OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE.1

SPOKEN BY MR. CORRY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE.

(Entering as if to announce the Play.)

LADIES and Gentlemen, on Monday night,
For the ninth time-oh accents of delight
To the poor author's ear, when three times three
With a full bumper crowns his Comedy !
When, long by money, and the muse, forsak'n,
He finds at length his jokes and boxes tak'n,
And sees his play-bill circulate - alas,

The only bill on which his name will pass!
Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame
Through box and gall'ry waft your well-known

name,

While critic eyes the happy cast shall con,
And learned ladies spell your Dram. Person.

Tis said our worthy Manager intends
To help my night, and he, you know, has friends.

1 The taste for Private Theatrical Performances prevailed during the latter half of the last century among the higher ranks in Ireland. This taste continued for nearly twenty years to survive the epoch of the Union, and in the performances of the Private Theatre of Kilkenny gave forth its last, as well as, perhaps, brightest, flashes. The life and soul of this institution was our manager, the late Mr. Richard Power, a gentleman who could boast a larger circle of attached friends, and through a life more free from shadow or alloy, than any individual it has ever been my lot to know. No livelier proof, indeed, could be required of the sort of feeling entertained towards him than was once shown in the reception given to the two following homely lines which occurred in a Prologue I wrote to be poken by Mr. Corry in the character of Vapid.

Tis said our worthy manager intends

To help my night, and he, you know, has friends. These few simple words I wrote with the assured conviction that they would produce more effect, from the homefelt truism they contained, than could be effected by the most laboured burst of elo(e; and the result was just what I had anticipated, for the serung, for a considerable time, with the heartiest plaudits. The chief comic, or rather farcical, force of the company lay in my friend Mr.Corry, and, "longo intervallo," myself; and though,

al, with low comedians, we were much looked down upon by the lofty lords of the buskin, many was the sly joke we used to indage together, at the expense of our heroic brethren. Some waggish critic, indeed, is said to have declared that of all the personages of our theatre he most admired the prompter,-" because he was least seen and best heard." But this joke was, of course, a mere goodAmoured slander. There were two, at least, of our dramatic corps, Sir Wrixon Becher and Mr. Rothe, whose powers, as tragic actors, few amateurs have ever equalled; and Mr. Corry-perhaps alone of all our company—would have been sure of winning laurels or the

public stage.

Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or parts,
Engaging actors, or engaging hearts,
There's nothing like him! wits, at his request,
Are turn'd to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest ;
Soldiers, for him, good "trembling cowards" make,
And beaus, turn'd clowns, look ugly for his sake;
For him ev'n lawyers talk without a fee,
For him (oh friendship!) I act tragedy!
In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks
Make boars amusing, and put life in sticks.

With such a manager we can't but please,
Though London sent us all her loud O. P.'s.
Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle,
Arm'd with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle;
You, on our side, R. P.3 upon our banners,
Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners:
And show that, here- howe'er John Bull may
doubt-

In all our plays, the Riot-Act's cut out;
And, while we skim the cream of many a jest,
Your well-tim'd thunder never sours its zest.

As to my own share in these representations, the following list of my most successful characters will show how remote from the line of the Heroic was the small orbit through which I ranged; my chief parts having been Sam, in "Raising the Wind," Robin Roughhead, Mungo, Sadi, in the "Mountaineers," Spado, and Peeping Tom. In the part of Spado there occur several allusions to that gay rogue's shortness of stature, which never failed to be welcomed by my auditors with laughter and cheers; and the words, "Even Sanguino allows I am a clever little fellow" was always a signal for this sort of friendly explosion. One of the songs, indeed, written by O'Keefe for the character of Spado so much abounds with points thus personally applicable, that many supposed, with no great compliment either to my poetry or my modesty, that the song had been written, expressly for the occasion, by myself. The following is the verse to which I allude, and for the poetry of which I was thus made responsible:

"Though born to be little's my fate,

Yet so was the great Alexander;
And, when I walk under a gate,
I've no need to stoop like a gander.
I'm no lanky, long hoddy-doddy,
Whose paper-kite sails in the sky;
Though wanting two feet, in my body,
In soul, I am thirty feet high."

Some further account of the Kilkenny Theatre, as well as of the history of Private Theatricals in general, will be found in an article I wrote on the subject for the Edinburgh Review, vol. xlvi. No. 92. p. 368. [From the preface to the seventh volume of the collected edition of 1841, 1842.]

2 The brief appellation by which those persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Covent Garden, clamoured for the continuance of the old prices of admission.

3 The initials of our manager's name.

Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past,
At Shakspeare's altar', shall we breathe our last;
And, ere this long-lov'd dome to ruin nods,
Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!

EXTRACT

FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.

*

YET, even here, though Fiction rules the hour, There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power;

And there are tears, too-tears that Memory sheds Ev'n o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads, When her heart misses one lamented guest,2 Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest; There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task, And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.

Forgive this gloom-forgive this joyless strain,
Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train.
But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter,
As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter;
Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails
As glow-worms keep their splendour for their tails.

I know not why-but time, methinks, hath pass'd
More fleet than usual since we parted last.
It seems but like a dream of yester-night,
Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light;
And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue
Of former joy, we come to kindle new.
Thus ever may the flying moments haste
With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste,
But deeply print and lingeringly move,
When thus they reach the sunny spots we love.
Oh yes, whatever be our gay career,
Let this be still the solstice of the year,
Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain,
And slowly sink to level life again.

