INKEL.

I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat;
There his works will appear-

LADY BLUEMOUNT.

Sir, they reach to the Ganges.

INKEL.

I shan't go so far-I can have them at Grange's.*

Never mind if he did; 'twill be seen

That whatever he means won't alloy what he says.

BOTHERBY.

Sir!

*

Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and fruiterer in Piccadilly,

INKEL.

Pray be content with your portion of praise;

'Twas in your defence.

I can make out my own.

ROTHERBY.

If you please, with submission,

INKEL.

It would be your perdition.

While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend
Yourself or your works; but leave both to a friend.
Apropos-Is your play then accepted at last?

At last?

BOTHERBY.

INKEL.

Why I thought-that's to say-there had past

A few Green-room whispers, which hinted—you know
That the taste of the actors at best is so so.

BOTHERBY.

Sir, the Green-room's in raptures, and so's the Committee.

INKEL.

Aye-yours are the plays for exciting our "pity

And fear," as the Greek says: for "purging the mind,"
I doubt if you'll leave us an equal behind.

BOTHERBY.

I have written the prologue, and meant to have prayed
For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid.

INKEL.

Well, time enough yet, when the play's to be played.
Is it cast yet?

BOTHERBY.

The actors are fighting for parts,

As is usual in that most litigious of arts.

LADY BLUEBOTTLE.

We'll all make a party, and go the first night.

TRACY.

And you promised the epilogue, Inkel.

INKEL.

Not quite.

However, to save my friend, Botherby, trouble,

I'll do what I can, though my pains must be double,

Why so?

TRACY.

INKEL.

To do justice to what goes before.

BOTHERBY.

Sir, I'm happy to say, I've no fears on that score.
Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are

INKEL.

Never mind mine;

Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own line.

LADY. BLUEMOUNT.

You're a fugitive writer, I think, Sir, of rhymes?

INKEL.

Yes, Ma'am; and a fugitive reader sometimes.
On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight,
Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight.

LADY BLUEMOUNT.

Sir, your taste is too common; but time and posterity
Will right these great men, and this age's severity
Become its reproach.

INKEL.

I've no sort of objection,

So I am not of the party to take the infection.

LADY BLUEBOTTLE.

Perhaps you have doubts that they ever will take?

C

INKEL.

Not at all; on the contrary, those of the lake

Have taken already, and still will continue

To take what they can, from a groat to a guinea,
Of pension or place ;-but the subject's a bore.

Then why not unearth it in one of your lectures!

SCAMP.

It is only time past which comes under my strictures.

LADY BLUEBOTTLE.

Come, a truce with all tartness :—the joy of my
Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art.
Wild Nature!-Grand Shakspeare!

BOTHERBY.

heart

And down Aristotle!

LADY BLUEMOUNT.

Sir George thinks exactly with Lady Bluebottle;

And my Lord Seventy-four, who protects our dear Bard,
And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard

For the poet, who, singing of pedlars and asses,

Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus.

And you, Scamp !—

TRACY.

SCAMP.

I needs must confess, I'm embarrassed.

D

I

INKEL.

Don't call upon Scamp, who's already so harassed

With old schools, and new schools, and no schools, and all schools.

TRACY,

Well, one thing is certain, that some must be fools.

I should like to know who.

INKEL.

And I should not be sorry

To know who are not :-it would save us some worry.

LADY BLUEBOTTLE.

A truce with remark, and let nothing controul

This "feast of our reason, and flow of the soul."
Oh, my dear Mr. Botherby! sympathise !-I
Now feel such a rapture, I'm ready to fly,

I feel so elastic,-" so buoyant-so buoyant !”*

Tracy! open the window.

INKEL.

TRACY.

I wish her much joy on't.

BOTHERBY.

For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check not

This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot

Upon earth. Give it way; 'tis an impulse which lifts

Our spirits from earth; the sublimest of gifts;

For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his mountain. 'Tis the source of all sentiment-feeling's true fountain : 'Tis the Vision of Heaven upon Earth: 'tis the gas Of the soul: 'tis the seizing of shades as they pass, And making them substance: 'tis something divine :

INKEL.

Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more wine?

* Fact from life, with the words.