Enter PEARSE. What, is there any thing going on over the way ? Pearse. A rehearsal. Smart. Of what? Pearse. A new piece. Smart. Foote's? Pearse. Yes. Cank. Is he there? Pearse. He is. Smart. Zounds, let us go and see what he is about. Cank. With all my heart. Smart. Come along then. Enter FOOTE, and an A&or. [Exeunt. Foote. Sir, this will never do; you must get rid of your high notes, and country cant. Oh, 'tis the true strolling. Enter SMART and CANKER. Smart. Ha, ha, ha! what, hard at it, my boy!Here's old friend Canker and I come for a peep. your Well, and hey, what is your plan ? Foote. Plan ! Smart. Ay, what are your characters? Give us your groupe; how is your cloth fill'd? Foote. Characters! Smart. Ay.Come, come, communicate. What, man, we will lend thee a lift. I have a damned fine original for thee, an aunt of my own, just come from the North, with the true Newcastle bur in her throat; and a nose and a chin.I am afraid she is not well enough known: but I have a remedy for that. I'll bring her the first night of your piece, place her in a conspicuous station, and whisper the secret to the whole house. That will be damned fine, won't it? Foote. Oh, delicious! Smart. But don't name me.-For if she smokes me for the author, I shall be dashed out of her codicil in a hurry. Foote. Oh, never fear me. But I should think your uncle Tom a better character. Smart. What, the politician? Foote. Aye; that every day, after dinner, as soon as the cloth is removed, fights the battle of Minden, batters the French with cherry-stones, and pursues them to the banks of the Rhine, in a stream of spilt port. Smart. Oh, damn it, he'll do. Foote. Or what say you to your father-in-law, Sir Timothy who, though as broken-winded as a Hounslow post-horse, is eternally chaunting Venetian ballads. Kata tore cara higlia. Smart. Admirable by Heavens! Have you got 'em? Foote. No. Smart. Then in with 'em my boy. Foote. Not one. Smart. Pr'ythee why not? B Foote. Why look'e, Smart, though you are in the language of the world, my friend, yet there is one thing you, I am sure, love better than any body. Smart. What's that? Smart. No, pr'ythee Foote. How now am I sure that you, who so readily give up your relations, may not have some design upon me? Smart. I don't understand you. Foote. Why, as soon as my characters begin to circulate a little successfully, my mouth is stopped in a minute, by the clamour of your relations. Oh, damme, 'tis a shame, it should not be,-people of distinction brought upon the stage. compliment to your cousins, I am to be beggared for treating the public with the follies of your family, at your own request. And so out of Smart. How can you think I would be such a dog? What the devil, then, are we to have nothing personal? Give us the actors, however. Foote. Oh, that's stale. Besides, I think they have, of all men, the best right to complain. Smart. How so? Foote. Because, by rendering them ridiculous in their profession, you, at the same time, injure their pockets. Now as to the other gentry, they have providentially something besides their understanding to rely upon; and the only injury they can receive, is, that the whole town is then diverted with what before, was only the amusement of private parties. Cank. Give us then a national portrait: a Scotchman or an Irishman. Foote. If you mean merely the dialect of the two countries, I cann't think it either a subject of satire. or humour; it is an accidental unhappiness, for which a man is no more accountable, than the colour of his hair. Now affectation I take to be the true comic object. If, indeed, a North Briton, struck with a scheme of reformation, should advance from the banks of the Tweed, to teach the English the true pronunciation of their own language, he would, I think, merit your laughter: nor would a Dublin mechanic, who, from heading the Liberty- boys, in a skirmish on Ormond Quay, should think he had a right to prescribe military laws to the first commander in Europe, be a less ridiculous object. Smart. Are there such? Foote. If you mean that the blunders of a few peasants, or the partial principles of a single scoundrel, are to stand as characteristical marks of a whole country; your pride may produce a laugh, but, believe me, it is at the expence of your understanding. Cank. Heyday, what a system is here! Laws for laughing And pray, sage sir, instruct us when we may laugh with propriety? Foote. At an old beau, a superannuated beauty, a military coward, a stuttering orator, or a gouty dan cer. In short, whoever affects to be what he is not, or strives to be what he cannot, is an object worthy the poet's pen, and your mirth. Smart. Psha, I don't know what you mean by your is nots, and cannots-damned abstruse jargon.—Ha, Canker! Cank. Well, but if you will not give us persons, let us have things. Treat us with a modern amour, and a state intrigue, or a Foote. And so amuse the public ear at the expence of private peace. You must excuse me. Cank. And with these principles, you expect to thrive on this spot? Smart. No, no, it won't do. I tell thee the plain roast and boiled of the Theatres will never do at this table. We must have high seasoned ragoûts, and rich sauces. Foote. Why, perhaps, by way of dessert, I may produce something that may hit your palate. Smart. Your bill of fare? Foote. What think you of one of those itinerant field Orators, who, though at declared enmity with common sense, have the address to poison the principles, and at the same time pick the pockets of half our industrious fellow subjects? Cank. Have a care. Dangerous ground. Ludere cum sacris, you know. Foote. Now I look upon it in a different manner. I consider these gentlemen in the light of public performers, like myself; and whether we exhibit at Tot |