SCENE, LONDON: in DANGLE's House during the First Act, and throughout the rest of the Play in DRURY LANE THEATRE.

PROLOGUE

BY THE HONOURABLE RICHARD FITZPATRICK

THE sister muses, whom these realms obey,
Who o'er the drama hold divided sway,
Sometimes, by evil counsellors, 'tis said,
Like earth-born potentates have been misled.
In those gay days of wickedness and wit,
When Villiers criticised what Dryden writ,
The tragic queen, to please a tasteless crowd,
Had learned to bellow, rant, and roar so loud,
That frightened Nature, her best friend before,
The blustering beldam's company forswore ;
Her comic sister, who had wit, 'tis true,
With all her merits, had her failings too;
And would sometimes in mirthful moments use
A style too flippant for a well-bred muse;
Then female modesty abashed began

To seek the friendly refuge of the fan,

A while behind that slight entrenchment stood,
Till driven from thence, she left the stage for good.

→ In our more pious, and far chaster times,
These sure no longer are the Muse's crimes !
But some complain that, former faults to shun,
The reformation to extremes has run.

The frantic hero's wild delirium past,

Now insipidity succeeds bombast;

So slow Melpomene's cold numbers creep,

Here dulness seems her drowsy court to keep,

And we are scarce awake, whilst you are fast asleep.

Thalia, once so ill-behaved and rude,

Reformed, is now become an arrant prude;

Retailing nightly to the yawning pit

The purest morals, undefiled by wit!
Our author offers, in these motley scenes,
A slight remonstrance to the drama's queens;
Nor let the goddesses be over nice;
Free-spoken subjects give the best advice.
Although not quite a novice in his trade,
His cause to-night requires no common aid.
To this, a friendly, just, and powerful court,
I come ambassador to beg support.

Can he undaunted brave the critic's rage?
In civil broils with brother bards engage?
Hold forth their errors to the public eye,
Nay more, e'en newspapers themselves defy?
Say, must his single arm encounter all?

By numbers vanquished, e'en the brave may fall;
And though no leader should success distrust,
Whose troops are willing, and whose cause is just;
To bid such host of angry foes defiance,
His chief dependence must be, your alliance.

ACT ONE

1

SCENE I. A Room in DANGLE'S House

MR. and MRS. DANGLE discovered at breakfast, and reading newspapers

Dang. [Reading.] Brutus to Lord North.-Letter the second on the State of the Army-Psha! To the first L dash D of the A dash Y.-Genuine extract of a Letter from St. Kitť's. -Coxheath Intelligence—It is now confidently asserted that Sir Charles Hardy-Psha! nothing but about the fleet and the nation!-and I hate all politics but theatrical politics. Where 's the Morning Chronicle?

Mrs. Dang. Yes, that 's your Gazette.

Dang. So, here we have it.-[Reads.] Theatrical intelligence extraordinary.—We hear there is a new tragedy in rehearsal at Drury Lane Theatre, called the Spanish Armada, said to be written by Mr. Puff, a gentleman well known in the theatrical world. If we may allow ourselves to give credit to the report of the performers, who, truth to say, are in general but indifferent judges, this piece abounds with the most striking and received beauties of modern composition.-So! I am very glad my friend Puff's tragedy is in such forwardness. -Mrs. Dangle, my dear, you will be very glad to hear that Puff's tragedy

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

Dang. Nay, my dear, I was only going to read

Mrs. Dang. No, no; you will never read anything that 's worth listening to. You hate to hear about your country; there are letters every day with Roman signatures, demonstrating the certainty of an invasion, and proving that the nation is utterly undone. But you never will read anything to entertain one.

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

Mrs. Dang. And what have you to do with the

theatre, Mr. Dangle? Why should you affect the character of a critic? I have no patience with you !-haven't you made yourself the jest of all your acquaintance by your interference in matters where you have no business? Are you not called a theatrical Quidnunc, and a mock Mæcenas to second-hand authors ?

Dang. True; my power with the managers is pretty notorious. But is it no credit to have applications from all quarters for my interest-from lords to recommend fiddlers, from ladies to get boxes, from authors to get answers, and from actors to get engagements?

Mrs. Dang. Yes, truly; you have contrived to get a share in all the plague and trouble of theatrical property, without the profit, or even the credit of the abuse that attends it.

Dang. I am sure, Mrs. Dangle, you are no loser by it, however; you have all the advantages of it. Mightn't you, last winter, have had the reading of the new pantomime a fortnight previous to its performance? And doesn't Mr. Fosbrook let you take places for a play before it is advertised, and set you down for a box for every new piece through the season? And didn't my friend, Mr. Smatter, dedicate his last farce to you at my particular request, Mrs. Dangle?

Mrs. Dang. Yes; but wasn't the farce damned, Mr. Dangle? And to be sure it is extremely pleasant to have one's house made the motley rendezvous of all the lackeys of literature: the very high 'Change of trading authors and jobbing critics ?—Yes, my drawing-room is an absolute register office for candidate actors, and poets without character. Then to be continually alarmed with misses and ma'ams piping hysteric changes on Juliets and Dorindas, Pollys and Ophelias; and the very furniture trembling at the probationary starts and unprovoked rants of would-be Richards and Hamlets -And what is worse than all, now that the manager has monopolised the Opera House, haven't we the signors and signoras calling here, sliding their smooth semibreves, and gargling glib divisions in their outlandish throats-with foreign emissaries and French spies, for aught I know, disguised like fiddlers and figure-dancers ?

Dang. Mercy! Mrs. Dangle!

Mrs. Dang. And to employ yourself so idly at such an alarming crisis as this too-when, if you had the least