a prodigious odd ſort of a thing, now there is no⯑body in it:—is it not, Sir Macaroni?

O yes, and a prodigious odd ſort of a thing when 'tis full too—I abominate a Play-houſe; my ingenious countrymen have no taſte now, for the high ſeaſon'd comedies; and I am ſure that I have none for the pap and loplolly of our preſent writers.

Bravo, Sir Micaroni!—I wou'd not give a pin for a play, no more than a partridge, that has not the fumet.

Not amiſs, faith! ha, ha, ha!

Don't let us loſe time, Mr. Glib;—if they are not ready for the Rehearſal, ſuppoſe the Manager entertains us with thunder and lightning,—and let us ſee his traps, and his whims, and harlequin pantomimes.

And a ſhower of rain, or an eclipſe; and I muſt beg one peep at the Patagonians.

Pray, Mr. Glib, let us have ſome thunder and lightning.

Your commands ſhall be obey'd, Miſs; I'll whip up to the clouds and be your Jupiter Tonans in a crack.

A Play-houſe in England is to me, as dull as a church, and fit only to ſleep in.

Sir Toby thinks ſo too;—I'll tell you what hap⯑pen'd the laſt time we were there.

Ay, do, my dear lady, tell what happen'd to Papa—'twas very droll.

Fye, fye, Fanny,—my lady, you ſhou'd not tell tales out of ſchool.—Twas an accident.—

A very common one with you, my dear: We din'd late, Sir Toby cou'd not take his nap, and we came early to the Houſe;—in ten minutes he fell faſt aſleep againſt the box door, his wig half off, his mouth wide open, and ſnoring like a Rhi⯑noceros.

Well, but the cataſtrophe, lady FUZ?

The Pit and Galleries fell a laughing and clap⯑ping—I jogg'd and pull'd him till my arms ach'd; and if the Box-keeper had not luckily open'd the door, and Sir TOBY fell head-long into the paſſage, I ſhould have died with ſhame.

You'll not die with tenderneſs, I believe, for I got a lump upon my head as big as an egg, [21] and have not been free from the head-ach ever ſince.

I ſhall never forget what a flump my Papa came down with, Ha, ha, ha!

The tenderneſs runs in the family, Sir TOBY?

Pray don't you adore Shakeſpear, Sir MAC?

Shakeſpear!

Sir TOBY and I are abſolute worſhippers of him—we very often act ſome of his beſt tragedy ſcenes to divert ourſelves.

And it muſt be very diverting, I dare ſwear.

What more family ſecrets! for ſhame, Lady FUZ—

You need not be aſhamed of your talents, my dear—I will venture to ſay you are the beſt ROMEO that ever appeared.

Pooh, pooh!

I have not the leaſt doubt of Sir TOBY'S genius—But don't your Ladyſhip think he rather carries too much fleſh for the Lover—Does your Lady⯑ſhip incline to tragedy too?

I have my feelings, Sir—and if Sir TOBY will favour you with two or three ſpeeches, I will ſtand up for Juliet.

I vow, Lady FUZ, you diſtreſs me beyond meaſure—I never have any voice till the evening.

Never mind being a little huſky, Papa—do tear your wig, throw yourſelf upon the ground, and poiſon yourſelf.

This is a glorious ſcene, faith.

Sir TOBY looks as if he were ſuſceptible of the tender paſſions.

Too much ſo, indeed; he is too amiable not to be a little faithleſs—he has been a great Libertine—have not you, Sir Toby? have you not wrong'd me?—Come, give me a pinch of your ſnuff—

Forget and forgive, my dear,—if my conſtitu⯑tion err'd, my affections never did—I have told you ſo a thouſand times.

A wonderful couple, upon my ſoul!—

Ladies, you can't poſſibly have any thunder and lightning this morning; one of the planks of the Thunder-Trunk ſtarted the other night, and had [23] not Jupiter ſtepp'd aſide to drink a pot of porter, he had been knock'd o'the head with his own thunder-bolt.

