THE LONDON MAGAZINE, For JUNE, 1769. THE BRITISH THEATRE. Dr. Laft, a quack, who on the fuccefs of his medicines, that is, not the efficacy of his noftrums, but the greatness of their fale, having in a hort time, from the profeffion of a fhoemaker, acquired a fufficiency to keep a chariot, he is, among many others, fent for by Mr. Ailwou'd, an elderly man of fortune, who is continually dying with a rage for life, and killing himself inceffantly with a thoufand heterogeneous prefcriptions, from an abfurd fuppofition that he is afflicted with a number of contradictory complaints. Mr. Ailwou'd's family confifts of Mifs Ailwou'd, a daughter by a firft wife, Mrs. Ailwou'd, and Polly, a child of little more than four years old. Mifs Ailwou'd is fecretly attached to a young gentleman named Hargrave, whom the contrives to fee by the affiftance of her maid Prue; and Mrs. Ailwou'd, who is many, very many years her hufband's junior, notwithstanding the affectation of a moft paffionate regard for him, is nevertheless impatient for his death, and as impatient alfo to get her daughter-in-law difpofed of, that the may be the better able to gratify the purposes of her private intereft. Such is the ftate of matters when Dr. Laft gets a footing in the house, and acquires fo great an influence, in confequence of his fuppofed skill in phyfic, that Mr. Ailwou'd, who is charmed with his draughts, and yet unwilling to pay for them, propofes his eldest daughter to the quack for a wife, who liftens to the overture with uncommon fatisfaction, and gives the father reafon to think he will not only take her off his hands, but furnish him with gratis medicines into the bargain. Mifs Ailwou'd, however, treats Laft with the utmost contempt, and even quarrels with her mother-in-law on this account, who gladly feizes that opportunity to prejudice her father against the young lady, and obtains his permiffion to go for a lawyer, in order that a will may be made in every respect agreeable to her own inclination. While fhe is abfent on this business, Friendly, Ailwou'd's brother-in-law, a man of fenfe and a gentleman, comes in, to propofe a marriage between Hargrave and his eldeft niece. Ailwou'd on this bursts into a violent paffion, but the other supporting his propofition with firmness, and throwing out fome very clear hints at theartifices of Mrs. Ailwou'd, the Hypochondriac, who cannot bear the leaft Nn 2 imputation 284 THE BRITISH THEATRE. imputation on the conduct of his wife, comes into a scheme fuggefted by Prue, of pretending to be dead, that Friendly, upon her return home, may, from the extravagance of her grief, in fome measure judge the fincerity of her affection. The fcheme is accordingly tried, and poor Ailwou'd has the mortification of hearing his turtle not only rejoice at his fuppofed death, but of hearing her, moreover, treat his memory with the greateft difrefpect. He, however, has fome confolation, even under this misfortune, by the fincere concern Mifs Ailwou'd ex-. preffes to the imaginary widow for her lofs, and the readiness which Hargrave thews, who enters with her, during her hopeful step mother's thort-lived exultation, to take her without a fortune. In a little time the virtue of the lovers is amply rewarded, for Mrs, Ailwou'd going into an adjoining room, to fealt her eyes with the fight of her dead husband, fhrieks with the loudeft aftonishment to find him ftill living, and runs out; he follows to upbraid her with her hypocrify, and Laft comes in to adminifter one of his medicines; when being charged with the murder of Mr. Ailwou'd, and threatened with an immediate profecution by Friendly, he infits on the impoffibility of his perpetrating fuch a crime, as his noftrum was nothing more than fimple chalk and vinegar. Ailwou'd, who overhears this declaration, makes his appearance, and in a tranfport of paffion drives the quack out of the houfe; but ftill retains fuch a fondnefs for phyfic, that he advifes Hargrave to ftudy medicine, as he winds up the catastrophe, and bleffes the young couple with his confent to their union. General Reflections on Dr. Laf in his Chariot. This piece, which is chiefly taken from Moliere's Le Maladie Imaginaire, is intended as a fequel to Mr Foote's Devil upon two Sticks, and as the performances of the Haymarket are of a peculiar fpecies, is not to be tried by the feverer ftandards of criticifm. At the Haymarket we look for nothing more than the whimsical of comedy, and we laugh; we are wholly indifferent about the fource of our amufement, The prefent produ&ion is written in a profefied disregard to Jud rule, but we