Chapter THE SECOND (2)

"Possible! Well, now, ma'am, I should have guessed you'd been raised a purty middling awful long time afore that, to look at you: but, as you say, the 'squire's tall enough now, I calkilate, and so is all his family, for that matter; for Longfellow Backwoodsley, of Kiwigittyquag, measures six foot three in natur's stockings, and his sister Boadicea is but an inch and a half shorter. What family has the 'squire, did you say? Why, mighty near a dozen, I calkilate. Let's see: there's Travelout Backwoodsley, the oldest, he was the squatter as went to Tennessee; Longfellow, as I told you about, an awful smart gunner and racoon-catcher he is; Gumbleton, that is considerable of a lawyer in York State: Hoister, as went to sea; my ould woman as is to be, Boadicea; Increase-and-Multiply, the schoolmaster in Connecticut; Brandywine, what keeps the Rock of Columbia hotel at Boston, and a mighty powerful log-tavern it is as you'll see in a year's march; Leandish, that has the plate-house at Hoboken; Skinner, what set up the leather and finding store in Kentucky: I some think that's the tote, but four or five squeakers, squealers, younkers, whelps, and rubbish, that keeps about the ould log-house at home as yet. Pray how ould's your wife, 'squire? and where was she raised?"

"I suppose," said the physician, taking no notice of this question, "that Master Backwoodsley is growing rich, and likes his settlement, by his not coming back to England."

"Oh yaas! he conducts well, and likes his location," was the reply. "He bought at a good lay first, and then filled it with betterments, and farming trade, and creturs, and helps, and niggers, at an awful smart outlay of the dollars, I calkilate; but he has got along considerable well for all that. For sartain he is the yellow flower of the forest for prosperity. As for coming back, he used to say, when the war had a closure he would go to the ould country, and bring away the plunder he left behind; but about last fall the ague give him a purty particular smart awful shaking, and put him in an unhandsome fix, so the journey wouldn't convene. So one day, as I was a-looking over my snake-fence at Rams-Babylon, almost partly opposite to his clearing, what doos I see, but the 'squire coming along the road at a jouncing pace on his Narragansett mar, what is a real smasher at a trotting, and then he pulled up close to the zig-zag, and I stuck myself atop of a stake, and we held a talk. Says the 'squire, says he, 'Son-in-law Spanker P. Pokehorn as is to be'--my name's Anthony Spanker Pendleton Pokehorn, but he always shorts it,--'Son-in-law Spanker P. Pokehorn, I'll tell you what it is,--I guess I'm getting ould now, and more than that, I've a desp'ut ugly ague, what has made me quite froughy and brash to what I was, so that I should take two good blows of my fist to bring down a beef-cretur; which doosn't ought to be, when a man's only sixty. Now, you see, as I can't go to get in my debits and plunder from the ould country, I'll deed them all to you for thirty dollars cash, or lumber, or breadstuffs, or farmers' pro_duce_, if you admire; and the tote appreciates to mighty near two hundred, I guess.'"

"Well, sir," said Curetoun, "and on this account you have come to England?"

"Oh yaas!" answered the Columbian; "but at first I declined off to buy at a better lay; for arter higgling back and forth for a while, I give the 'squire but twenty dollars in all, and he give me the nigger, Ivory Whiteface there, besides. Sartain he was awful sharp to make an ugly bargain; but if he _was_ the steel blade, I guess I was the unpierceable di'mond; and, for fear he should squiggle, I got all set down in black and white afore the authority, and a letter to Lawyer Sharples. Now I calkilate to put up all at auction, and to sell some notions of my own, what I've brought over in my plunder, to make more avails.--How do you allot upon that?"

"Why, sir," said Dr. Downwithit, "that sensible notions from America are very much wanted at this time, to show us the excellence of her equitable laws and liberties, and the purity of her religion. I say, sir, publish them. There's no doubt of their selling well and quickly for any bookseller----"

"The Lord!" exclaimed Mr. Pokehorn, with a shrill whistle and a sidelong glance at the minister, and then, turning to Curetoun, he said, "The ould 'squire's awful wordy; he's a Congress-man or a slang-whanger, I guess, or else he's mighty moosical, I reckon.--Bookseller!--Publish! --What doos he mean?--You tarnation nigger! who told you to laugh? You calkilate as I harn't got the cowskins here; but I'll whop you cooriously all as one.--I'll tell you what it is, friend, I doosn't know what you means, I doosn't."

"Why, Mr. Pokehorn, that you should print your American notions."

"Print!--Oh yaas! I guess now,--in the notice of vendue you mean. Why, there's no merchants' trade, no awful package; only a few small little notions, and such wares, though they arn't got genoowine into the ould country, I reckon. It's some Indian plunder as I cleared out when I came away."

"Is it possible, then," exclaimed Downwithit, "that the highly-favoured inhabitants of America deal in plunder! Restore that illgotten spoil of the Indians young man, or----"

"What _doos_ he mean?" interrupted Pokehorn, in a perplexed and angry voice. "Why, doosn't he understand English? Arn't plunder travelling stuff?--And what did you think notions was?"

"Sir," said the minister, "in our language the term signifies thoughts; and I supposed that you had meant intellectual, or moral, or religious views of America; not the base wares of worldly traffic."

"Perhaps, Mr. Pokehorn," said the physician, wishing to relieve both his guests, "you interest yourself more in the politics of your country. Did you witness any of the late actions? or was your residence near the seat of war?"

"Sartain!" returned the American. "I guess that we had purty considerable tough skrimmageing about us. What with the Indians, and the riglars, and the skinners, and the cow-boys, there warn't no keeping a beef-cretur in the pen, nor sleeping ten winks at a time. You'd have thought the devil was let loose."

"And no doubt he was, as he always is in war," said Downwithit, "or rather he sent forth his legions to vex your persecuted land; for his only proper habitation on earth is this sin-devising city of London!"

