_The Grove.--LADY WAITFOR'T'S House._
_Enter MARIANNE, and LETTY, from the House._
_Mari._ But I tell you I will come out--I didn't come to Bath to be
confined, nor I won't--I hate all their company, but sweet Miss
Courtney's.
_Letty._ I declare, Miss Marianne, you grow worse and worse every day,
your country manners will be the ruin of you.
_Mari._ Don't you talk about that, Letty--It was a shame to bring me up
in the country--if I had been properly taken care of, I might have done
great things--I might have married the poet I danced with at the
ball--But it's all over now.--I shall never get a husband, and, what's
worse, my aunt did it on purpose.--She ruined me, Letty, that nobody
else might.
_Letty._ How you talk!--I hope Miss Courtney hasn't taught you all this?
_Mari._ No,--she's a dear creature,--she has taught me many things; but
nothing improper, I'm sure.
_Letty._ Pray, has she taught you why she never plays any tune but the
one we heard just now?
_Mari._ Yes--and if you'll keep it a secret, I'll tell you, Letty; Mr
Harry Neville taught it her last summer,--and now she is always playing
it, because it puts her in mind of the dear man;--when it is ended,
don't you observe how she sighs from the bottom of her dear little
heart?
_Letty._ Why, I thought they had quarrelled?
_Mari._ So they have--she won't see him, and I believe my aunt, Lady
Waitfor't, has been the occasion of it;--poor Mr Neville!--I wish I
could assist him, for indeed, Letty, I always pity any body that is
crossed in love--it may be one's own case one day or other, you know.
_Letty._ True--and for the same reason, I suppose, you rejoice when it
is successful.--I'm sure now the intended marriage of Lady Waitfor't and
Lord Scratch gives you great pleasure.
_Mari._ What! the country gentleman who has lately come to his title?
No, if you'll believe me, I don't like him at all,--he's a sour old
fellow--is always abusing our sex, and thinks there is only one good
woman under heaven:--now, I'm sure that's a mistake, for I know I'm a
good woman, and I think, Letty, you are another.
_Letty._ Yes,--I hope so, though I confess I think your aunt is better
than either of us.
_Mari._ More shame for you--she is a woman of sentiment, and hums you
over with her flourishes about purity, and feelings.--Feelings!--'faith,
she ought to be ashamed of herself--no other woman would talk in that
manner.
_Letty._ You mistake her--she is a woman of virtue, and can't help
feeling for the vices and misfortunes of others.
_Mari._ Then why can't she do as I have done, Letty? keep her feelings
to herself--If I had given way to them half so much as she has--Oh Lord!
I don't know what might have been the consequence.
_Letty._ For shame! You never hear Lady Waitfor't speak ill of any body.
_Mari._ No,--How should she, when she talks of nobody but herself?
_Letty._ Well, your opinion is of little weight; my Lord sees her merit,
and is come to Bath on purpose to marry her--he thinks her a prodigy of
goodness.
_Mari._ Then, pray let him have her--every fool knows so, to be sure he
does, Letty, that a prodigy of goodness is a very rare thing;--but when
he finds her out!--'faith, it will be a rare joke, when he finds her
out.
_Letty._ Shameful, Miss Marianne! do speak a little intelligibly, and
remember your aunt's favourite observation.
_Mari._ What is it?--I have forgot.
_Letty._ That good sentiments are always plain.
_Mari._ Yes,--so are good women,--bid her remember that, Letty.
_Letty._ Hush:--say no more--here she comes, and Mr Willoughby with her.
_Mari._ Ay--that man is always with her of late--but come, Letty, let's
get out of their way--let's take a walk, and look at the beaux.
_Letty._ The beaux! ah, I see you long to become a woman of fashion.
_Mari._ No--though I hate the country, I never will become a woman of
fashion--I know too well what it is to do many things one don't like,
and 'faith, while there is such real pleasure in following my own
inclinations, I see no reason why, merely out of fashion, I should be
obliged to copy other people's. [_Exit, with LETTY._
_Enter LADY WAITFOR'T and WILLOUGHBY._
_Lady._ [_To SERVANT._] When my lord returns, tell him I'm gone to Lady
Walton's, and shall be back immediately.
_Will._ Then your ladyship is certain Harry Neville is arrived.
_Lady._ Yes--the ungrateful man arrived last night, and, as I yet mean
to consult his happiness, I have written to him to come to me this
evening--but I will ever oppose his union with my lord's ward, Louisa
Courtney, because I think it will be the ruin of them both; and you
know, Willoughby, one cannot forget one's feelings on those occasions.
_Will._ Certainly--Ennui, the time-killer, whose only business in life
is to murder the hour, is also just arrived; and my lord is resolved on
his marrying Louisa instantly.