must nevertheless at THE CAPTIVE. of the last month, was the Captive, taken by Mr. Bickerstaff, the author of the foregoing performance, from a comic epifode of Dryden's Don Se baftian, converted to a mufical entertainment. The Perfons of the Drama and the Per formers are, The Cadi Mr. Banuifer, Mrs. Jenwell. THE FABLE. Zorayda, daughter to an Algerine Cadi, having from her window fallen 1769. THE BRITISH THEATRE. in love with Ferdinand, a Spanish ase, belonging to the admiral of the Dey's gallies, contrives by letter to acquaint him with her fentiments, and even fends him a fum of money fuficient to purchase his liberty. The young Spaniard, in conformity to a plan concerted between him and his mitrefs, procures a note from his mafter to the Cadi, requesting permiffion for him to ftay among the faves of the latter, till a vefiel fhould be ready to carry him home, as the Cadi's boufe ftood more contiguous to the fea port, than the then place, we are to fuppofe, of the admiral's refidence. The Cadi receives him to his wish, and directs him to attend the garden; but Fatima, the Cadi's wife, treats him ftill more favourably, and on the first opportunity, after he has jaft parted with Zorayda, who confents to turn Chriftian, and go off with him to Spain, fhe comes to him veiled, and the following fcenes are the confequences. Ferdinand alone in the Garden. [Enter Fatima.] Fat. Thus far my love has carried me almoft without my knowledgeYonder he is-Shall I proceed-Shall I discover myself? Ferd. (not feeing her) Oh, sweet Zorayda! Fat. What's that he fays? Ferd. Where is my flute? I will fit down upon this stump of a tree, and whittle away the minutes till fhe comes back. Fat. Zorayda! Ferd. What melancholy love-tune fhall I play now? (fits down and plays) Fat. I can hold no longer. (laps him upon the shoulder) Ferd. My dear Zorayda!-fo foon returned ! Fat. Again!-What's the meaning of this? Do you take me for the Cadi's daughter? (unveiling) Ferd. By all that's good, the nauSeous wife! Fat. You are confounded. Ferd. Somewhat nonpluft, I confefs, to hear you deny your name fo pofitively. Why, are you not Zorayda, the Cadi's daughter? Did not I fee you with him but just now? Nay, were you not to charitable as to give me money? 285 Fat. But I am neither Zorayda, nor the Cadi's daughter. Ferd. I know not that; but I am fure he is old enough to be your father. Fat. But once again-How came you to name Zorayda ? Ferd. Another mistake of mine; for aking one of your flaves, when I came into the garden, who were the chief ladies about the house, he answered me Zorayda and Fatima; but fhe, it feems, is his daughter, (with a plague to her) and you are his beloved wife. Fat. Say your beloved miftrefs, if you pleafe, for that's the title I defire. Ferd. Ay, but I have a qualm of confcience. Fat. Your confcience was very quiet when you took me for Zorayda. Ferd. I must be plain with youYou are married to a reverend man, the head of your law. Go back to your chamber, madam; go back. Fat. No, firrah; but I'll teach you, to your coft, what vengeance is in ftore for refufing a lady who has offered you her love. For vengeance dire, thou wretch pre pare, While my bofom burns And tread you to the fhades below. Ferdinand, Fatima, and afterwards the Cadi. Ferd. What do you mean, madam; For heaven's fake, peace. Fat. Ungrateful wretch! What do I mean! Help, help, husband! my lord Cadi! I fhall be undone; the villain will be too strong for me. Help, for pity of a poor diltreffed creature. Ferd. Then I have nothing but impudence to affift me. I must drown the clamour, whate'er comes on it. (he takes out his flute and plays as loud as he poffibly can, and fhe continues crying out) Cadi. What's here! What's here!' Fat. Oh, fweeteft! I'm glad you're come; this Chriftian flave was going to be rude with me. L Cadi. 286 THE BRITISH THEATRE. Cadi. Oh, horrid! abominabie! the villain-the monfter-take him away, flay and impale him, rid the world of fuch a viper. Ferd. First hear me, worthy fir. What have you seen to provoke you? Cadi. I have heard the outcries of my wife, the bleatings of the poor innocent lamb. What have I feen, quotha! If I fee the lamb lie expiring, and the wolf by her, is not that evidence fufficient of the murder? Ferd. Pray think in reafon, fir. Is a man to be put to death for a fimilitude? No violence has been committed; none intended. The lamb's alive; and, if I durft tell you so, no more a lamb than I am a wolf. Fat. How's that, villain! Ferd. Be patient, madam, and speak but truth, I'll do any thing to ferve you. Fat. Well.. -Hear him fpeak, husband; perhaps