ENGLISH READINGS; A COMIC PIECE, IN ONE ACT.
INSCRIBED TO GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR C. DILLY, IN THE POULTRY. M.DCC.LXXXVII.
AMONG the Performers to whom the Author of the following Dramatic Sketch esteems himself obliged for their endeavours to promote its success, MR. BANNISTER, Junior, MR. WEWITZER, MR. MOSS, and MRS. WEBB, are entitled to his particular thanks.
Mr. COLMAN'S conduct respecting this little Piece is its own panegyric. The first scenes were sent to that gentleman anonymously: he deemed them not destitute of merit, and therefore encouraged the Author to compleat the rest. Mr. COLMAN has since devoted the utmost care and attention to prepare the Piece for representation; and, in short, has interested himself warmly in its success, though the Author remains unknown to him.
Dramatis Personae.
BOOTEKIN
Mr. MOSS.
BOB BOOTEKIN
Mr. BANNISTER, Jr.
STATELY
Mr. WEWITZER.
SPATULA
Mr. JOHNSON.
DISMAL
Mr. BARRETT.
Captain WILMOT
Mr. LAWRANCE.
Mrs. POPLIN
Mrs. WEBB.
CHARLOTTE
Miss FRANCIS.
KITTY
Miss BRANGIN.
N.B.
The passages marked with double inverted commas, thus " ", are omitted in the representation.
ENGLISH READINGS; A COMIC PIECE.
SCENE. A Room in BOOTEKIN'S House.
KITTY and Capt. WILMOT.
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 consider 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 prevent 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— You know from the moment that my master quitted 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 foundation.—Next, the lady had card-parties;—determin'd not to be behind-hand, the old man quitted his pipe and bottle for
Loo
and
Pope Joan.
"
And now the whim of burlesqueing 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.
"
Enter CHARLOTTE.
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 captain 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
Readings
turn to our advantage—"if we can but persuade your father to alter the place of exhibition 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.
[Exeunt.
Enter BOOTEKIN and DISMAL.
Hold your tongue, sirrah!—and don't contradict me—you know I can't bear opposition.
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 humour—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 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
journal
—but I'm resolved to like reading now, from mere opposition—What the devil, an't I a better gentleman, by a
hundred
a year, than any man in the neighbourhood?—and shall a paultry mantua-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 provoking dog it is!"
The first time she can catch you absent 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 Sunday-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.
[Pushing him.
Perhaps you'll think of my words.
[pushes him out]
Not if I can help it—they always give me the vapours.
Enter KITTY.
Sir, there is Mr. Stately, the great lawyer, 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.—
[Exit Kitty]
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.
Enter STATELY.
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 confused—tho', indeed, how shou'd you have ideas—do you know what an idea is?—it is—I'll tell you another 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 trouble to speak at the bar in your life.
Explanation
was always my motto.
[Aside]
"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 jabber 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 complimented by being made churchwarden immediately 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 county 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! 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 hobnail'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, become wider of the mark every moment, 'till at last they leave no trace of what occasioned them." He! He! He!
[Imitating him.]
Mr. Bootekin, you are ignoramus, as we say in the courts, and therefore—
I beg pardon, Mr. Stately—I was too warm.—
[Aside]
Egad I shall lose the legacy.—
[To him]
I thank you much for the honour of 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.—
[Enter Kitty.]
—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.
[Exit.
[Aside]
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.—
[Aside]
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.—
[To her]
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.—
[To her]
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!
[Aside]
There—now it won't do—she begins to laugh—
I am sure, Sir, you are too good-natur'd a gentleman.
Yes, my dear, you'll find me so.—
[Aside]
Egad, it
will do
after all.
[To her]
My sweet little Kitty, will you favour me so far as to—to—
[Enter Bootekin and Bob Bootekin, who runs up to Stately, and shakes him by the hand]
—to tell 'em to give my horse some corn?—do, my dear, go directly—
[Exit Kitty.]
—
[Aside]
To be interrupted 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 remember 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 gentleman?
Mr. Stately, pray excuse my nephew's freedom of speech, he! he!—
[Aside to Bob]
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— but, pray Sir, don't you find it necessary, sometimes, 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 speculation—
—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 account of its peculiar importance, and at the desire of several respectable members—
What may that be?
Is the tinker, the taylor, or the lamplighter, the most useful member of society?
"And how might it have been determined?"
"Why, Sir—as our advertisement in the newspapers next day very properly stated—this question gave rise to a most important and interesting 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 honour'd the question with their attention—(by the bye,
I
was prodigiously great that night)—with their attention.—But the variety of material points which presented for discussion protracting 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 ensued between two ladies—the
moderator
flew into a
violent passion
—constables were sent for—and the debate ended—
As most political disputes end—neither party giving up the point.—Well, I must go and pay a few visits to some of my old acquaintance—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.