_Lady._ True--and only because he'll make a quiet member for his brother
in the west. But, for various reasons, I am determined she shall be
yours--yet it must be done artfully--my circumstances are deranged, and
an alliance with my lord Scratch is the only hope of relief.--Such are
the fruits of virtue, Willoughby.
_Will._ Well--but her fortune is entirely dependent on my Lord's
consent, and how is that to be obtained? You know I am no favourite, and
Ennui is a great one.
_Lady._ I know it, and therefore we must incense him against Ennui--let
me see----can't we contrive some mode,--some little ingenious story--he
is a singular character, you know, and has violent prejudices.
_Will._ True--and of all his prejudices, none is so violent, or
entertaining, as that against authors and actors.
_Lady._ Yes,--the stage is his aversion, and some way or other----I have
it--it's an odd thought, but may do much--suppose we tell him Ennui has
written a play.
_Will._ The luckiest thought in the world! it will make him hate him
directly.
_Lady._ Well, leave it to me--I'll explain the matter to him
myself,--and my life on't it proves successful. You see, Willoughby, my
only system is to promote happiness.
_Will._ It is indeed, Lady Waitfor't--but if this fails, may I still
hope for your interest with Miss Courtney?
_Lady._ Yes,--I'm determined she shall be yours, and neither Neville's
nor Ennui's.--But come, it's late--here he is.
_Will._ We'll get rid of him.
_Enter ENNUI._
_Lady._ Mr Ennui, your most obedient--we are going to the Parade--have
you seen your cousin Neville?
_Ennui._ I've an idea--I've just left him.
_Lady._ I suppose we shall see you at Lady Walton's this evening?--till
then, adieu. [_Exeunt LADY WAITFOR'T and WILLOUGHBY._
_Ennui._ I've an idea, I don't like this Lady Waitfor't--she wishes to
trick me out of my match with Miss Courtney, and if I could trick her in
return--[_Takes out his Watch._] How goes the enemy?--only one
o'clock!--I thought it had been that an hour ago!--heigho!--here's my
patron, Lord Scratch.
_Enter LORD SCRATCH._
_Lord._ What a wonderful virtue is the art of hearing!--may I die, if a
listener be found any where:--Zounds! am not I a peer, and don't I talk
by prerogative?--and, if I mayn't talk ten times as much as another
person, what's the use of my peerage?
_Ennui._ I've an idea--I don't comprehend you.
_Lord._ That fellow Neville wouldn't hear a word I had to
say:--abandoned young dog!--he's come to Bath to invent tales against
that divinity, Lady Waitfor't, again, I suppose--but my ward, Louisa,
shall be put out of his power for ever--she shall marry you to-morrow.
_Ennui._ In fact--I always forgot to give your lordship joy of your
title, though not of your dress.
_Lord._ Not of my dress!--ay, ay;--that's the difference--you poor
devils, in humble life, are obliged to dress well, to look like
gentlemen--we peers may dress as we please--[_Looking at his watch._]
but I shall lose my appointments--past two o'clock.
_Ennui._ Past two o'clock!--delightful!
_Lord._ Delightful!--what, at your old tricks?
_Ennui._ I'd an idea--it had been only one.
_Lord._ And you're delighted because it's an hour later?
_Ennui._ To be sure I am--my dear friend, to be sure I am--the enemy has
lost a limb.
_Lord._ So you're happy, because you're an hour nearer the other
world?--tell me now,--do you wish to die?
_Ennui._ No.--But I wish somebody would invent a new mode of killing
time--in fact, I think I've found one--private acting.
_Lord._ Acting!--never talk to me about the stage--I detest a theatre,
and every thing that belongs to it: and if ever--but no matter--I must
to Lady Waitfor't, and prevail on her to marry me at the same time you
marry my ward.--But, remember our agreement--you are to settle your
estate on Louisa, and I am to bring you into parliament.
_Ennui._ In fact, I comprehend--I am to be a hearer and not a speaker.
_Lord._ Speaker!--if you open your mouth, the Chiltern Hundreds is your
portion.--Look ye--you are to be led quietly to the right side--to sleep
during the debate--give a nod for your vote,--and in every respect, move
like a mandarin, at my command;--in short, you are to be a mandarin
member.--So, fare you well till we're both married. [_Exit._
_Ennui._ I've an idea, here's Neville.--In fact--he knows nothing of my
marrying Louisa, nor shall he, till after the happy day.--Strange news,
Neville.
_Enter NEVILLE._
_Nev._ I've heard it all. Louisa is going to be married; but to whom I
know not,--and my Lord persists in his fatal attachment to Lady
Waitfor't.
_Ennui._ In fact--Why fatal?
_Nev._ Because it is the source of every mischief.--While she maintains
her power over him, I have no hope of love or fortune:--When my father
died, he left his estate to my brother, relying on my lord providing for
me--and now, how he deserts me!--and all owing to the artifices of an
insidious woman.
