Page images
PDF
EPUB

And God blesse every living thing,
That lives, and breathes, and loves the King,
God blesse the Council of Estate,

And Buckingham, the fortunate,

God blesse them all, and keep them safe,
And God blesse me, and God blesse Ralph.

"The King was mighty inquisitive to know who this Ralph was. Ben told him 'twas the drawer at the Swanne Tavern, by Charing Crosse, who drew him good Canarie. For this drollery his Majestie gave him a hundred pounds."

SHAKESPEARE." He was a handsome well shap't man, very good company, and of a very reddie and pleasant smooth wit. The humour of the constable in the Midsummer Night's Dreame, he happened to take at Bucks, which is the roade from London to Stratford, and that constable was living there about 1642, when I first came to Oxon. Ben Jonson and he did gather humours of men daily, wherever they come."

PROLOGUE

TO "LOVE GIVES THE ALARM."

Written by W. T. FITZGERALD, Esq.-Spoken by Mr. C.
KEMBLE.

LOVE gives the Alarm !-but where, you say, or how?
The answer's plain-on Beauty's matchless brow;
In dimpled smiles, and every varied grace,
That form the nameless magic of the face!
Nor have men dimpled smiles alone to fear,
Still greater peril waits upon a tear;
'Tis pity's gem, the offspring of a sigh,
And doubly valued in a female eye;
For still the wisest and the bravest know
The pow'r resistless of a woman's woe.
But even Love's Alarms themselves must yield
To those that call us to th' embattled field,
While sounds in ev'ry ear the warlike drum,
And day by day the cry is still "they come!"
The muse all other subjects must forego,
But such as hurl defiance at the foe!

[ocr errors]

PROLOGUE TO LOVE GIVES THE ALARM."

For never will we live to see the day
When this great City is the plund'rer's prey;
When all its wealth shall feed a savage band,
The curse, where'er they go, of ev'ry land!
But while our fleets command the ocean's tide,
The threats of France this Island may deride.
Yet say her hordes were tented o'er our plains,
Can we submit to wear the Invader's chains?
Can we our rights to Frenchmen basely yield,
And, terror-struck, forsake the glorious field?
What Briton but prefers, on land or wave,
To die a freeman, than to live a slave?
No! while the life-blood circles in our veins,
Britons will never wear a Tyrant's chains!
Party distinctions now no more are known,
The Nation, one and all, protects the Throne;
In brother bands her martial Sons appear,
Draw the keen sword, or point the patriot spear,
Swearing their much-lov'd Monarch to defend,
Who reigns his People's Father, and their Friend!
A King to ev'ry honest heart endear'd,
As Sov'reign honour'd, and as man rever❜d!
Assembled round their country's sacred shrine,
They swear, by all things human and divine!
By all that bad men fear, and good adore,
No foreign Tyrant shall pollute their shore-
Or should he pass the well-defended wave,
England shall prove his everlasting grave!
And all mankind with admiration see,
That nothing can subdue a nation free;
For still the muse repeats her patriot Song,
With ardent zeal, and voice as thunder strong,
That while the life-blood circles in our veins,
Britons will never wear a Tyrant's chains!

5

MISCELLANIES.

A FACETIOUS Country 'Squire, who thought his two sons consumed too much time in hunting and shooting, very sarcastically styled them Nimrod and Ramrod.

A country performer has appeared on the stage, who boasts of his descent from the great Mr. Locke.

Con

sidering who Mr. Locke was, we should have thought a descent from Shakespeare more likely to improve the breed!

As Cooke, the actor, has set sail for America, he will soon experience what it is to be literally, as well as metaphorically-half-seas over!

WHALE AND STURGEON.

A WHALE, of the bottle-nose tribe, measuring upwards of 22 feet, was captured at Southerness, on Thursday the 26th of January, 1827.

On Thursday, the 2nd of February, 1827, a sturgeon, 8 feet long, was caught above Berwick Bridge, and sent to London.

WILLIAM GORDON.