"That a berry true, massa," interposed the negro, "for Massa Backwoodsley often say, 'Ivory, I whop you, sure as a devil in London;' and he always do it. But folk say, another devil in Ameriky, for all that. He know story of man what see um and talk to um. He not b'lieve it at all, dough. Good parson sometime preach about he's tempatation."

"That's a fact," added Mr. Pokehorn, "and an awful strange history it is, if true. If you want to hear the story, the nigger can fix you; for he's precious tonguey and wordy about them devildoms, and witches, and wild Indians, when he sits in the mud in the sunshine, at Rams-Babylon and High-Forks, keeping the helps from work, or at a maple-log fire in the winter."

"Then, my sable friend," said Downwithit, "with the good leave of all present, we'll have it now."

"Why, I'll tell you what it is," answered Pokehorn, "if it will happify the ould 'squire, the nigger shall have his own head for once in a while; so fire away, Ivory, and when you're not right I'll set you wrong myself."

"Iss, massa," began the negro; "ebbery body like a hear ole Ivory tell he story about a PLUNDER CREEK:

"In um ole ancient time of York, afore a great war, all a West Indy keys and a Long Island Straits and Sound war' a berry full of a ugly cruel pirates;--s'pose massa often heard of they;--and um ould folk, what sure to know, say a devil fuss help 'em get plunder, and then larn 'em how to hide it safe, in a middle of dark stormy nights, under bluffs, and up a creeks, all along shore, nighum Bowery Lane.--S'pose massa know a Bowery Lane, in um end of York?"

"Sartain the 'squire does know that, you tarnation Guinea-crow, though he doos keep in the ould country," interposed Mr. Pokehorn; "but I guess it's enough to make mankind rile to hear a body doubt it, sin' the Bowery Lane, in the free independent city of York, in York State, must be knowed by all the tote of the univarsal arth, I reckon! Well, now I calkilate it was a mighty coorious place for them ugly pirates, and did convene well, being partly all nigh the straits, awful rocky, and considerable full of trees hanging over, because there warn't then no clearing them away; and the say was, that the devil and them tarnation set of sarpents buried their plunder there, where mankind mought look for it till the week arter doomsday, and never get it out again. They say the devil's hands is cruel clitchy when he takes money to keep; and though a purty considerable banditti of money-diggers has often been arter it, they couldn't fix it, that's a fact, and I some think that nobody never will now."

"Him that try a last," resumed the negro,--"a half-starve crazy schoolmaster and almanack-maker, name a Domine Crolius Arend Keekenkettel, what some call he Peep-in-a-pot,--he travel about and live by him wits, wherever him find good cupboard. He ask a ole governor of York let him conjure away a devil, and get up money for a state; only he want a pay first to help him dig. But golly! a governor he mighty smart for white man, and no fool; he say, 'Dere a shovel and pickaxe, dem all you want now, I guess. You go dig; you find considerable much treasure of a ugly pirates, you hab a half then, but no tink a get anyting afore, I calkilate.'"

"Shut your ugly beak, you croaking blackbird!" interrupted the American, incensed by Ivory's singular praise of the whites; "and doosn't be moosical upon your betters; though he was an Englisher, I reckon that he was a purty middling sight afore a small world of niggers. Well, the schoolmaster he contrived to make friends with a fat little Dutcher, which had to name Dyckman Deypester, and was located on a clearing in the Bloomendael, up the Bowery Lane, on the road to Yonkers and Tarry Town. The say was, that he had such an almighty quantity of dollars, that he floored his keeping-room with them under the bricks; and I rather guess that he did keep 'em awfully close out of the sight of mankind. I doosn't tell you this for sartain: but, to be sure, he was considerable of a farmer, he was; and made as many betterments, and got as many humans and creturs about his clearing, as brought a whole banditti of suitorers arter his daughter Dortje; and she was besides a dreadful smart, clever, coorious lass as you shall see between Cow-neck and Babylon. There was young Louis Hudson, a springy, ac_tive_ young fellow. He was a settler; but nobody knowed where he was born, nor himself neither, like a homeless and markless ram. I guess, though, he was raised to York State, he was such a flower of mankind. Then there was ould Morgan Hornigold, from Jamaica: belike he was a leetle of the buccaneer, for he'd been to sea all his days, and looked some between a Jarman and a Spaniard, with a cross of the sea bull-dog. He was purty kedge still; but I some think he wanted to lay up for life where it warn't knowed what he had been. Then there was the almanack-maker, and a banditti of suitorers besides, as I said afore. I calkilate that dollars warn't awful plenty with any of them: but what they wanted in cash, they made up in fierce love to Doll Deypester; and stuff, and notions, and palaver to the ould Dutcher. He was a coorious smart individual, and considerably moosical, and so he let them think that they'd got his good word by sarving as helps on his clearing, making his zig-zag grand against breachy cattle, or the likes of that; but I reckon that he warn't the fish to be caught without the golden hook: though, if the devil had been the fisherman then, he would have fixed the Dutcher. I some think that it was nigh spring that Doll Deypester's birth-day came about, and all the suitorers were awful earnest with ould Dyckman to fix for one of them; the woman being most for young Hudson, and the Dutcher for him as had most plunder, and could best get well along in the world. So says the mynheer, says he, 'I'll tell you what it is,' says he; 'you're all mighty smart fellows, you are; but afore I give my gal to any of you, I must know if you can pay the charges; for I reckon for me to give the dollars and the wife both is what I call a leetle too purty middling particklar. I won't have no squatting on my clearing, and no bundling with my darter, I won't; and so, to save squiggling, whoever of you can bring me first five hundred hard dollars on her birth-day shall have Dortje Deypester.'--That was what ould Dyckman said, only I rather guess that he didn't talk such coorious elegant English as I doos, because he was an awful smoker, and a Dutcher besides. Upon the hearing of this, they mighty soon took themselves slick right away off, all but young Hudson and the schoolmaster; for one knowed when he was in good quarters, and t'other loved Dortje too well, I calkilate, to leave till he couldn't stay no longer.--I say, Ivory, arn't you going to tell the 'squire the story, or do you calkilate as I should go the whole hog for you, you 'tarnal lazy log of ebony?"

