Thus I reasoned as I wrote my drama, beginning with the title, which I called “The Changeling,” and ending with these words, The curtain drops, while the lady clasps the baby in her arms, and the nurse sighs audibly.  I invented no new incident, I simply wrote the story as Ann had told it to me, in the best blank verse I was able to compose.

By the time it was finished the company had arrived.  The casting the different parts was my next care.  The honourable Augustus M——­, a young gentleman of five years of age, undertook to play the father.  He was only to come in and say, How does my little darling do to-day? The three miss ——­’s were to be the servants, they too had only single lines to speak.

As these four were all very young performers, we made them rehearse many times over, that they might walk in and out with proper decorum; but the performance was stopped before their entrances and their exits arrived.  I complimented lady Elizabeth, the sister of Augustus, who was the eldest of the young ladies, with the choice of the Lady Mother or the nurse.  She fixed on the former; she was to recline on a sofa, and, affecting ill health, speak some eight or ten lines which began with, O that I could my precious baby see! To her cousin miss Emily ——­ was given the girl who had the care of the nurse’s child; two dolls were to personate the two children, and the principal character of the nurse, I had the pleasure to perform myself.  It consisted of several speeches, and a very long soliloquy during the changing of the children’s clothes.

The elder brother of Augustus, a gentleman of fifteen years of age, who refused to mix in our childish drama, yet condescended to paint the scenes, and our dresses were got up by my own maid.

When we thought ourselves quite perfect in our several parts, we announced it for representation.  Sir Edward and lady Harriot, with their visitors, the parents of my young troop of comedians, honoured us with their presence.  The servants were also permitted to go into a music gallery, which was at the end of a ball-room we had chosen for our theatre.

As author, and principal performer, standing before a noble audience, my mind was too much engaged with the arduous task I had undertaken, to glance my eyes towards the music gallery, or I might have seen two more spectators there than I expected.  Nurse Withers and her daughter Ann were there; they had been invited by the housekeeper to be present at the representation of miss Lesley’s first piece.

In the midst of the performance, as I, in the character of the nurse, was delivering the wrong child to the girl, there was an exclamation from the music gallery, of “Oh, it’s all true! it’s all true!” This was followed by a bustle among the servants, and screams as of a person in a hysteric fit.  Sir Edward came forward to enquire what was the matter.  He saw it was Mrs. Withers who had fallen into a fit.  Ann was weeping over her, and crying out, “O miss Lesley, you have told all in the play!”