he may fay fomething for himself I know not. Cadi. But did he mean no mischief? Was he endeavouring nothing? Fat. In my confcience I begin to doubt he did not. Cadi. Then what meant all thofe outcries ? Fat. I heard mufic in the garden, and I ftole foftly down, imagining it might be he. Cadi. How's that! Imagining it might be he? Fat. Yes, to be fure, my lord. Am not I the mistress of the family; and is it not my place to fee good order kept in it? I thought he might have allured fome of the the flaves to him, and was refolved to prevent what might have been betwixt them; when on a fudden he rushed out upon me, and caught me in his arms with fuch a fury Cadi. I have heard enough-away with him. Fat. Miftaking me, no doubt, for one of the flaves that work in the garden, With that, affrighted as I was, I discovered myself, and cried aloud; but as foon as ever he knew me, the villain let me go; and, 1 muft needs fay, he started back as if I were a ferpent, and was more afraid of me than I of him. Cadi. O, thou ungrateful villain ! Did it thou come to get footing in my June family in order to corrupt it? That? Fat. What! for an intended tref pass? No harm has been done, whatever may be. Then confider he does not belong to you, and is recommended by a friend you would not chute to difoblige. Cadi. Why that's true. Ferd. I fee fhe'll bring me off if the can. Cadi. And are you fure, rafcal, you meant no harm? Ferd. No harm, upon my reputation,- -no more than the child usborn. I was playing here by myself, (fuch is my foolish cuftom) and took madam, as the fays, for one of the female flaves employed in your garden. Cadi. Well, firrah, to your kennel; mortify your flefb, and confider in whofe family you are.. Ferd. Yes, fir, I'll confider. Fat. And learn another time to treat the Cadi's wife as she would have you. Cadi. What do you mean by that? Fat. What do I mean!--- I'll fhew you what I mean---give the puppy a remembrancer.... 6gi THE BRITISH THEATRE. SCENE III. Cadi, Zorayda running to him with Zer. Now I can embrace you with a od confcience.-Here are the pearls ad jewels-here's my father. Cadi. I am indeed thy father; but ow the devil didft thou know me in his difguife!—and what pearls and ewels doft thou mean? Zar. What have I done! and what will now become of me! Cadi. Art thou mad, Zorayda? ' Zer. I think you will make me fo. Cadi. Why? What have I done to you?-Recollect thyself, and speak enfe to me. Zor. Then give me leave to tell you, that you are the worst of fathers. Cadi. Did I think I had got such a monfter! Proceed, my dutiful child, proceed, proceed. Zor. You have been raking together amals of wealth, by indirect and wicked means. The fpoils of orphans are in these jewels, and the tears of widows are in these pearls. Cadi. You amaze me! Zor. I would do fo.- -This cafket is loaded with your fins. 'Tis the cargo of rapine and extortion, the iniquity of thirty years cadiship converted into diamonds. Cadi. Would fome rich railing rogue dare fay as much to me, that I might fqueeze his purfe for scandal. Zer. Here, fir, don't think I'll be the receiver of your thefts. I difcharge my confcience of them.Here, take again your filthy mammon, 287 and restore it, you had beft, to the true owners. Cadi. I am finely documented by my own daughter. Zor. And a great credit to me to be fo.-Do but think how decent a habit you have on, and how becoming your function to be difguifed like a flave, and eves dropping under the womens windows. Cadi. Pr'ythee, child, reproach me no more of human failings.I am better at bottom than thou thinkeft. -I am not the man you take me for. Zor. No, to my forrow, fir, you are not. Cadi. It was a very bad beginning ; tho' methought to fee you come running upon me with fuch a warm emmeaning of that violent hot hug? brace -Pr'ythee, what was the Zor. I'm fure I meant nothing but the zeal and affection which I bear to the man in the world whom I love belt. Cadi. Why this is as it fhould be. Take the treasure again-It will never be put into better hands. P But, pr'ythee, spare me, dearest daugh ter, If ought that's paft my confcience ftings; SCENE IV. The Cadi, Zorayda, Ferdinand in a rich habit. Ferd. What do you mean, my dear, to ftand talking in this fufpicious place, juft under Fatima's window?You are well met, comrade; I know you are the friend of our flight. Cadi. Ferdinand in disguise !-Now I begin to finell a rat. Ferd. And I another that outftinks it--Falfe Zorayda! thus to betray me to your father. Zor. Alas! I was betrayed myself.— He was here in difguife like you; and I, poor innocent, ran into his hands. |