_Ennui._ I've an idea, I comprehend her motive--she loves you.
_Nev._ Yes, 'tis too plain--and, because I would not listen to her
advances, she has ruined me in my uncle's opinion, and degraded me in
Louisa's;--but I will see Miss Courtney herself--I will hear my doom
from her own mouth; and if she avoids me, I will leave her, and this
country, for ever.
_Enter PETER._
_Peter._ A letter, sir.
_Nev._ Without direction!--What can it mean?
_Peter._ Sir, 'tis from Lady Waitfor't.--The servant, who brought it,
said, her ladyship had reasons for not directing it, which she would
explain to you when she saw you. [_Exit._
_Nev._ Oh, the old stratagem:--as it is not directed, she may swear it
was designed for another person. [_Reads._
_Sir_,
_I have heard of your arrival at Bath, and, strange as
my conduct may appear, I think it a duty I owe to the
virtuous part of mankind, to promote their happiness as
much as I can; I have long beheld your merit, and long
wished to encourage it.--I shall be at home at six this
evening. Yours,_
A. WAITFOR'T.
_Ennui._ In fact--a very sentimental assignation, that would do as well
for any other man.
_Nev._ If I show it to my lord, I know his bigotry is such, that he
would, as usual, only suppose it a trick of my own--the more cause there
is to condemn, the more he approves.
_Ennui._ I've an idea, he's incomprehensible.--In fact--who have we
here?
_Nev._ As I live, Vapid, the dramatic author--he is come to Bath to pick
up characters, I suppose.
_Ennui._ In fact--pick up!
_Nev._ Yes--he has the ardor scribendi upon him so strong, that he would
rather you'd ask him to write an epilogue to a new play, than offer him
your whole estate--the theatre is his world, in which are included all
his hopes and wishes.--In short, he is a dramatic maniac. And to such an
extent does he carry his folly, that if he were not the best natured
fellow in the world, every body would kick him out of doors.
_Ennui._ Has he not a share of vanity in his composition?
_Nev._ Oh yes--he fancies himself a great favourite with the women.
_Ennui._ Then I've an idea--I've got a thought, by which you may revenge
yourself on Lady Waitfor't--in fact--give him the letter--he'll
certainly believe 'tis meant for himself.
_Nev._ My dear friend, ten thousand thanks!--We'll flatter his vanity,
by persuading him she is young and beautiful, and my life on't it does
wonders;--but, hush, he comes.
_Enter VAPID._
_Nev._ Vapid! I rejoice to see you,--'tis a long time since we met; give
me leave to introduce you to a particular friend of mine--Mr Ennui--Mr
Vapid.
_Ennui._ I've an idea--you do me honour--Mr Vapid, I shall be proud to
be better acquainted with you--in fact--any thing of consequence
stirring in the fashionable or political world?
_Vapid._ Some whispers about a new pantomime, sir,--nothing else.
_Nev._ And I'm afraid, in the present scarcity of good writers, we have
little else to expect.--Pray, Vapid, how is the present dearth of genius
to be accounted for; particularly dramatic genius?
_Vapid._ Why, as to dramatic genius, sir, the fact is this--to give a
true picture of life, a man should enter into all its scenes,--should
follow nature, sir--but modern authors plunder from one another--the
mere shades of shadows.--Now, sir, for my part, I dive into the world--I
search the heart of man;--'tis true I'm called a rake--but, upon my
soul, I only game, drink, and intrigue, that I may be better able to
dramatize each particular scene.
_Nev._ A good excuse for profligacy.--But tell me, Vapid, have you got
any new characters since you came to Bath?
_Vapid._ 'Faith, only two--and those not very new either.
_Ennui._ In fact--may we ask what they are?
_Vapid._ If you don't write.
_Nev._ No, we certainly do not.
_Vapid._ Then I'll tell you:--The first is a charitable divine, who, in
the weighty consideration how he shall best lavish his generosity, never
bestows it at all:--and the other is a cautious apothecary, who, in
determining which of two medicines is best for his patient, lets him die
for want of assistance.--You understand me, I think, this last will do
something, eh?
_Ennui._ I've an idea--the apothecary would cut a good figure in a
comedy.
_Vapid._ A comedy! pshaw! I mean him for a tragedy.
_Ennui._ In fact--I don't comprehend, nor, possibly, the town.
_Vapid._ I know it--that's the very thing--hark ye, I've found out a
secret--what every body understands, nobody approves; and people always
applaud most where they least comprehend.--There is a refinement, sir,
in appearing to understand things incomprehensible--else whence arises
the pleasure at an opera, a private play, or a speech in parliament?
why, 'tis the mystery in all these things--'tis the desire to find out
what nobody else can--to be thought wiser than others--therefore--you
take me--the apothecary is the hero of my tragedy.
