you know, is to do away with old prejudices, and to rescue certain characters from the illiberal odium with which custom has marked them. Thus we have a generous Israelite, an amiable cynic, and so on. Now, sir, I call my play "The Humane Footpad."

Dag. What?

Fus. There's a title for you! Is n't it happy? Eh! how do you like my Footpad."

64

Dag. Humph! I think he 'll strike—but then he ought to be properly executed.

Fus. Oh, sir, let me alone for that. An exception to a general rule is the grand secret of dramatic composition. Mine is a free-booter of benevolence, and plunders with sentiment.

Dag. There may be something in that, and for my part, I was always with Shakespere-" Who steals my purse, steals trash."-I never had any weighty reasons for thinking otherwise. Now, sir, as we say, please to "leave off your horrible faces, and begin."

Fus. My horrible faces!

Dag. Come, we 'll to 't like French falconers.

Fus. [Reading.] Scene first. . . . A dark wood, night. Dag. A very awful beginning.

Fus. [Reading.] The moon behind a cloud.

Dag. That's new. An audience never saw a moon behind a cloud before—but it will be very hard to paint.

Fus. Don't interrupt; where was I? oh! behind a cloud. Dag. "The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces—” Fus. Hey, the deuce; what are you at?

Dag. Beg pardon; but that speech never comes into my head but it runs away with me.

Fus. Enter. [Reading.]

Dag. "The solemn temples."

Fus. Nay, then, I 've done.
Dag. So have I. I'm dumb.

Proceed.

Fus. Enter Egbert musing. [Reading.]

Dag. O.P?

Fus. Pshaw! what does that signify?

Dag. Not much. "the globe itself"

Fus. [Reading.] Egbert musing, clouded in night I

come

Dag. [Starting up.] "The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples," &c., &c., &c.

Fus. [Gets up.] He's mad! a bedlamite! raves like a Lear, and foams out a folio of Shakespere without drawing breath. I'm almost afraid to stop in the room with him. Enter Servant

Oh! I'm glad you're come, friend, now I shall be delivered; your master would be glad to see me, I warrant.

Serv. My master is just gone out, sir.

Fus. Gone out!

Dag. "Oh, day and night; but this is wondrous strange." Fus. What! without seeing me, who have been waiting for him these three hours?

Dag. Three hours! pugh. I've slept here these five mornings, in this old arm chair.

Fus. Pretty treatment! Pretty treatment, truly! to be kept here half the morning, kicking my heels in a manager's ante-room, shut up with a mad Dunstable actor.

Dag. Mad! Zounds, sir! I'd have you to know that, "When the wind is northerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw."

Fus. Tell your master, friend, tell your master,—but no matter; he don't catch me here again, that 's all. I'll go home, turn my play into a pageant, put a triumphal procession at the end on 't, and bring it out at one of the winter theatres. [Exit.

Dag. Young man, you know me. I shall come to my old chair again to-morrow, but must go to Dunstable the day after, for a week, to finish my engagement. Wish for an interview, inclination to tread the London boards, and so on. You remember my name-Mr. Sylvester Daggerwood, whose benefit is fixed for the 11th of June, by particular desire of several persons of distinction.

Serv. I shall be sure to tell him, sir.

Dag. "I find thee apt;

"And duller wouldst thou be than the fat weed

"That rots itself at ease on Lethe's wharf,

66

Wouldst thou not stir in this." Open the street door. Go on! I'll follow thee.

COLMAN.

THE CRITIC.

First Selection.

DANGLE, SNEER.

Enter SERVANT.

Sneer. Sir Fretful Plagiary, sir.

Dang. Beg him to walk up.

Sneer. You have read the tragedy he has just finished, havn't you?

Dang. O yes; he sent it to me yesterday.

Sneer. Well, and you think it execrable, don't you? Dang. Why, between ourselves, egad, I must ownthough he is my friend-that it is one of the most-He's here-[Aside.]-finished and most admirable performSir Fret. [Without.] Mr. Sneer with him, did you say - ? Enter SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.

Dang. Ah, my dear friend !-Egad, we were just speaking of your tragedy.-Admirable, Sir Fretful, admirable! Sneer. You never did anything beyond it, Sir Fretful— never in your life.

Sir Fret. You make me extremely happy; for without a compliment, my dear Sneer, there isn't a man in the world whose judgment I value as I do yours and Mr. Dangle's.