DIED at Grahamston, by Glasgow, on Feb. 4th, 1827, WILLIAM GORDON, aged 97, who was buried on Thursday following in the Anderston burying-ground. This singular individual, who had for ten years past worn the same coat, patched and mended, and who is said for seven years never to have used soap in washing himself, left behind him an immense quantity of keys, old and new, highly burnished; a hatful of pins; 15 large screws; from 90 to 100 hammers, adzes, and gimblets; a great quantity of bottles and jars; and, what may appear most singular, a roomful of boys' tops, peeries, whips, &c. His collection of sticks is curious. These, with gold and silver watches, are in the possession of his executor. For many years he wore a polished key on his thumb, and a gold watch in one pocket, and a silver one in the other.

EAST GREENLAND.

GIESEKE, the mineralogist, after a residence of eight years, draws a sombrous picture of the colony of East Greenland, which he visited and explored to the 62nd degree of latitude. He is confident, from the information given him by the natives, that at present that

rigorous coast is not inhabited, or even inhabitable, beyond the 64th degree at farthest; and that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to penetrate farther.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

THIS great man from his infancy shewed a strong inclination for painting, and made so rapid a progress in it, that he is said, at the age of fourteen, to have been able to correct the drawings of his master, Dominico Gilbandai. When he was an old man, one of these drawings being shewn him, he modestly said, "In my youth I was a better artist than I am now." His quickness of eye was wonderful; he used to say that a sculptor should carry his compass in his eye. "The hands, indeed," said he, "do the work, but the eye judges." Of his power of eye he was so certain, that having once ordered a block of marble to be brought to him, he told the stone-cutter to cut away some particular parts of the marble, and to polish others. Very soon an exquisite figure starts out from the block : the stone-cutter looked amazed. 66 My friend," says Michael Angelo, "what do you think of it now?" “I hardly know what to think of it," answered the astonished mechanic; "it is a very fine figure to be sure. I have infinite obligations to you, Sir, for thus making me discover in myself a talent which I never knew I possessed." Angelo, full of the great and sublime ideas of his art, lived very much alone, and never suffered a day to pass without handling his chisel or his pencil; when some person reproached him with living so melancholy and solitary a life, he said, "Art is a jealous thing; it requires the whole and entire man."

EPILOGUE.

Written by Mr. T. DIBDIN-Spoken by Mr. EMERY. I'm just come to say-why, odzooks! give me patience! They're off, and I've lost all my new-found relations. They've finished their matters, and never once felt A moment's concern about Jonathan Welt;

And master's gone wi'em-why, then, let him go,
There's more masters here—and, if he didn't know
When he had a good servant-I see no disgrace
In proving I know when I've got a good place.

Ere I first came to town, like all fools I'd been told Lunnun streets were all diamonds, and silver, and gold; But when I arriv'd, ev'ry street, lane, and square Seem'd to me to be only built--just as they are; While the girls look quite rural, more fashions, fine flockings,

In red cloaks, in red faces, red elbows and stockings; And while men wear their hands in their pockets so grand,

The ladies have pockets to wear in their hand.

Master went to a Playhouse-the Uproar they call it, Where they sing nought but French, and dance to a ballette;

Where men have great hats, put on t'wrong side afore'm,
I pocketed this to find out how they wore 'em.
Their capers and vapours put me in a rage,

Till I found they were show-folk and drest for the stage.
Then so jealous were they-it's true what I tell,
They lock'd up a lady for singing too well.
Well! to-night I have been at an English Play,
And only saw there what one sees every day:
'Twas call'd Love's Alarm, tho' for sartin I know it,
No soul in the house was alarm'd but the Poet:
For Players, with all their fine speeches and brogues,
Are, 'twixt you and I, but a droll set of rogues,
One man they for Lieutenant Seymour mistook,
When, I'll be on my davy, he's nought but a Cooke.
The fine Lord was a Knight, and a queer-spoken body,
Don Raymond O'Thingumbob-plain Mr. Waddy.
The Ladies are Women, and as for the Chap
That was call'd Charley Mane, wi' his fine feather'd cap,
I've seen him get into more scrapes than a fiddler,
For Raising the Wind-his name's Jerry Diddler.
There's a Lad, too, from York-but tho' he's a strange
elf,

By gom! I respect him as much as myself,
And wish him so much in his part to remain,
That I hope you'll allow him to act it again,

« PreviousContinue »