Well, let us go into the Green Room then, and ſee the actors and actreſſes—Is Clive there?—I ſhould be glad of all things to ſee that woman off the ſtage.

She never attends here, but when ſhe is wanted.

Bleſs me! If I was an actreſs, I ſhould never be a moment out of the Play-houſe.

And if I had my will, I would never be a moment in it.

I wiſh I could have ſeen Clive! I think her a droll creature—nobody has half ſo good an opi⯑nion of her as I have.

For my part, I had rather have had a little thunder and lightning, than all the tea and cho⯑colate in the world.

I wonder I don't ſee him.

What a ſet of people am I with! what a place I am in, and what an entertainment am I to go through! But I can't go through it—ſo I'll e'en get into my chair again, and eſcape from theſe Hottentots—I wiſh with all my ſoul that Sir TOBY, my Lady, and Miſs, the Author and his Piece, the Managers, their Play-houſe and their Performers, [24] were all at the bottom of the Thames, and that I were faſt aſleep in my bed again.

I durſt not diſcover myſelf, though I ſaw her dear eyes looking about for me.—If I could ſee her for a moment now, as the ſtage is clear, and no body to overlook us, who knows but I might kindle up her ſpirit this moment to run away with me—Hah! What noiſe is that?—There ſhe is—Miſs Fanny! Miſs Fanny—here I am—By hea⯑vens, ſhe comes—

O dear, how I flutter! I can't ſtay long—my Papa and Mama were going to rehearſe Romeo and Juliet, or I could not have ſtole out now.

Let you and I act thoſe parts in earneſt, Miſs, and fly to Lawrence Cell—Love has given us the opportunity, and we ſhall forfeit his protection if we don't make the beſt uſe of it.

Indeed I can't go away with you now—I will find a better opportunity ſoon—perhaps to-morrow—Let me return to the Green Room; if we are ſeen together, we ſhall be ſeparated for ever.—

To prevent that, let me lead you a private way through the houſe to a poſtchaiſe—we ſhall be out of reach before Sir TOBY and my Lady have gone half through Romeo and Juliet.

Don't inſiſt upon it now—I could not for the world—my fear has taken away all my incli⯑nations.

I muſt run away with you now, Miſs FUZ—Indeed I muſt.

Have you really a poſt-chaiſe ready?

I have indeed!—A poſtchaiſe and four.

A poſtchaiſe and four!—bleſs me!

Four of the beſt Bays in London, and my poſtil⯑lions are in blue jackets, with ſilver ſhoulder-knots.

With ſilver ſhoulder-knots!—nay, then there is no reſiſting—and yet—

Nay, quickly, quickly determine, my dear Miſs FUZ.

I will determine then—I will ſit by my Papa at the Rehearſal, and when he is aſleep, which he will be in ten minutes, and my Mama will be deaf, dumb and blind to every thing, but Mr. GLIB'S wit—I'll ſteal out of the box from them, and you ſhall run away with me as faſt as you can, where⯑ever your four Bays and ſilver ſhoulder-knots pleaſe to take me.

Upon my knees I thank you, and thus I take an earneſt of my happineſs.

Zounds! here's your Mama, Miſs—don't be alarm'd—Lady! by yonder bleſſed Moon I vow!

Oh! ſwear not by the Moon, th' inconſtant Moon!

Let us have no ſun and moon and ſtars now—What are you about, my dear?—Who is this young gentleman you are ſo free with?

This is the young gentleman Actor, Mama, whoſe Benefit we were at laſt ſummer, and while you were buſy acting in the Green Room, I ſtole out to try how my voice would ſound upon the ſtage, and finding him here, I begg'd him to teach me a little how to play JULIET.

O, very well, my dear—we are oblig'd to the young gentleman, to be ſure;—your Papa will teach you, child, and play ROMEO with you: you ſhou'd not be too free with theſe Actors—

I am much oblig'd to you, Sir, for the pains you have taken with my daughter—we are very ſenſible of your politeneſs, and you may bring us ſome tickets when your benefit time comes.

