SIR WALTER WILTON.- Brown suit with brass buttons -old-fashioned white wig and tail-high riding boots without tops-old man's hat.

BRADFORD.-Blue frock coat-black velvet waistcoat --white trowsers-black kerchief-round hat-switch cane -hessian boots.

BUSKIN.-First dress: Black tight pantaloons-fancy socks-shoes-brown coat-fashionable waistcoat-round hat. Second dress. Red jacket, with sleeves worsted stockings pulled over the pantaloons -old shoes-red wig. Third dress: A waiter's jacket, striped-white waistcoat(pantaloons, &c., as before.) Fourth dress: White jacket and apron. (For Cook, change the wig, and put on a night cap.) Fifth dress: Same as first,

TAP.-Drab coat-buff waistcoat-corduroy breechesgaiters-apron.

FANNY.-Grey silk gown (short sleeved) - white -white cap and blue ribbons - white apron

petticoat kerchief.

-

STAGE DIRECTIONS.

The Editor of this Work prints no Plays but those which he has seen acted. The Stage Directions are from personal observations, during the performance.

R. means (Right.) L. (Left) C. (Centre) R. C. (Right) of Centre.) L. C. (Left of Centre.) D. F. (Door in the Flat, or Scene running across the back of the Stage.) C. D. F. (Centre Door in the Flat.) R. D. F. (Right Door in the Flat.) L. D. F. (Left Door in the Flat.) R. D. (Right Door.) L. D. (Left door.) S. E. (Second Entrance.) U. E. (Upper Entrance.)

**The Reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience.

REMARKS.

A Day at an Err.

THIS interlude has completely superseded the original farce of "Killing no Murder" on the boards of the Metropolitan theatres. The late Mr. Matthews was the first person who took the liberty of cutting into half this inimitable production of the inimitable Hook; and we must say to the aforesaid liberty, the play-goer is indebted for many nights of amusement which he would not otherwise have had. Mr. George Wild may be pronounced the best living Buskin on the stage. It is no mean compliment to this gentleman's abilities, to say, that in our editorial capacity we have had to attend the theatre more than a dozen consecutive occasions, when "A Day at an Inn" formed a part of the night's entertainment. We must confess, that so far from Mr. Wild's exertions failing upon repetition, we found fresh matter to laugh at, and always discovered ourselves inwardly exclaiming, "that actor will be the death of us. "So much for the effect; -a word for the cause. Mr. Wild, as an actor, is admirably fitted for the part of Buskin; he is full of animal spirits, sings what is called a pattee" song admirably, dresses well, and never takes unbecoming liberties with his audience. He has all the humour of the late glorious John, without that gentleman's grossness, and as an imitator, he is very nearly, if not quite equal to Mr. Yates.

By the way, we attended a performance of this interlude on a recent occasion, and were much disappointed to find the theatre half empty. The attractions of the night had been considerably enhanced by the additional names of several popular performers, male and female. It was for Mr. Wild's benefit, (himself a host) but strange to say, the combined allurements of tragedy, comedy, opera, and farce, failed to produce the desired end. Mr. W. had not

It would

much to thank the public for-his friends less. really appear that the influence of English society, never auspicious to the interests of the drama, seems to have

latterly set directly against it. As a people, we want that communicativeness of manner and elasticity of temper which inclines to public amusement, and promotes its vigour. According to some, we are too sensible, according to others, too selfish, for purely popular enjoyments. The same spirit that inculcates the suppression of a village fair, or a country dance in an ale-house, forbids the patrician to rub shoulders with a plebeian on the same seat at a theatre. If the Opera has succeeded better than other houses, the triumph is principally to be assigned to the distinction of private boxes and a felicitous union of the greatest possible degree of seclusion with the fullest extent of publicity. To see and to be seen, and yet sit far aloof from the vulgar, for the sake of whose admiring suffrage, the exhibition is suffered, constitutes the rule and conduct of those who affect to lead the modern world. No partiality for the drama has raged amongst the upper clsses for some years. back. As the lovers of the tragic and comic muse fell off, the actor's patrons diminished in wealth and numbers, and the excercise of dramatic authorship subsided as the admirers of the talent grew first indifferent, and then ceased to be found. The writer of a good play once filled the very first rank of literature amongst us: he has now degenerated to the lowest. For much off this loss of grade, the dramatist himself is responsible; but society has also something to answer in the matter.