"Him tinkee massa like to hear heself talk best," answered the negro. "Golly! he tell it awful elegant, sure:--most as well as ole Ivory. A day afore a Dortje's birth-day, come on mighty ugly storm, what a ole folk say tear up ebberyting he meet on a ground, and rocks on a shore, so that man see considerable much strange tings dere, what he never know afore or again. A wind crack a biggest trees, and snap a strongest zig-zags like a twigs, and a rain pour down like a water-spout. Toward a night a storm he little clear up, and a wind he blow but in puff and gusts, and a moon show heself, dough in mighty cloudy watery sky. Then Louis he leave a house of ole Deypester, 'cause he not see Dortje give away next morning to Jamaica-man, and bote of 'em sad enough, he calkilate; but there no help, and away he go in despair. He not got far from a clearing when he see a moon shine down mighty ugly narrow gulf, where a road go to a Hudson River below, and he stop little and look, 'cause he never remember he to see a place afore. While he stand, he tink he hear man speak, and then he see him sitting on rock in a moonlight, half way down a gulf, and another standing by. Hudson then go down heself on a dark side, till he get opposite, and then he look over and see a Domine Keekenkettel talking to a mighty 'tickler handsome, grand, ole colour gentleum----"

"Sartain it was the ould gentleman, sure_ly_," interrupted the American, "in the shape of a nigger, which arn't considerably much of a hiding for the devil, I calkilate."

"I don't tink he look a bit of a devil," answered Ivory, somewhat offended. "A tink a devil so handsome as a colour man? Be sure he no devil, 'cause ebberybody know he all white!"

"Quit, you lying jackdaw!" replied Pokehorn with great promptness, and a long stroke at Ivory; "that's only in Guinea, I calkilate, that he mayn't be mistaken for one of the family. Go on, and don't be moosical, or I trounce you."

"Well," resumed the negro, "Louis soon hear a domine say, 'This our bargain, then,--I take your place to watch a pirates' treasure,--I guess I soon fix him, and get him all slick away. But afore you and I deal, p'raps you show where a money is buried.' A stranger then point between a rocks beside him, and say in he's deep voice, 'Dere!' And then down by a colour man, Louis he see into a ground, what seems all full of treasure shining in a moonlight; here awful much gold and dollars, and dere a gold and silver plate, and a t'other place full of di'monds and jewels, bright as stars in a night sky. Grach! I tink he won'er, and b'lieve he rile a little that a almanack-maker so easy get a five hundred dollars for Dortje Deypester. A domine stare into a cave as if he's eyes eat up all he look at; but at last he get up and say, 'I gree, and dere my hand on a bargain; I take care all instead of you, and much more as you can show me.' So he fill he's pouches, and then go away to ole Deypester for a horses and bags to bring away a rest, dough he often turn a head to look back at a treasure. He hardly gone when a strange colour man call out to Louis in he's deep voice, 'This a dark night for a sad heart to journey in.' Louis turn he round directly, and see him close beside, berry tall and genteel, such a bootiful gentleum! dough he no make out he's face for a clouds over a moon. He little feared and won'ered at first, but soon he got up he's pluck and say, 'I guess it dark enough, but how you know my heart sad?' T' other answer him smart, 'That want no wizard, when he hear a sighs like yours. But he know little more yet: he reckon you want a five hundred dollars afore to-morrow, or lose your sweetheart, which a true shame for ac_tive_ springy lad like you: a pirates' treasure dere, hab a ten thousand times as much, as he know by a watching it these twenty years.'--'In a God's name!' say Louis then, 'who are you,--and who set you there?'--'One of a last of a Spanish buccaneers' say the other; 'that berry Captain Hornigold, what make love to Dortje Deypester. He take a ship, and kill all on board but me and young child, that I slave to; then he bring us bote to a shore, where he hide all his plunder, and stab us, and tell a ghosts to watch it. A young child he live, and found on a river bank, and so called by it name--Louis Hudson, it yourself!--but I die, and wan'er about a treasure-grave till a captain come back, or another take my place, or a right owner come for his own. All that happen to-night, and I soon at liberty for ever!--You hear a money-digger say he look to a pirates' spoil hereafter, and be sure he never quit a creek again, dough he never find a gold any more. This treasure here, belong to a father, who killed in ship; it now all your own; take him, but take a nothing more;--use him well, and you be fifty times so rich as Deypester, and hab a blessing beside.--Hark! a bell strike twelve!--my time most up now, and dere come a captain!"

"Ivory, you 'tarnal tonguey imp!" again interrupted the American, "doos you mean to keep on all night about that precious wordy black preaching in the creek? Now I'll show you how to finish it all right slick away at once, I will.--You see, then, the captain comes trampoosing up from the river with a spade and a lanthorn, to dig for the treasure; and, as soon as he gets in, he cries out, 'Plunder and prize-money! this is a desp'ut ugly awful dark berth.--Is there anybody on watch, I wonder?' Upon which that dreadful big black comes up and says, 'Yes, I calkilate I'm awake here; and now, as I've kept the treasures of the bold buccaneers till you've come back, if you admire we'll go off together.'--'Bear a smart hand, then, with the plunder into the boat below, afore the tide falls,' says Hornigold. 'Clouds and midnight! how dark it is, and the gale blows stiffer than ever!--Seas and billows! why, the tide's coming up the creek ten fathom strong!'--That's all as was ever heard of the captain or the nigger, I guess; for what between the water as come roaring up, and the rain as came pouring down, they were carried off to sea with all their plunder, and nobody never saw or heard of them sarpents again!"