I am greatly honour'd by your Ladyſhip, and will go through all the ſcenes of ROMEO and JULIET with Miſs whenever ſhe pleaſes.

O no, young man—her papa is a very fine ac⯑tor, and a great critic, and he will have no body teach her theſe things but himſelf—Thank the gen⯑tleman, Child—

—Why did not you ſtay to hear your papa and me? Go, go, my dear, and I'll follow you.

Upon my word, a likely young man—your ſervant, Sir—and very likely to turn a young woman's head; were it not for ſetting my daughter a bad example, I ſhould like to go over ſome ſcenes of Juliet with him my⯑ſelf.

SCENE I. The Stage.

What, we have loſt Sir Macaroni! no great matter, for he was half aſleep all the time he was here—very little better than a caput mortuum—Now, Ladies, and Gentlemen, of the jury, take your places—Hiſs and clap, condemn or applaud me as your taſte directs you, and Apollo and the Nine ſend me a good deliverance.

We'll go into the front boxes—What is the mat⯑ter with you, Fanny?—You had rather be at your inconſtant Moon than hear Mr. Glib's wit.

I never was happier in all my life, mama.

What will become of me?

I ſhall be very critical, Mr. Author.

Pray are we to have a Prologue, Mr. Glib? We poſitively muſt have a Prologue.

Moſt certainly—entre nous—I have deſir'd the Manager to write me one—which has ſo flatter'd him, that I ſhall be able to do any thing with him—

I know 'em all from the Patentees, down to the waiting fellows in green coats—

You are very happy in your acquaintance, Sir.

I wiſh ſome of the Stage folks wou'd ſhew me round to the boxes—Who's there?

I'll conduct your Ladyſhip round, if you pleaſe.

Thank you, Mr. Johnſton—Remember my box the firſt night—and don't forget Clive's benefit.

I won't, my Lady.

Come, now for it, Glib—I ſhall have both my ears open, and I hope Sir Toby will do as much by his Eyes—Come, Fanny, my dear, this way.

I'll go my own way for the firſt time; now my ſpirits are up again—I have ſlipt my leading ſtrings, and if, dear Mr. Wilſon's bays and poſtilions keep [30] pace with my fancy, my papa and mama muſt run a little faſter than they do to overtake me.

I hope, Mr. Hopkins, that no body has got ſe⯑cretly into the houſe; I wou'd have none but friends at the firſt Rehearſal.

You ſee the houſe is quite clear, Sir.

I wou'd not have the town have the leaſt idea of my performance before hand—I wou'd open a maſk'd battery of entertainment upon the public.

You'll ſurpriſe 'em, I believe, Sir!

Pray be ſo good as to ring down the curtain, that we may rehearſe in form—So, ſo, ſo—very well; and now I'll ſay a word or two to the

Gentlemen in the Orcheſtra—Gentlemen,

I ſhall take it as a particular fa⯑vour, if you wou'd be careful of your pianos and fortès; they are the light and ſhade, and without 'em muſic is all noiſe, and ſinging nothing but bawling.—

I don't quite underſtand this movement—Is it allegro, Sir?

Allegro, ſpiritoſo!—Flaſh, flaſh, fire! my friends—you gentlemen haut-boys, take particu⯑lar [31] care of your little ſolos—You baſſoons, ſup⯑port 'em, con guſto, not too powerfully, mind a delicacy of feeling in your ſecond movement—Make yourſelves ready, Gentlemen—Shoulder your fiddles—Cock your bows—And the moment I vaniſh, fire away, craſh—I leave my fame in your hands—My Lady—Sir Toby, are you got round?—O very well; I ſee you—Don't forget a cordial now and then for the poor Author.

Here's a ſcene, Lady Fuz!—If this won't do, what the devil will, tal, lal, lal, lal—

Thank you, Gentlemen,

admir⯑ably well done, indeed—I'll kiſs you all round over as much punch as the double baſs will hold.

There, Mr. Manager, is an end of an Act—Every beaſt upon his hind-legs!—I did intend that houſes and trees (according to the old ſtory) ſhou'd have join'd in the dance, but it would have crouded the ſtage too much.