Dang. But, Sir Fretful, have you sent your play to the manager's yet?—or can I be of any service to you?

Sir Fret. No, no, I thank you: I believe the piece had sufficient recommendation with it. I thank you, though. -But come, now, there must be something that you think might be mended, eh ?-Mr. Dangle, has nothing struck you?

Dang. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing, for the most part, to

Sir Fret. With most authors it is so, indeed; they are in general, strangely tenacious! But, for my part, I am never so well pleased as when a judicious critic points out any defect to me; for what is the purpose of showing a work to a friend, if you don't mean to profit by his opinion?

Sneer. Very true.-Why, then, though I seriously admire the piece upon the whole, yet there is one small objection; which, if you 'll give me leave, I'll mention.

Sir Fret. Sir, you can't oblige me more.
Sneer. I think it wants incident.

Sir Fret. Good Heavens! you surprise me!- Wants incident?

Sneer. Yes; I own I think the incidents are too few.

Sir Fret. Good Heavens! Believe me, Mr. Sneer, there is no person for whose judgment I have a more implicit deference. But I protest to you, Mr. Sneer, I am only apprehensive that the incidents are too crowded.—My dear Dangle, how does it strike you?

Dang. Really I can't agree with my friend Sneer. I think the plot quite sufficient; and the first four acts by many degrees the best I ever read or saw in my life. If I might venture to suggest anything, it is that the interest rather falls off in the fifth.

Sir Fret. Rises, I believe you mean, Sir.

Dang. No, I don't, upon my word.

Sir Fret. Yes, yes, you do, upon my honour!—it certainly don't fall off, I assure you.-No, no; it don't fall off. Dang. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able to get rid as easily of the newspaper criticisms as you do of ours.

Sir Fret. The newspapers! Sir, they are the most villanous-licentious-abominable-infernal-Not that I ever read them-no-I make it a rule never to look into a newspaper.

Dang. You are quite right; for it certainly must hurt an author of delicate feelings to see the liberties they take.

Sir Fret, No, quite the contrary! Their abuse is, in fact, the best panegyric-I like it of all things. An author's reputation is only in danger from their support. Sneer. Why that's true-and that attack, now, on you the other day

Sir Fret. What? Where?

Dang. Ay, you mean in a paper of Thursday: it was completely ill-natured, to be sure.

Sir Fret. O so much the better.-Ha! ha! ha! I wouldn't have it otherwise.

Dang. Certainly, it is only to be laughed at; for

Sir Fret. You don't happen to recollect what the fellow said, do you?

Sneer. Pray, Dangle-Sir Fretful seems a little anxious

Sir Fret. O lud, no!—anxious !—not I,—not the least, —I,—but one may as well hear, you know.

Dang. Sneer, do you recollect?-[Aside to SNEER.]— Make out something.

Sneer. [Aside to DANGLE.] I will.-[Aloud.] Yes, yes; I remember perfectly.

Sir Fret. Well, and pray now-not that it signifieswhat might the gentleman say?

Sneer. Why, he roundly asserts that you have not the slightest invention or original genius whatever; though you are the greatest traducer of all other authors living. Sir Fret. Ha! ha! ha!-very good!

Sneer. That as to comedy, you have not one idea of your own, he believes, even in your common-place-book—where stray jokes and pilfered witticisms are kept with as much method as the ledger of the lost and stolen office.

Sir Fret. Ha ha! ha!-very pleasant!

Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to have the skill even to steal with taste:-that you glean from the refuse of obscure volumes, where more judicious plagiarists have been before you; so that the body of your work is a composition of dregs and sentiments-like a bad tavern's worst wine.

Sir Fret. Ha! ha!

Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, your bombast would be less intolerable, if the thoughts were ever suited to the expression; but the homeliness of the sentiment stares through the fantastic encumbrance of its fine language, like a clown in one of the new uniforms!

Sir Fret. Ha! ha!

Sneer. In short, that even the finest passages you steal are of no service to you; for the poverty of your own language prevents their assimilating; so that they lie on the surface like lumps of marl on a barren moor, encumbering what it is not in their power to fertilise.

Sir Fret. [After great agitation.] Now, another person would be vexed at this.

Sneer. O but I wouldn't have told you-only to divert you.

Sir Fret. I know it-I am diverted.-Ha! ha! ha!—