_Nev._ 'Faith, there is some reason in all this--and I'm amazed we have
so many writers for the stage.
_Vapid._ So am I--and I think I'll write no more for an ungrateful
public--you don't know any body that has a play coming out, do you?
_Nev._ No--why do you ask?
_Vapid._ He'll want an epilogue you know, that's all.
_Nev._ Why, you won't write him one, will you?
_Vapid._ I! oh Lord! no;--but genius ought to be encouraged, and as he's
a friend of yours,--what's the name of the play?
_Nev._ I really don't know any body that has written one.
_Vapid._ Yes----yes----you do.
_Nev._ Upon my word, I do not--a cousin of mine, indeed, wrote one for
his amusement, but I don't think he could ever be prevailed on to
produce it on the stage.
_Vapid._ He prevailed on!--the manager you mean--but what did you think
of it?
_Nev._ I never read it, but am told it is a good play--and if performed,
Vapid, he will be proud of your assistance.
_Vapid._ I speak in time, because it is material--many a dull play has
been saved by a good epilogue.
_Nev._ True--but I had almost forgot.--Why, Vapid, the lady in the Grove
will enlarge your knowledge amazingly.
_Ennui._ I've an idea--she's the pattern of perfection.
_Nev._ The paragon of beauty! Ah, Vapid! I would give worlds for the
coldest expression in this letter.
_Vapid._ That letter!--what do you mean by that letter?
_Nev._ And you really pretend not to know the young Lady Waitfor't?
_Vapid._ No,--I hav'n't spoke to a woman at Bath,--but a sweet girl I
danced with at the ball; and who she is, by the Lord, I don't know.
_Nev._ Well, but, Vapid--young Lady Waitfor't--she loves you to
distraction.
_Vapid._ As I hope for fame, I never heard her name before.
_Nev._ Then she has heard yours, and admires your genius; however, read
the letter, and be satisfied she loves you. [_VAPID reads._
_Arrived at Bath--duty I owe--virtuous part of
mankind--beheld your merit--wish to encourage--six this
evening.--A. Waitfor't--Grove._
_Vapid._ Yes, yes, it's plain enough now--she admires my talents!--It
isn't the first time, Neville, this has happened.--Sweet fond
fool!--I'll go and prepare myself directly.
_Nev._ Ay do, Vapid,--she'll be all on fire to see you.
_Vapid._ All on fire! I suppose so.--Write a play, Neville, write a
play--you see the effect of the muses and graces when they unite--you
see, Neville, you see----but, hold, hold--how the devil came you by this
letter?
_Nev._ That's true enough. [_Aside._] I'll tell you--I was at her party
last night, and on coming out of the room she slipt it into my hand, and
desired me to direct it, and give it to you--She has often spoke to me
in your favour, and I did you all the good I could--however, to be sure
it's no mistake, ask the servant, who admits you, if the name at the
bottom is not her own hand-writing.
_Vapid._ Oh, no!--it's no mistake,--there's no doubt of the
matter.--Write a play, Neville, write a play--and charm the ladies, you
dog!--adieu! [_Exit._
_Ennui._ I've an idea--if we've common fortune, this will do every
thing.
_Nev._ No,--Lady Waitfor't's arts are numberless--she is so perfect a
hypocrite, that I even doubt her confessing her real sentiments to her
minion Willoughby; and when she does a bad action, she ever pretends
'tis from a good motive.
_Enter VAPID._
_Vapid._ Gad, I forgot--you'll recollect the epilogue, Neville.
_Nev._ Yes,--I'll write to my cousin to-day.
_Vapid._ But, not a word of the love affair to him--any where else
indeed it might do one a service--but never tell an intrigue to a
dramatic author.
_Ennui._ In fact--why not sir?
_Vapid._ Because it may furnish a scene for a comedy--I do it
myself.--Indeed, I think the best part of an intrigue is the hopes of
incident, or stage effect--however, I can't stay.
_Nev._ Nay, we'll walk with you--I, in pursuit of my brother--you, of
your mistress.
_Vapid._ Ay, Neville, there it is--now, do take my advice, and write a
play--if any incident happens, remember, it is better to have written a
damned play, than no play at all--it snatches a man from obscurity--and
being particular, as this world goes, is a very great thing.
_Nev._ But I confess I have no desire to get into print.
_Vapid._ Get into print!--pshaw! every body gets into print now.--Kings
and quacks--peers and poets--bishops and boxers--tailors and trading
justices--can't go lower, you know--all get into print!--But we soar a
little higher,--we have privileges peculiar to ourselves.--Now, sir,
I--I, for my part, can talk as I please,--say what I will, it is sure to
excite mirth,--for, supposing you don't laugh at my wit, I laugh myself,
Neville, and that makes every body else do the same--so allons!
_Ennui._ I've an idea--no bad mode of routing the enemy. [_Exeunt._
ACT THE SECOND.