Full enough as it is, Mr. Glib.

—Let me come,—let me come, I ſay!

D'ye hear, d'ye hear! her ladyſhip's in raptures I find;—I knew I ſhou'd touch her.

Theſe are fine doings, fine doings, Mr. Glib.—

And a fine effect they will have, my lady; par⯑ticularly the dancing off of the Beaſts.—

Yes, yes, they have danc'd off, but they ſhall dance back again, take my word for it.

My dear lady, and ſo they ſhall—don't be un⯑eaſy—they ſhall dance back again directly—here Prompter—I intended to have the Scene over again—I cou'd it forever.

Was this your plot, Mr. Glib? Or your con⯑trivance, Mr. Manager?

Madam!

No, upon my ſoul, 'tis all my own contri⯑vance, not a thought ſtole from Ancient, or Mo⯑dern; all my own plot.

Call my ſervants—I'll have a Poſt-chaiſe direct⯑ly—I ſee your guilt by your vain endeavours to hide it—this is the moſt bare-fac'd impudence!

Impudence!—may I die if I know an indecent expreſſion in the whole piece!

Your paſſion, madam, runs away with you—I don't underſtand you.

No Sir,—'tis one of your Stage-players has run away with my daughter;—and I'll be reveng'd on you all;—I'll ſhut up your houſe.

This muſt be enquir'd into.

What, did Miſs Fuz run away without ſeeing Orpheus?

Don't ſay a word more, thou blockhead.

I am dumb—but no blockhead.

What is all this;—what is it all about!

Why, it is all your fault, Sir Toby—had not you been aſleep, ſhe cou'd never have been ſtolan from your ſide.

How do you know ſhe is ſtolen? Enquire firſt, my Lady, and be in a paſſion afterwards.

I know ſhe's gone; I ſaw her with a young fel⯑low—he was upon his knees, ſwearing by the moon—let us have a Poſt-chaiſe, Sir Toby, di⯑rectly, and follow 'em.

Let us dine firſt, my dear, and I'll go wherever you pleaſe.

Dine, dine! Did you ever hear the like? you have no more feeling, Sir Toby, than your Peri⯑wig.—I ſhall go diſtracted—the greateſt curſe of a poor woman, is to have a flighty daughter, and a ſleepy huſband.—

And the greateſt curſe of a poor man, to have every body flighty in his family but himſelf.

'Tis true, Mr. Glib,—the young Lady is gone off, but with nobody that belongs to us—'tis a dreadful affair!

So it is faith, to ſpoil my Rehearſal—I think it was very ungenteel of her to chuſe this morning for her pranks; tho' ſhe might make free with her father and mother, ſhe ſhou'd have more man⯑ners than to treat me ſo;—I'll tell her as much when I ſee her.—The ſecond Act ſhall be ready for you next week.—I depend upon you for a prologue—your genius.—

You are too polite, Mr. Glib—have you an Epilogue?

I have a kind of Addreſs here, by way of Epi⯑logue, to the town—I ſuppoſe it to be ſpoken by myſelf, as the Author—who have you can repre⯑ſent me?—no eaſy taſk, let me tell you,—he muſt be a little ſmart, degageè, and not want aſſurance.

Smart, degageè, and not want aſſurance—King is the very man.

Thank, thank you, dear Mr. Patent,—the very man—is he in the houſe! I wou'd read it to him.

O no!—ſince the audience receiv'd him in Lin⯑co, he is practiſing muſick, whenever he is not wanted here.

I have heard as much; and that he continually ſets his family's teeth on edge, with ſcraping upon the fiddle.—Conceit, conceit, Mr. Patent, is the ruin of 'em all.—I could wiſh, when he ſpeaks this Addreſs, that he wou'd be more eaſy in his carriage, and not have that damn'd jerk in his bow, that he generally treats us with.

I'll hint as much to him.

This is my conception of the matter;—Bow your body gently, turn your head ſemicircularly, on one ſide and the other; and ſmiling, thus agreeably begin;