"A most astonishing and mysterious providence, truly," said Downwithit, "and worthy of being recorded with the narratives of Baxter, Reynolds, Janeway, and Mather.--But what became of the others?"

"Why," said Mr. Pokehorn, "as for Louis, he turned out to be some awful great man or other, and considerable rich. He showed ould Deypester a thousand dollars next morning, and married Dortje afore night. But Keekenkettel went mad outright, because he couldn't never fix the treasure again, and found that he'd filled his pouches with shells and stones, as looked mighty like dollars and doubloons in the moonshine. Folk say he was only dreaming, and that there never warn't no such treasure for him to find; though they guessed that young Hudson got his money by the storm having washed it up out of the ground. But it's a true fact, it is, that the domine always arter, kept camfoozling about the Pirates' Plunder Creek as long as he lived, as he bargained to do; and whenever there's a mighty smart storm in the night, with a blink of moonlight, the say is that he's to be seen there still."

THE SPECTRE.

It was a wild and gloomy dream: to think upon it now,
My very blood is chill'd with fear; and o'er my aching brow
Cold clammy drops are stealing down, I tremble like a child
Who listens to a story of the wonderful and wild!
And well a stouter heart than mine might quake with dread, I ween;--
But who hath ever gazed, like me, on such a fearful scene!

* * * * *

Sleep dropp'd upon my wearied eyes, and down I sank to rest;
But no refreshing slumbers upon my senses press'd;
Ten thousand lights before my eyes were dancing,--blue and red;
Ten thousand hollow voices cried--I knew not what they said.
My brain wheel'd round--faint grew my limbs--I cried and
scream'd in vain;
It seem'd as though some cursed imp had bound me with his chain!
My tongue clave to the parched roof,--a raging thirst was mine,
As I had drunk for months and months, nought else but saltest brine;
Thirst such as parched pilgrims feel who range the desert wide,
Or those who lie 'neath scorching skies upon a calmed tide.
My temples throbb'd as they would burst; and, raging through my brain,
The boiling blood rush'd furiously with sound like a hurricane!
I rav'd and foam'd; my eyeballs strain'd, as though the nerves
would burst,
As by my side appear'd a form--a demon form accurst!
And suddenly another came--another and yet more,
All clad in dark habiliments;--a dozen--ay, a score!
On me they leer'd with savage joy, and seized me, every one,
And round and round about me went.--Oh! how my senses spun!
I thought the leader of that band of sprites must surely be
The Evil One, and I his prey. I vainly strove to flee:
I tried to pray,--my tongue was dumb;--then down upon the ground
I sank, and felt my every limb with fiery fetters bound.
I know not now, how long I lay; my senses all were gone,
And I with those infernal ones was left alone, alone.
At length I started with affright, and felt, or seemed to feel,
The blasts of hot sulphureous air across my forehead steal.
A horrid thought, as on we mov'd, upon my senses burst,
That they were bearing me away unto the place accurst.
Oh! language vainly strives to paint the horrors of that ride!
Two demons at my head and feet, and two on either side.
The stars above were bloody red--each one seem'd doubly bright,
And spectral faces glar'd in mine, with looks of grim delight.
Still slowly, slowly on we mov'd, that ghastly troop and I:
I questioned, where?--a fiendish laugh was only their reply.
On, onward I was borne. At last they stay'd, and in my face
A hideous visage peer'd on me with horrible grimace:
Then down they threw me (still unbound) upon a bed of stone,
And one by one they vanished, and I was left alone!

* * * * *

How long I lay, I may not say. At length I saw a form
Beside me, and upon his brow there seem'd a gathering storm.
"Where am I?" loud I scream'd, and paus'd. Again I rav'd, and cried,
"And who art thou, thou evil one! who standest at my side?
What spectre art thou?" "Come," said he,
"young feller, hold your peace;
You're on the stretcher now, and I'm the _'spector_ of police!"

AUTHORS AND ACTORS; OR, ENGAGING A COMPANY.
_A Dramatic Sketch._

_Scene--The Manager's Room. The Manager discovered._

_Manager._--Well! my theatre is built at last, and I have now only to think about opening it. My walls are so dry that they cannot throw a damp upon my prospects. My stage is all ready for starting; and every one, I am happy to say, seems inclined to take the box-seat. Everything now must go as smooth as a railroad. I have always heard that a manager must lead a devil of a life; but I am in hopes I shall be an exception to the rule, and that management to me will be a delightful pastime.

_Fitz-Growl_ (_without_).--But I must see him.

_Manager._--Who the deuce can this be?

(_Enter a Servant._)

_Servant._--If you please, sir, here's a person wants to speak to you.

_Manager._--I'm busy about the opening of the theatre; tell him you can't get near me.

_Servant._--But he says he's an author, sir, and has called about his piece.

_Manager._--His piece! why, these authors let me have no peace at all.

_Servant._--He would come up, sir, though I told him you wouldn't suffer any one behind the scenes.

_Manager._--And particularly an author; for he makes people suffer enough before them.

_Servant._--Here he is, sir; he would force his way up.

(_Exit Servant. Enter Fitz-Growl._)

_Manager._--My servant says you would force your way up.

_Fitz-Growl._--And isn't it natural an author should wish to do so?

_Manager._--Well; but, sir, it is not usual in theatres for the manager to see any one.

_Fitz-Growl._--Not usual to see any one! It must be a very poor look-out.

_Manager._--Well, sir, as you are here, may I ask your business?

_Fitz-Growl._--Why, being anxious for the success of your theatre, I sent you three of my pieces to begin with. Now, sir, I've had no answer.

_Manager._--My dear sir, we cannot answer everybody. Theatres never answer in these times. However, your pieces shall be looked out. You can believe in my assurance.

