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The next morning he inveighed against them for having neglected his injunctions, and on demanding some reason for their treachery,“ Arrah, master," said the spokesman, “ do we not know you ?-sure 'twas your own swate self that was on the stage; and shower light upon us, if we go to the play-house to hiss our worthy master.”




[Addressed to his Son.] Adieu to Mother Goose!-adieu-adieu

To spangles, tufted heads, and dancing limbs, Adieu to Pantomime-to all-that drew O'er Christmas' shoulders a rich robe of

whims. Never shall old Bologna-old, alack !

Once he was young and diamonded all o’er, Take his particular Joseph on his back

And dance the matchless fling so loved of yore. Ne'er shall I build the wond'rous verdant man,

Tall, turnip-headed, -carrot-finger'd-lean;-Ne'er shall I, on the very newest plan,

Cabbage a body ;-old Joe Frankenstein. Nor make a fire, nor eke compose a coach


Of saucepans, trumpets, cheese, and such

sweet fare; “ Sorrow hath ta'en my number;"-I encroach

No more upon the chariot ;-but the chair.

Gone is the stride, four steps, across the stage !

Gone is the light vault o'er a turnpike gate!
Sloth puts my legs into this tiresome cage,

And stops me for a toll, I find, too late!
How Ware would quiver his mad bow about
His rosin'd tight ropes--when I flapp'd a

dance !
How would I twitch the Pantaloon's good gout

And help his fall-and all his fears enhance !

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How children shriek'd to see me eat !-How I

Stole the broad laugh from aged sober folk ! Boys pick'd their plums out of my Christmas

And people took my vices for a joke.
Be wise, -(that's foolish,) - troublesome (be

And oh, J. S. to every fancy stoop!
Carry a ponderous pocket at thy breech,
And roll thine eyes, as thou would'st roll a


Hand Columbine about with nimble hand,

Covet thy neighbour's riches as thy own: Dance on the water, swim upon the land, Let thy legs prove themselves bone of my

bone. Cuff Pantaloon, be sure--forget not this :

As thou beat'st him, thou’rt poor, J. S. or.

funny! And wear a deal of paint upon thy phiz, It doth boys good, and draws in gallery mo


Lastly, be jolly! be alive! be light!
Twitch, flirt, and caper, tumble, fall, and

throw! Grow up right ugly in thy father's sight! And be an “ absolute Joseph,” like old Joe!

CLOUGH AND SHUTER. Clough had a very peculiar idea of amusement. The most diverting thing in the world to him, was a public execution ; and he would sooner have failed in being at the play house on the night he was to act, than to have omitted attending the unfortunate culprits to Tyburn, and to be a spectator of the horrors of death in so ignominious a manner. One night, he



was at a coffee-house, when, hearing the clock strike eleven, he abruptly rose and paid his reckoning: an acquaintance of his, sitting by him, asked, “ What is the matter, Clough; your hour is not come yet, you never stir till one ?” -Ay," replied Clough, “ but do you not know that there is business to be done to-morrow, and Ned Shuter and I are to attend ?" Ned, who had been up all night, with a jovial party, was only in his first sleep when Clough called on him, and could not be prevailed upon to rise: Clough set off for the scene of pleasure, by himself, vociferating loudly, " Was there ever such a fellow ? He has no more taste than a Hottentot!" Clough's taste, after all, we believe, was not singular.


In a Wolverhampton Chronicle of December, 1792, the following paragraph appeared :

“ One Briscoe, the manager of a small theatrical company, now in Staffordshire, though stone blind, plays all the heroes in his tragedies, and lovers in genteel comedies !"


This celebrated composer of the music in

Macbeth,” was, in his early days, a singing boy in Exeter cathedral, in the organ loft of which, on the stone-screen, his name is thus inscribed, “ Matthew Locke, 1638." The characters are still distinctly legible, and their apparent antiquity leaves no doubt that they were cut by the young musician.


AFTER performing, one evening, at Manchester, Cooke repaired to a small tavern, near the Theatre, in company with a friend: mirth and goodhumour prevailed till twelve o'clock, when his friend perceiving, as he thought, a something lurking in his eye which foretold a storm, anxiously endeavoured to get him home before it burst forth. The importunity of his friend, instead of having the desired effect, precipitated what he had foreseen ; with a haughty, supercilious look, he said, " I see what you are about, you hypocritical scoundrel! Am I, George Frederick Cooke, to be controlled by such a wouldbe-puritan as you? I'll teach you to dictate to a tragedian!"-then pulling off his coat, and holding his fist in a menacing attitude,“ Come out," said he, “thou prince of deceivers !--come out,

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