The extent to which domestic refinements have been carried amongst us, has greatly detracted from the general avidity for theatrical amusements. The more comfort we

can have at home, the less we are disposed to look for pleasure abroad. For one evening party given in the metropolis thirty years ago, you have fifty given now, and better given too-with more elegance, greater variety of entertainment, and far superior resources for intellectual pastime. How many a votary of the stage is thus nightly seduced from his attendance at the theatre is hardly necessary to point out.

PHILO DRAMATICUS.

A DAY AT AN INN.

SCENE I.

The Front of an Inn, R. U. E.— -On the sign-board, the words

"The London Inn."

Enter TAP and FANNY, from the house.

Tap. This way, gentlemen, this way; dinner for the Dragon, and lights to the ladies in the Sun. This way, Fanny-this way. [Exit Tap, R. 3d E.

Fan. This way, Fanny-I say this way, brother Charley. If you catch me waiting on a parcel of paltry passengers from a long coach, licensed to carry sixteen insides, I'll be hanged. No, I've borne this long enough, and now I'll show a proper spirit-I expect my dear Mr. Buskin, the playacting gentleman, here every minute-he's the man for me

he talks so much nonsense, that it does one's heart good to hear him; all about Romeo, and Coriolanus, and Caleb Quotem,-and, i'cod, here he comes-and now the coach, passengers and all, may go to the deuce.

Enter BUSKIN, L. S. E.

Bus. Ha, ma chere ma'amselle, je suis votre tres humble that is to say, in plain English, Miss Fanny, how d'ye do?' Fan. [R. c.] Pretty well, I thank you, Mr. Buskin.

Bus. [L. c.] Pretty, I see you are-well, I hear you are glad to hear itt-new idea that, and very forcible. Do I intrude?

Fan. Not in the least.

Bus. If I do, say so-verbum sat-I am theatricalgive me my cus O. P.-P. S. I'm off. Exit in a hurry.

Fan. Ay, we are all in a hurry here, our house is quite full; so many people come in upon the stage every night, that

Bus. Full house-good sign-the dinner, produced for the first time yesterday, having been received with unbounded applause by an overflowing audience, will be repeated every day till farther notice-so ran my bills when my theatre was full-same effect-different cause-my overflows were owing to the great number of people who came out on the stage every night-but a truce with theatricals, and away with mirth, for though, to be your lover is, as I may say, the greatest happiness of my lifeI am sorry to add-this is positively the last time of my appearing in that character.

Fan. Why so?

Bus. I leave this town to-morrow-by Jupiter I mustI am immovably fixed, and must go; and so inevitably do I love you, that I have sworn never to see your pretty face again.

Fan. Why do you go, Mr. Buskin?

Bus. I go, miss

- by particular desire of several persons of distinction-your brother-your future husband – bear to see you married to another?

can I

Fan. You never will-declare yourself to Charles at once. Bus. I dare not-I am- -poor-thin, and miserable

he is fat-rich, and impudent-no, fly I must.

Fan. Fly! [Crosses to R. Bus. Yes-exit Buskin by the wing-I have no money. Fan. [L. c.] Is that all?-I fear you have some engagement in the country.

Bus. An engagement in the country! I wish I had, with all my soul.

Fan. Can you be serious?

Bus. To say truth, I never tried-it's out of my linebut I'll endeavour. Romeo, Romeo

Fan. "O wherefore art thou, Romeo?" Weep not; my mind is made up-nobody will I marry but you, that's plain. [Embracing him.

Bus. [Aside.] Tolerably so, egad. That's right, stick to that, and we shall do.

Fan. Where is your friend, Mr. Bradford?

Bus. At the villa in the village, no doubt; he has fallen most desperate deep in love with Miss Wellington, niece to the lady of the manor.