_Fitz-Growl._--Certainly; a manager ought to have assurance enough for anything. But I tell you, sir, if you want to succeed, you must open with my piece.

_Manager._--What is the nature of it?

_Fitz-Growl._--Nature! The beauty of my piece is, that there's no nature at all in it; it's beautifully unnatural.

_Manager._--Indeed! I hope there is some spirit in the dialogue?

_Fitz-Growl._--Some spirit, sir! there is a ghost in it.

_Manager._--A ghost, my dear sir! that won't do for my theatre; my audience would have too much sense for a thing of that kind.

_Fitz-Growl._--Then you'll never do any good, sir; but, may I ask what sort of pieces you intend producing?

_Manager._--Variety and novelty, sir, will be my aim.

_Fitz-Growl._--Novelty! then my piece is the very thing. I sink the whole stage.

_Manager._--Thank you; but I'd rather leave the task of sinking the stage to others; my aim shall be to raise it.

_Fitz-Growl._--My dear sir, you know nothing of effect; if you could only cover the stage with people, and then let them all down at once, it would be terrific!

_Manager._--My dear sir, I don't want to cover my stage with people, and then let them down; I'd sooner hold my performers up than see them let down.

_Fitz-Growl._--That's very fine talking; but you must get the money, and I can assure you mine are the only pieces to do it.

_Manager._--Indeed, sir; then I'm too generous to my fellow-managers to think of monopolising the only author whose pieces will draw.

(_Enter Servant._)

_Servant._--A gentleman named Scowl is below.

_Manager._--Oh! the gentleman I was to see respecting an engagement. Beg him to walk up. (_Exit Servant._)

_Fitz-Growl._--Ah! he's an old friend of mine. He plays the devil in all my pieces.

_Manager._--Plays the devil, does he?

_Fitz-Growl._--My best friend, sir; he has made the character I allude to his own.

_Manager._--It is to be hoped, for his sake, that the character you allude to will not return the compliment.

(_Enter Scowl._)

_Fitz-Growl._--Ah! my dear Scowl, how are you?

_Scowl._--So, so; I swallowed a quantity of the smoke last night in your new piece.

_Manager._--Did the audience swallow it too?

_Scowl._--Sir?

_Manager._--I beg your pardon, sir; I believe you wish to lead the business at my theatre?

_Fitz-Growl._--He's the very man for it.

_Manager._--What is your line, sir?

_Scowl._--Why, I don't mind the heavy business; but I prefer the demons, or the singing scoundrels.

_Manager._--But I don't think I shall do that sort of thing.

_Scowl._--More fool you. If you want your theatre to pay, you must stick to the melodrama: the people are sure to come if you can only frighten them away.

_Fitz-Growl._--Yes, I find it so with my pieces; they draw the same people over and over again, because they are forced to come several times before they can venture to sit them out.

_Manager._--But I sha'n't aim at that.

_Scowl._--More fool you. But if I can be of any service to you in the combat way,--I can fight with a sword in each hand, a dagger in my mouth, and a bayonet in my eye. What do you think of that?

_Manager._--Astonishing!

_Scowl._--My friend Mr. Fitz-Growl has written me an excellent new part.

_Manager._--What's that about?

_Fitz-Growl._--Oh! nothing particular. I write down a few horrors, make a list of the murders, and my friend Scowl knows what to be up to.

_Manager._--Really, gentlemen, I don't see that we can come to terms.

_Fitz-Growl._--Don't see!--what! you don't want my pieces?

_Scowl._--Nor my acting?

_Manager._--Neither, gentlemen, I thank you.

_Fitz-Growl._--Then I'll go home and write a melodrama, called the "_Doomed Manager_," and you shall be the hero.

_Manager._--Thank you.

_Scowl._--And I'll play the part.

_Manager._--What! you represent me? That's too cruel. But I must wish you good morning.

_Scowl._--Farewell! remember me!

_Fitz-Growl._--And me too. I say, sir, remember me!

(_Exeunt Scowl and Fitz-Growl with melodramatic eye-rollings._)

_Manager._--Well, I hope all the applications won't be like this, or I shall never get a company.

(_Enter a Bill-sticker._)

_Manager._--Well, my good fellow, who are you?

_Bill-sticker._--Why, I'm one of your best friends; I'm the bill-sticker. Nobody sticks up for you like I do.

_Manager._--Well, but what do you want?

_Bill-sticker._--Why, sir, I'm sorry to say that as fast as I put your bills up, somebody else comes and pulls them down.

_Manager._--How is that?

_Bill-sticker._--I don't know, sir. It's werry ungentlemanly, whoever does it. The fact is, sir, your bills meet with as much opposition as bills in Parliament; and I'm sure I don't know why, unless it is that they are what we call money-bills.

_Manager._--Perhaps they are too large, and occupy too much space: you know the printing is very large, the type is bold, and the capitals are immense.

_Bill-sticker._--That's it, sir. It's the immense capital; it's such a novelty in theatres that they're all afraid of it. Shall I pull down their bills, sir?

_Manager._--Certainly not. I will never sanction those whom I employ in unworthily attempting to hurt the interests of others. My theatre is for the amusement of all, and the employment of many; but the injury of none.

_Bill-sticker._--Oh! if that's your motto, everybody ought to stick up for you; and I'm sure I will for one.

_Manager._--Thank you, friend, for the promise of your influence.

_Bill-sticker._--And it's no mean influence, either; for, though only one poor fellow, I carry more bills in a day than the House of Commons carries in a whole session.

(_Exit Bill-sticker._)

_Manager._--Well! management does not seem so smooth, after all: one meets with vexations now and then, I fear. Oh! who comes now?

(_Enter Queershanks._)

_Manager._--Your pleasure, sir?

_Queershanks._--My name is Queershanks. You have built a theatre, have you not?

_Manager._--I have, sir.

_Queershanks._--Very good: then you will want a model.

