Costume.

SIR DAVID DAW.-A short light blue coat, buff silk waistcoat, and kerseymere breeches, drab chaise coat with cape.

TEMPEST.-A Scarlet suit, laced with gold, white silk stockings, shoes, buckles, three-cornered hat.

PENRUDDOCK.-First dress.-Crimson morning gown, black velvet cap: Second dress (worn on his first entrance from cottage.) plain-made mixt coat, red-striped waistcoat, snuff-coloured kerseymere breeches, clerical shaped hat. (In the 3rd scene, white cloth knee-pieces and boots.) Third dress.-Blue surtout.

WOODVILLE.-Brown coat and waistcoat, steel buttons, black silk stockings, and breeches, shoes, buckles, cocked hat.

SYDENHAM.-Green coat, drab breeches and gaiters: Second dress.-Dress coat, steel buttons, white waistcoat and breeches, white silk stockings, shoes, buckles, and cocked hat.

HENRY WOODVILLE.-Blue regimental coat, scarlet facings, gold loops, and epaulets, white kerseymere waistcoat and pantaloons, hat, feathers, sash, belt and sword.

WEAZEL-Brown coat and waistcoat, black velvet breeches, drab cloth surtout, boot-stockings, three-cornered hat.

TRUMAN.-Mixed frock coat, scarlet waistcoat, buff breeches, top boots, grey wig.

OFFICER.-Brown frock coat, buff or striped waistcoat, drab breeches, and gaiters.

JENKINS.-Smart black suit.

JAMES.-Brown livery coat, blue plush waistcoat and breeches, trimmed with worsted lace, white stockings, and shoes.

JOHN.-Green livery coat, scarlet waistcoat and breeches.

MRS. WOODVILLE.-Modern brown satin gown, neat lace cap. EMILY TEMPEST.-Tasteful white dress.

gown,

mob

DAME DUNCKLEY.-Quilted petticoat, dark stuff, cap, check apron, flat black hat, crutch stick, blue worsted stockings, shoes, and buckles.

MAID.-Coloured gown, cap.

Cast of the Characters as performed at the Theatres Royal.

Jenkins

Officer in the house of Woodville Mr. Phillimore. Mr. Henry.

Scene, for the First Act, Penruddock's Cottage; for the

rest, in London.

B

PROLOGUE.

Spoken by Mr. Palmer.

A FARMER, late, (so country records say)
From the next market homewards took his way;
When, as the bleak unshelter'd heath he cross'd,
Fast bound by winter in obdurate frost,

The driving snow-storm smote him in his course,-
High blew the North, and rag'd in all its force:
Slow pac'd, and full of years, th' unequal strife
Long time he held, and struggled hard for life ;-
Vanquish'd at length, benumb'd in every part,
The very life-blood curdling at his heart,
Torpid he stood-in frozen fetters bound-
Doz'd, reel'd, and dropt, expiring to the ground.
Haply his dog, by wondrous instinct fraught
With all the reas'ning attributes of thought,
Saw his sad state, and to his dying breast
Close cow'ring, his devoted body press'd;
Then howl'd amain for help, till, passing near,
Some charitable rustic lent an ear,

Rais'd him from earth, recall'd his flitting breath,
And snatch'd him from the icy arms of death.

So when the chilling blast of secret woe
Checks the soul's genial current in its flow-
When death-like lethargy arrests the mind,
Till man forgets all feeling for his kind,
To his cold heart the friendly Muse can give
Warmth, and a pulse that forces him to live;
By the sweet magic of her scene beguile,
And bend his rigid muscles to a smile—
Shake his stern breast with sympathetic fears,
And make his frozen eye-lids melt in tears;
Pursuing still her life-restoring plan,
Till he perceives and owns himself a man.

Warm'd with these hopes, this night we make appeal
To British hearts-for they are hearts that feel.

THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-The Cottage of Penruddock, seated in a Groupe of Trees, L. S. E. with a Forest Scene of Wood and Heath.

Enter WEAZEL, in a travelling dress, R. S. E.

Wea. WAS ever gentle traveller, since the days of Robinson Crusoe, so put to his shifts, as I, Timothy Weazel, attorney at law? I have lost my guide, my guide has lost himself, and my horse has absconded, with bridle, saddle, and all his shoes, save one he left behind him in a slough. I saw a fellow setting springes for woodcocks, and showed him signals of distress; but the carle ran off at the sight of me, and vanished like a jack o'lantern. If I understood the language of birds, there is not one within call to answer to a question; the creatures have got wings, and are too wise to stay in such a place. Hold, hold! I see a hut, or a hovel, or a Laplander's lodge;

Enter DAME DUNCKLEY, from Cottage, L. s. E.,

with a

market-basket, and a stick; she walks slowly across towards R. S. E.

and here comes one hobbling upon two shanks and a crutch, a proper sample of the soil she withers in. Holloa! Dame, do you hear? Give me a word with you, if your senses can afford it.

DAME DUNCKLEY comes forward, R.

Dame. What would you have with me? What is your business here?

Wea. You're right, it must be business; nobody would come here for pleasure.

Dame. No, nor is this a house of call for travellers.

Wea. That I can believe, if you are the representative of it; that is, as I may say, luce clarius.

Dame. There's no such person here, so you may go

your ways, before my master sends you packing.

Wea. You have a master, have you? Call him out then, and let him direct me in my road to Roderick Penruddock, esquire, and I'll reward him for his pains.

Dame. You'll reward my master! Saucy companion! If Roderick Penruddock is the gentleman you want, you need not go any further-there he lives.

Wea. What do you say? Penruddock in that cottage! Dame. Why not? Will you face me out, who have lived with him these twenty years? And what if it be but a cottage? Content is every thing; my good master is not proud.

Wea. Melancholy, I should think, if a constant memorandum of mortality can make him so. He was crossed in

love in his younger days.

Dame. That I know nothing of.

Wea. I don't say you was in the fault of it.

Dame. He is a man of few words, to be sure; but then he has a world of learning in his head; everlastingly at his books,

Wea. Is he at 'em now?

Dame. Deep; not to be approached.

Wea. And alone?

Dame. To be sure: I never disturb him.in his hours of study; at every other time, he's kind and gentle as the dew of heaven.

Wea. What am I to do then, who have come some hundred miles upon this business?

Dame. Even what you please, sir. I'm sure it is no business of mine, and I'll have nothing to do with it. [Steps aside. Wea. Well, if he will not welcome the good news I bring him, he must be a philosopher indeed. I'll begin my approaches cautiously, however the door is fast-I'll touch it tenderly. [Knocks at the door with his whip.] Within there! Who's at home ?-Silence and famine, I should guess, for nothing stirs.

Dame. [From aside.] Go on, go on. By the living, my fine spark, I would not be in your place for a little.

[Exit, R. S. E. Wea. Not yet? This will never do. Good fortune may be warranted to rap a little louder.-What, hoa! Within, I say!-Will nobody hear me?

[Penruddock opens the casement.

Pen. I hear you. What is it you want?

Wea. With your leave, I want a few words with you.