THE SYLPH'S BALL.

A SYLPH, as bright as ever sported Her figure through the fields of air, By an old swarthy Gnome was courted, And, strange to say, he won the fair.

1 This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last night of the performances.

The annals of the oldest witch

A pair so sorted could not show, But how refuse?-the Gnome was rich, The Rothschild of the world below;

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,
Are told, betimes, they must consider
Love as an auctioneer of features,
Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

Home she was taken to his Mine

A Palace, pav'd with diamonds all And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine, Sent out her tickets for a Ball.

The lower world, of course, was there, And all the best; but of the upper The sprinkling was but shy and rare,

A few old Sylphids, who lov'd supper.

As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp Of DAVY, that renown'd Aladdin, And the Gnome's Halls exhal'd a damp,

Which accidents from fire were bad in;

The chambers were supplied with light
By many strange but safe devices;
Large fire-flies, such as shine at night
Among the Orient's flowers and spices ;-

Musical flint-mills-swiftly play'd

By elfin hands-that, flashing round, Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids, Gave out, at once, both light and sound.

Bologna stones, that drink the sun;

And water from that Indian sea, Whose waves at night like wild-fire runCork'd up in crystal carefully.

Glow-worms, that round the tiny dishes,
Like little light-houses, were set up;
And pretty phosphorescent fishes,
That by their own gay light were eat up.

'Mong the few guests from Ether, came That wicked Sylph, whom Love we call; My Lady knew him but by name,

My Lord, her husband, not at all.

Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, appriz'd That he was coming, and, no doubt, Alarm'd about his touch, advis'd

He should, by all means, be kept out.

2 The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and be actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.

But others disapprov'd this plan,

And, by his flame though somewhat frighted, Thought Love too much a gentleman,

In such a dangerous place to light it.

However, there he was - and dancing
With the fair Sylph, light as a feather;
They look'd like two fresh sunbeams, glancing,
At daybreak, down to earth together.

And all had gone off safe and well,

But for that plaguy torch, whose light, Though not yet kindled - who could tell How soon, how devilishly, it might?

And so it chanced-which, in those dark
And fireless halls, was quite amazing;
Did we not know how small a spark
Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.

Whether it came (when close entangled In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes, Or from the lucciole, that spangled

Her locks of jet-is all surmise;

But certain 'tis the' ethereal girl
Did drop a spark, at some odd turning,
Which, by the waltz's windy whirl,
Was fann'd up into actual burning.

Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze, That curtain of protecting wire, Which DAVY delicately draws

Around illicit, dangerous fire!

The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air,

(Like that, which barr'd young Thisbe's bliss,) Through whose small holes this dangerous pair May see each other, but not kiss.'

At first the torch look'd rather bluely,
A sign, they say, that no good boded-
Then quick the gas became unruly,

And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.

Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mix'd together,
With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces,
Like butterflies in stormy weather,
Were blown-legs, wings, and tails- to
pieces!

While, 'mid these victims of the torch,
The Sylph, alas, too bore her part-

Found lying with a livid scorch,

As if from lightning, o'er her heart!

"Well done "-a laughing Goblin said Escaping from this gaseous strife ""Tis not the first time Love has made "A blow-up in connubial life! "

REMONSTRANCE.

After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits.

WHAT! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy

name

Thou, born of a Russell -whose instinct to run The accustom'd career of thy sires, is the same

As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!

Whose nobility comes to thee, stamp'd with a seal, Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set; With the blood of thy race, offer'd up for the weal Of a nation, that swears by that martyrdom yet!

Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife, From the mighty arena, where all that is grand, And devoted, and pure, and adorning in life, "Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command ?

Oh no, never dream it—while good men despair Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow, Never think, for an instant, thy country can spare Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou.

With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of those Who in life's sunny valley lie shelter'd and

warm;

Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose

To the top cliffs of Fortune, and breasted her storm;

With an ardour for liberty, fresh as, in youth, It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre;

Yet mellow'd, ev'n now, by that mildness of truth, Which tempers, but chills not, the patriot fire;

With an eloquence-not like those rills from a height,

Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapour are o'er; But a current, that works out its way into light Through the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade; If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame,

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links,
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleas'd with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain,

Who said ' -"were he ordain'd to run "His long career of life again,

--

"He would do all that he had done.".
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice, that dwells
In sober birth-days, speaks to me;
Far otherwise - of time it tells,
Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly;
Of counsel mock'd; of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid

Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire;
Of wandering after Love too far
And taking every meteor fire,

That cross'd my pathway, for his star.— All this it tells, and, could I trace

The' imperfect picture o'er again, With pow'r to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay! How quickly all should melt away All

but that Freedom of the Mind, Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships, in my boyhood twin'd, And kept till now unchangingly;

And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark, And comfortless, and stormy round!

1 FONTENELLE.-"Si je recommençais ma carrière, je ferai tout ce que j'ai fait."

FANCY.

THE more I've view'd this world, the more I've found,

That, fill'd as 'tis with scenes and creature's rare, Fancy commands, within her own bright round, A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.! Nor is it that her power can call up there

A single charm, that's not from nature won,No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear A single tint unborrow'd from the sun; But 'tis the mental medium it shines through, That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue; As the same light, that o'er the level lake One dull monotony of lustre flings, Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make Colours as gay as those on angels' wings!