_Manager._--A model after it is built?

_Queershanks._--Certainly: but not a model of a theatre; a model of a man.

_Manager._--What for, sir?

_Queershanks._--Why, sir, you will want occasionally to give representations of statues. I am an excellent hand at it.

_Manager._--But, sir, my theatre is dedicated to Apollo.

_Queershanks._--The very thing, sir: I have stood as the model of the Apollo Belvedere to the cleverest artists.

_Manager._--They must have been clever artists to make an Apollo Belvedere with you for their model; but I cannot entertain your engagement in that shape.

_Queershanks._--Not engage me in that shape! My shape is unexceptionable. Only look at this muscle. Here's muscle for Hercules, sir! Feel it, sir; will you be so good?

_Manager._--I see it.

_Queershanks._--No,--but feel it.

_Manager._--Quite unnecessary, sir. I don't think what you could do would suit our audience.

_Queershanks._--Do you mean to say, sir, I should do you no good? Look at this muscle, sir. Would not muscle like that make a tremendous hit? (_Striking him._)

_Manager._--Sir, I'm quite satisfied.

_Queershanks._--Satisfied, sir! so you ought to be: I've got the nose of Mars, sir.

_Manager._--My dear sir, what is it to the public if you've got Mars' nose and Pa's chin.

_Queershanks._--I mean the classical Mars,--not my mother, you silly fellow. Then I've got the eye of a Cyclop, and the whiskers of Virginius. As yours is to be a classical theatre, will you give me a trial?

_Manager._--What can you do?

_Queershanks._--I'm very good in the ancient statues, only I've made them modern to suit the time. You know the "_African alarmed by thunder_?"

_Manager._--Yes: a fine subject.

_Queershanks._--I've modernised it into the "_Black footman frightened by an omnibus_:" this is it. (_Music; he does it._)

_Manager._--Very good! What else have you? Can you give me "_Ajax defying the lightning_?"

_Queershanks._--I have modernised it into the "_Little boy defying the beadle_." (_Music; he does it._)

_Manager._--Capital! Have you any more?

_Queershanks._--One more. You've seen the "_Dying Gladiator_?" I think my "_Prize-fighter unable to come up to time_" beats it all to nothing. (_Music; he does it._)

_Queershanks._--That's something like sculpture, isn't it?

_Manager._--Yes; but it won't do in my theatre.

_Queershanks._--Won't do, sir! what do you mean?

_Manager._--Why, I think the audience I wish to attract will like something better than dumb show. Good morning!

_Queershanks._--I'm gone, sir; but remember you've lost me. I tell you, sir, that my statues would have made your season; but I leave you, sir, with contempt (_striking an attitude_). Do you know that, sir? It's the celebrated statue of Napoleon turning with contempt from the shores of Elba, which, as you know, he left because he wanted more _elbow_ room. (_Exit Queershanks with an attitude._)

_Manager._--Well; each person that applies for an engagement seems to think he is the man to make my fortune for me, and gets quite angry that I won't let him have an opportunity of doing so; but I begin to see I must think for myself.

(_Enter Servant._)

_Servant._--A lady and two children wish to see you, sir.

_Manager._--Show them in. (_Exit Servant._) Some new candidates, I suppose: here they come. Ladies! they are the first that have done me the honour to apply to me.

(_Enter Mrs. Fiddler, Miss F. and Master F._)

_Manager._--Your pleasure, madam?

_Mrs. F._--My name is Fiddler, sir; did you ever hear of me? I've got a friend, a supernumerary at Astley's who has great influence in the theatrical world; he promised to speak to you; has he done so?

_Manager._--Really, madam, I do not remember to have had an interview with any such person.

_Mrs. F._--Indeed! that's strange: but I suppose you've heard of the clever Fiddlers?

_Manager._--You mean Paganini, perhaps, and De Beriot?

_Mrs. F._--No, indeed, I don't; I mean my clever children here, Master and Miss Fiddler.

_Manager._--Indeed, madam; I'm happy to make their acquaintance.

_Mrs. F._--And so you ought to be, sir. Come here, Julietta: this young lady, sir, has got _such_ a voice! It goes upon the high _C's_ as safe as an East-Indiaman. I want you to engage her.

_Manager._--I should like to hear her sing, before I thought of engaging her; she might fail.

_Mrs. F._--And if she did, sir,--if the public were so unjust,--how great would be the consolation to you to know that you partially repaired the injury by paying the dear child a salary!

_Manager._--I am afraid, madam, I could not proceed on that plan.

_Mrs. F._--You will excuse my saying, sir, that you have strange notions of liberality; but you shall hear her sing. Come, my dear, let's have the _Baccy-role_; it's beautiful in your mouth, my dear.

_Manager._--(_Aside._) Baccy-role, indeed! (_Aloud._) Let's hear you, my dear. (_Miss F. looks stupid and does not sing a note. Mrs. F. moving her hands and arms, sing for her very badly, a bit of the Barcarole from Musaniello._)

_Mrs. F._--You see, sir, that's what the dear child means; though she can't do it before you, she is so nervous. But all that will wear off when she gets before the audience.

_Manager._--It's to be hoped so, but what can the young gentleman do?

_Mrs. F._--What can he do! anything--he's a dancer; his pirouettes are tremendous: only look here! (_She turns him round and round till he falls down giddy._) See! he spins like a top; in fact he'll soon be the top of his profession.

_Manager._--Why, bless the boy! you don't call that dancing, do you?

_Mrs. F._--Of course: the dear boy has over-exerted himself, that's all; but he'll soon come round.

_Manager._--Why, he has come round too much; but I can't engage him.

_Mrs. F._--Then, sir, let me tell you, you'll never do. (_Exeunt Mrs. F. Master F. and Miss F._)

_Manager._--Why, that's what everybody tells me. Here, Tom! don't let me be annoyed by any one else. I find there's no small difficulty in exercising one's own discretion in these matters. I may do much to improve the race both of authors and actors, if I think and judge for myself; but to render my efforts of any avail, the public must do so too. And when will they begin to do it?

