ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

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

Enter Vapid and a Servant.

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

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

Serv. Sir?

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

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

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

Serv. About twenty, sir.

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

Serv. Sir?

Vapid. Very fond of plays, I presume?

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

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

Enter Lady Waitfor't.

Lady. Sir, your most obedient.

Vapid. Ma'am.

[Bowing.

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

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

[Aside.

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

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

Lady. Oh, sir!

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

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

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

Lady. Has she, sir?—What may that be?

Vapid. Her passion for the stage.

Lady. Sir!

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

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

Vapid. Yes, yes, she has.

Lady. But I protest she has not.

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

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

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

Lady. Well, what do you know?

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

Lady. What?

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

Lady. Amazement!

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

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

Vapid. No,—How the devil should I?

Lady. Then know I am Lady Waitfor't!

Vapid. You Lady Waitfor't!

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

Vapid. Mercy on me!—here's incident!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Taking it down in his common place book.

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

[Exit.

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

[As he is going,

Enter Lord Scratch.

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

Lord. Sir, your most obedient.

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

Lord. Sir!

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

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

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

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

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

[Exit.

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

[Exit.

SCENE II.

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

Enter Vapid.

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

Enter Marianne, with a Book in her Hand.

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

[Courtesying.

Vapid. Ma'am.

[Bowing.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mari. I can't tell!

Vapid. Can't tell?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vapid. What's to be done!—why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mari. Toll de roll, &c.

Enter Lady Waitfor't.

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

Mari. Leave the room, aunt?

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

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

[Exit.

Lady. So—here's my lord—now to mention Ennui's play, and if it does but prejudice him against him, Willoughby marries Louisa, and Neville is in my own power.

Enter Lord Scratch.

Lord. That curst pantomime ruffian! nobody knows any thing about him—perhaps my lady has got a sudden touch of the dramatic mania, and prefers him—here she is—now if she would talk about the stage.

Lady. Pray be seated, my lord—I want to ask you a favour.

Lord. Ask me a favour? Is it possible?

[They sit.

Lady. Yes, for your friend Ennui—what do you think he has done?

Lord. What?

Lady. Turned author.—He has written a comedy.

Lord. A comedy!—she has it.

Lady. Yes—it's very true, and it has been approved of by men of the first dramatic fame.

Lord. Dramatic fame! she has it!—dam'me, she has it!

Lady. Nay, if you need farther proof, my lord, it has been approved by the manager of one of the theatres, and the curtain is to draw up next winter.

Lord. The curtain draw up!—Look ye, madam, I care no more for the manager or his theatre——

Lady. Now, my lord, the favour I have to ask of you is this—promise me to peruse the play, make alterations, and write the epilogue.

Lord. The epilogue!—fire and forefathers!

[Lady holds him.

Lady. Ay, or the prologue.

Lord. The prologue! blood and gunpowder!

[Vapid comes from behind the sofa, and smacks him on the back.

Vapid. Prologue or epilogue!—I'm the man—I'll write you both.

Lord. There he is again!

Lady. Oh! I shall faint with vexation!—My lord, I desire you'll misinterpret nothing—every thing shall be explained to you.—Marianne!

Lord. Here's the curtain up with a vengeance!

Enter Marianne.

Lady. Answer me directly, how came that gentleman in this apartment? I know it is some trick of yours.

Vapid. [Coming down the stage.] To be sure, never any thing was so fortunate!—upon my soul, I beg your pardon; but, curse me, if I can help laughing, to think how lucky it was for you both I happened to be behind the sofa!—ha! ha! ha!

Mari. [As if taking the hint.] 'Faith, no more can I—to be sure it was the luckiest thing in the world! ha! ha! ha!

[Here they both laugh loud, and point to my Lord, and Lady Waitfor't, who stand, between them in amazement.

Lady. Sir, I insist you lay aside this levity, and instantly explain how you came in this room.

Lord. Ay, sir,—explain.

Vapid. Never fear, old lady—I'll bring you off, depend on't.

Lady. Bring me off, sir! speak out, sir, how came you in this apartment?

Vapid. With all my heart—by her ladyship's own appointment.

Lady. My own appointment!—--I shall run wild.

Vapid. To be sure you have hardly forgot your own hand writing.

Lord. Her own hand writing!—get on, sir,—I beseech you, get on.

Vapid. Why, look ye, old Scratch,—you seem to be an admirer of this lady's.—Now I think it my duty as a moral dramatist—a moral dramatist, sir, mark that—to expose hypocrisy—therefore, sir, there is the letter, read it, and be convinced of your error.