[Exit.
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, however—and that's the principal part of the business.
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.
Enter WILMOT.
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 goodsense will lead you to adopt a scheme which will shew Mr. Robert Bootekin's superior talents to advantage."
"Upon my soul, uncle, he seems to be a mighty civil man."
[Aside to Bob]
"Aye, Bob—and talks very sensibly too."—
[To Wilmot]
"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 negociate a peace, because your trade is war—a devilish good choice of hers, and worthy of an Irish woman.
"Vastly well, indeed, Mr. Bootekin—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 table—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 interrupt you.
In a word, Sir, you know Mrs. Poplin 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 subject, 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 company.—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, 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!
[Exeunt.
SCENE changes to a Room at the George Inn—Servants are setting up the Benches, and lighting the Candles.
MRS. POPLIN, WILMOT, and SPATULA.
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.
[Exit.
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 snuffing 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 always larn first by heart;
becase,
d' ye see, there's no reading well while one looks at the book.
"True, thou matchless work of nature.—
[Aside]
She's in a devilish good humour—now's my time to renew the attack.—
[To her]
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 cataplasm 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 apothecary—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!"
Enter STATELY.
Hey day, Mrs Poplin!—why you seem to be rehearsing with a great deal of animation.
I hope, Sir, I never want animation, 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."
[Exit Spatula.
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!
Re-enter SPATULA.
Cruel beauty!—The neighbours are come to have a
dose
of your reading.—
[Enter a number of Country People whimsically drest.]
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.
[They converse in dumb shew.]
—
[Enter Bootekin, Bob Bootekin, Wilmot, Charlotte, and Kitty, followed by a number of Bootekin's friends, drest as ridiculously as the others.]
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 into the next room, and I'll follow you—
[Exit Charlotte.]
—"Our sole dependance is on you, Kitty—keep the old man from following us—and in case he should be very troublesome, remember what we have agreed upon.—Now kind fortune smile but for once!"
[Exit.
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 public 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.—
[Aside to Stately]
—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 performance.—
Here, Madam, is an edition of the play, in which I have obliterated many of the less important passages—taken out all the
nonsense
of Shakespear.
[Mrs. Poplin and Bob seat themselves.]
Silence there!—Now for it, Bob.
Shall I begin, Sir?
No, Ma'am—I begin, if you please.—
' But soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
' It is the east!—and Juliet is the sun!
' Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand,
' That I might touch that cheek!'
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?"—
[Turning round to look for Charlotte, Kitty stops him.]
"Hush, my dear Sir—you'll interrupt Mrs. Poplin."
[Reading]
' Ah me!'
O dulcissime!
[Reading]
' She speaks!
' Oh speak again, bright angel—for
' Thou art as glorious to this sight, being
' O'er my head, as is a winged messenger
' From heaven unto the white, upturned
' Wondering eye of mortals, that fall
' Back to gaze on him, when he
' Bestrides the lazy pacing clouds,
' And sails upon the bosom of the air.'
[Reading]
' Oh Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?—Deny'—
[Reading, and interrupting her]
' Shall I hear
more,
or shall I
speak
at this?'
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.—
[Reading]
' I take thee at thy word,
' Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd,
' Henceforth I
never
will be Romeo.'
"A very judicious resolution, egad!"
Upon my word, young gentleman, this is mighty pretty—you have scratched 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.
[Aside]
She is nettled at the applause I have received.
[Reading]
' Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,
' Else wou'd a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
' For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight;
' Fain wou'd I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
' What I have
spoke
—but farewell compliment'—
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 Wilmot gone too!—Oh, Lord, my mind misgives me.—
[to Kitty]
Let me alone, hussey, I will find her."
[Aside]
"Then I must e'en put our scheme in practice."
[Exit.
Sir, I say I
will
go on.
[To Bob.]
Nay, Ma'am, if you come to that, so will I.—Now,
lungs,
do your office.
[both reading together.]
Confound ye both—can't ye be quiet for a moment—I have lost my daughter!—"Come here, Bob—and let us go."
Enter KITTY.
"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."—
[Two or three constables come in, and seize Bootekin and Bob—Stately, Spatula, and country people go off in the utmost confusion.]
"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 interrupt 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."
Enter CHARLOTTE and WILMOT.
Pardon me, Sir—here is
your
daughter, and
my
wife.
Your wife?
[To the constables.]
"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.
[Aside]
"I can't bear to be taunted by her.—
[To Bob]
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."
Enter SPATULA and STATELY.
"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 medicine, 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."
[To Wilmot]
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 blockhead—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 resolv'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.
THE END.