(_Curtain falls._)

A CRITICAL GOSSIP WITH LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.

The character of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu is about as little known to the generality of readers as the source of the Nile, or the precise position of the North Pole. She has taken her place in public estimation as a forward, witty, voluptuous woman of fashion, who flirted, if she did not intrigue, with Pope; who was initiated into all the mysteries of a Turkish harem, and who chronicled those mysteries with no very delicate hand:--who affected friendships, lampooned her associates, and wrote verses of _single-entendre_; who married rashly, loved unwisely, and led a life of ultra-friendship and long unexplained divorce. Such is Lady Mary Wortley Montagu supposed to be! so prone is biography to perpetuate the fleeting scandals of the day, to distort mystery or obscurity into indecorum or baseness, and to darken and discolour the stream of time with the filth that is vulgarly and maliciously thrown into it at its source. The period appears to have arrived at which Lady Mary's character has obtained the power of purifying itself. With many faults, constitutional as well as acquired, there can be no doubt that she was a lady of surpassing powers of mind, of extreme wit, an easy command of her own as well as of the learned languages, a surprising knowledge of the world even in her youth, a vivid poetical imagination, a heart full of foibles, but fuller of love for her _own_ circle, and that of her friends; and, above all, an abundance of common sense, which regulated her affections, her actions, her reflections, and her style, so as to render her the most accomplished lady of her own, or of the subsequent age. We do not think we can do justice to this fascinating creature in a better way than by lounging through the three volumes which Lord Wharncliffe's ancestral love, literary ability, and elegant taste, have given to the world. We may gossip with this work as we might with her who originated it, stroll with her in her favourite gardens, listen to her verses, catch her agreeable anecdotes, receive her valuable observations on human nature, as though she were actually before us in her splendid and _eternal_ nightgown, or in her Turkish dress, (so sweet in Lord Harrington's charming miniature) or in her domino at Venice, or in her lute-string, or in her English court-dress. Our gossip, however,--save as to the remarks we may, to use the phrase of the dramatist, utter aside to that vast pit, the public,--will very much resemble that between Macbeth and the armed head, at which the witches give their admonitory caution. That caution will not be lost upon us--for it will nearly be,--

"Hear _her_ speak, and say thou nought."

The introduction to this interesting work is from the editor, and it is written with a Walpole felicity in its points, though we would rather have had it more continuous than anecdotical. Our purpose we have professed to be, to gossip with Lady Mary, and we therefore shall make but two extracts from the introduction,--the one because it is _perhaps_ leaning to the unfeeling; the other, because it is indisputably the truth of feeling. Madame de Sevigné did not deserve the phrase which we have marked in italics in the following passage, and indeed Lady Mary, in one of her letters, announces herself as a successful rival of this very agreeable French letter-writer,--an announcement which ought to have cautioned an editor against depreciating the powers of one whom the edited had chosen to select as a rival.

"The modern world will smile, but should however beware of too hastily despising works that charmed Lady Mary Wortley in her youth, and were courageously defended by Madame de Sevigné even when hers was past, and they began to be sliding out of fashion. She, it seems, thought with the _old woman_ just now mentioned, that they had a tendency to elevate the mind, and to instil honourable and generous sentiments. At any rate they must have fostered application and perseverance, by accustoming their readers to what the French term _des ouvrages de longue haleine_. After resolutely mastering Clelia, nobody could pretend to quail at the aspect of Mezeray, or even at that of Holinshed's Chronicle printed in black letter. Clarendon, Burnet, and Rapin, had not yet issued into daylight."

With the foregoing extract (and all critics should get rid of their bile as quickly as they can) all that is unpleasant is at rest. Let us give the following feeling, beautiful anecdote.

"The name of another young friend will excite more attention--Mrs. Anne Wortley. _Mrs._ Anne has a most mature sound to our modern ears; but, in the phraseology of those days, _Miss_, which had hardly yet ceased to be a term of reproach, still denoted childishness, flippancy, or some other contemptible quality, and was rarely applied to young ladies of a respectable class. In Steele's Guardian, the youngest of Nestor Ironside's wards, aged fifteen, is Mrs. Mary Lizard. Nay, Lady Bute herself could remember having been styled Mrs. Wortley, when a child, by two or three elderly visitors, as tenacious of their ancient modes of speech as of other old fashions. Mrs. Anne, then, was the second daughter of Mr. Sidney[20] Wortley Montagu, and the favourite sister of his son Edward. She died in the bloom of youth, unmarried. Lady Mary, in common with others who had known her, represented her as eminently pretty and agreeable; and her brother so cherished her memory, that, in after times, his little girl knew it to be the highest mark of his favour, when, pointing at herself, he said to her mother, "Don't you think she grows like my poor sister Anne?"

[20] Second son of Admiral Montagu, first Earl of Sandwich. Upon marrying the daughter and heiress of Sir Francis Wortley, he was obliged by the tenour of Sir Francis's will to assume his name.