Lord. Very well; have you done, sir—have you done?—consider I'm a peer of the realm, and I shall die if I don't talk.

Vapid. And now, sir, I must beg a favour of you—[Gets close to him.]—keep the whole affair secret, for if it gets hacknied, it loses its force.—To bring it all on the stage: hush! say nothing—it will have a capital effect, and brother bards will wonder where I stole it—your situation will be wonderful—you hav'n't an idea how ridiculous you will look—you will laugh very much at yourself, I assure you.

Lord. What is all this! Well, now I will speak—I'll wait no longer.

Vapid. Yes, yes, I shall take care of you,—Falstaff in the buck basket will be nothing to it—he was only the dupe of another man's wife,—you'll be the dupe of your own, you know—"think of that, Master Brook, think of that." Well, your servant.

[Exit.

Lord. He's gone without hearing me!—then there's an end of every thing, for here I stand, once a barrister,—since a country gentleman, and now a peer; and, though I have made twenty attempts to speak, I can't be heard a syllable,—mercy! what will this world come to! A peer, and not be heard!

Lady. My lord,—assured of my innocence, I have no doubt of justifying my own conduct, and even by means of that letter increasing your affection.—It was written to another person—your ungrateful nephew.

Lord. My nephew?

Lady. Yes, sir, I could not perceive him losing the esteem of his friends, without having the desire to reclaim him—indeed, I knew no better mode of fulfilling my project, than by personally warning him of his situation.—For this purpose, I wrote that letter, and I never thought it would have been thus misused.—If there is any improper warmth in the expressions, it only proceeds from my anxiety of ensuring an interview.—I hope, sir, you are satisfied.

Lord. Why, I believe you, my lady; and I should be perfectly satisfied if I could forget your passion for the stage, and that madman behind the sofa.

Lady. As to that, sir, this young lady can best inform you.—I desired him to leave the house an hour ago.

Mari. [Aside.] I'm afraid my only way is to confess all.—My lord, if I confess the truth, I hope you'll prevail on my aunt to forgive me.

Lord. Tell what you know, and I'll answer for your forgiveness.

Mari. Why, sir, I found the gentleman alone, and not having had a tête-a-tête a long time, I pressed him to stay, and, on hearing your voice, I put him behind the sofa,—that you might not think any thing had happened,—and, indeed, sir, nothing did happen—upon my word he's as quiet, inoffensive a gentleman as yourself.

Lord. My fears are over! Oh! you finished composition! come to my arms, and when I suspect you again—[Coughs much.]—this curst cough, it takes one so suddenly!

Enter Ennui.

Ennui. I've an idea—Floriville is arrived—in fact—I just now spoke to him.

Lord. Floriville arrived!—Come, my lady—let's go see what his travels have done for him.—Hark ye, Ennui—prepare for your interview with Louisa, and remember you make a mandarin member.—Come, my lady—nay, never irritate your feelings.

[Exeunt Lord and Lady.

Mari. So—poor Mr Neville is to lose Miss Courtney.—Her present quarrel with him is so violent, that she may marry this idiot merely in revenge.—If I could dupe him now, and ensure her contempt.—I'll try.—Mr Ennui, have you seen your intended wife yet?

Ennui. No.

Mari. So I thought—why you'll never please her while you remain as you are.—You must alter your manners.—She is all life!—all spirits!—and loves a man the very opposite to you.

Ennui. I've an idea—I'm very sorry—in fact—how can I please her?

Mari. There's the difficulty—let me see—the sort of man she prefers is—you know Sir Harry Hustle?—a man all activity and confidence!—who does every thing from fashion, and glories in confessing it.

Ennui. Sir Harry Hustle?—in fact—he's a modern blood of fashion.

Mari. I know—that's the reason she likes him, and you must become the same, if you wish to win her affection—a new dress—bold looks—a few oaths, and much swaggering, effects the business. [Ennui puts himself in attitudes.] Ay, that's right, you are the very man already.

Ennui. I'm a lad of fashion!—eh, dam'me!—I've an idea—I shall fall asleep in the midst of it.

Mari. No, no;—go about it directly—see Sir Harry Hustle, and study your conversation before hand—but remember Louisa is so fond of fashion, that you can't boast too much of its vices and absurdities.

Ennui. If virtue was the fashion, I should be virtuous!—I should, dam'me!

Mari. Ay, that's the very thing—well;—good bye, Mr Ennui—success attend you—mind you talk enough.

Ennui. Talk!—I'll talk till I fall asleep!—I will! dam'me!

[Exit, swaggering.—Marianne laughing.