Lady Mary had Lord Byron's fate. She wrote a journal of her life; she became the historian of her own genius, her youthful love, and her young trials. It chanced to be her fate, that the one into whose hands her manuscript fell, considered it her duty (wisely and affectionately, or not, is immaterial for our purposes) to doom it to be a work of destruction. It is hard for genius that it cannot find an executor who regards the future in preference to the present; who cannot absolve himself from immediate ties, living incumbrances, pressing prejudices, conceived personalities,--to yield immortality its due!--who, in fact, in the blindness of temporary fears and temporary associations, classes that which he holds, erringly as that of the age,--which should be, and in its spirit was destined to be, "for all time." We have mentioned two immortal names; and before we pass into the three volumes, we cannot help endeavouring to connect them in the minds of our readers, as they are by their spirit connected in ours. Lord Byron was a moody, fiery, brooding child,--full of passion, obstinacy, and irregularity, in his teens;--Lady Mary was a single-thinking, classical, daring, inspired girl long under one-and-twenty. Lord Byron at a plunge formed his own spreading circles on the glittering still-life lake of fashionable society: Lady Mary with her beauty and her genius effected the same result by the same impetuosity. Lady Mary made, as it would appear, a cold unsatisfactory marriage, but, it must be admitted, with one possessed of a patience untainted by genius:--Lord Byron iced himself into the connubial state, but shuddered at its coldness. The press, and the poets, and the prosers united with serene ferocity against both. Both, alas! were

"Souls made of fire and children of the sun,
With whom revenge was virtue!"

Their revenge was mutual-minded. Misunderstood, calumniated, they quitted the land which was not worthy of them. Genius-borne, they both passed to the east; and to them we owe the most sensible,--the most passioned,--the most voluptuous,--and the most inspired pictures of "the land of the citron and myrtle," that have ever waked the wish and melted the heart of us southron readers. A mysterious divorcement from the marital partner marked the absence--the long last absence--of each! Mind-banished,--person-expatriated,--they vented upon their country that revenge of which injured genius can alone be capable. And looking at the calumnies upon the one, and the female animosities towards the other,--regarding the banishment of mental beauty and magic power in both,--we cannot better convey to our readers the revenge which genius gave, and must ever give, than by making a common cause of the two, and explaining it in the inimitable lines of the one.

"And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now
I shrink from what is suffered; let him speak
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow,
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak
But in this page a record will I seek.

Not in the air shall these my words disperse,
Tho' I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak
The deep prophetic fullness of this verse,
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse.
That curse shall be _forgiveness_!"--

This is indeed the inspiration of forgiveness. We feel an awe after reading this humane and lofty imprecation, which calls for a pause. There is the same feeling upon us from which we cannot escape, as that to which we are subject when we wander under the arched roof and sculptured aisles,--in the breathing, breathless, cathedral silence,--in the awful stone repose,--in the contemplation of

"The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips!"

The similarity between the genius of Byron and that of Lady Mary, and their fates,--except as to the death and duration of life of the two, (the one dying at the age of thirty-seven, and the other at the age of seventy-three,--a sad and strange reverse figures!)--are singularly interesting and affecting. The one,--sexually to distinguish them,--was _Rousseau_ with a heart,--the other _De Staël_ with one.--But we grow serious, critical, and minute. We are not certain that we are not growing anatomical. We shall therefore enter upon our _conversazione_ with our charming, high-born, easy caftan,--Minerva,--Lady Mary Wortley Montagu!

We pass silently over her biography, and at once commence with the unmarried _Lady Mary Pierrepont_ and the married Montagu! What can be livelier than the following York picture. It is _Hogarthian_!--and let it not be forgotten that the lady was only twenty, and unwedded.

"TO MRS. WORTLEY. "1710.
"I RETURN you a thousand thanks,
my dear, for so agreeable an entertainment as your
letter in our cold climate, where the sun appears
unwillingly--Wit is as wonderfully pleasing as a
sun-shiny day; and, to speak poetically, Phoebus
is very sparing of all his favours. I fancied your
letter an emblem of yourself: in some parts I found the
softness of your voice, and in others the vivacity of
your eyes: you are to expect no return but humble and
hearty thanks, yet I can't forbear entertaining you
with our York lovers. (Strange monsters you'll think,
love being as much forced up here as melons.) In the
first form of these creatures, is even Mr. Vanbrug.
Heaven, no doubt, compassionating our dulness, has
inspired him with a passion that make us all ready to
die with laughing: 'tis credibly reported that he is
endeavouring at the honourable state of matrimony,
and vows to lead a sinful life no more. Whether pure
holiness inspires the mind, or dotage turns his
brain, is hard to find. 'Tis certain he keeps Monday
and Thursday market (_assembly_ day) constantly; and
for those that don't regard worldly muck, there's
extraordinary good choice indeed. I believe last Monday
there were two hundred pieces of woman's flesh (fat
and lean): but you know Van's taste was always odd:
his inclination to ruins has given him a fancy for
Mrs. Yarborough: he sighs and ogles so, that it would
do your heart good to see him; and she is not a little
pleased in so small a proportion of men amongst such a
number of women, that a whole man should fall to her
share. My dear, adieu, My service to Mr. Congreve.
"M. P."

There is a charming poem by Lady Mary, which is singularly supported by her letters. It certainly acknowledges a love of pleasure which is not "quite correct;" but it is so unaffected,--so melodious,--so heartfelt,--so confiding,--that we could read it, and read it, "for ever and a day!"

"THE LOVER: A BALLAD.
"TO MR. CONGREVE.

"At length, by so much importunity press'd,
Take, Congreve, at once the inside of my breast.
This stupid indiff'rence so often you blame,
Is not owing to nature, to fear, or to shame:
I am not as cold as a virgin in lead,
Nor are Sunday's sermons so strong in my head:
I know but too well how time flies along,
That we live but few years, and yet fewer are young.

But I hate to be cheated, and never will buy
Long years of repentance for moments of joy.
Oh! was there a man (but where shall I find
Good sense and good nature so equally join'd?)
Would value his pleasure, contribute to mine;
Not meanly would boast, nor lewdly design;
Not over severe, yet not stupidly vain,
For I would have the power, though not give the pain.

No pedant, yet learned; no rake-helly gay,
Or laughing, because he has nothing to say;
To all my whole sex obliging and free,
Yet never be fond of any but me;
In public preserve the decorum that's just,
And shew in his eyes he is true to his trust!
Then rarely approach, and respectfully bow,
But not fulsomely pert, nor yet foppishly low.