Chapter II: Prologue (1)

For us, and our Miscellany,
Here stooping to your clemency,
We beg your hearing patiently.
SHAKSPEARE, _with a difference_.

"Doctor," said a young gentleman to Dean Swift, "I intend to set up for a wit."

"Then," said the Doctor, "I advise you to sit down again."

The anecdote is unratified by a name, for the young gentleman continues to the present day to be anonymous, as he will, in all probability, continue to future time; and as for Dean Swift, his name, being merely that of a wit by profession, goes for nothing. We apprehend that the tale is not much better than what is to be read in the pages of Joe Miller.

But, supposing it true,--and the joke is quite bad enough to be authentic,--we must put in our plea that it is not to apply to us. The fact is absolutely undeniable that we originally advertised ourselves or rather our work as, the "Wits' Miscellany,"--thereby indicating, beyond all doubt, that we of the Miscellany were WITS. It is our firm hope that the public, which is in general a most tender-hearted individual, will not give us a rebuff similar to that which the unnamed young gentleman experienced at the hands, or the tongue, of the implacable Dean of St. Patrick.

It has been frequently remarked,--and indeed we have more than fifty times experienced the fact ourselves,--that of all the stupid dinner-parties, by far the stupidest is that at which the cleverest men in all the world do congregate. A single lion is a pleasant show: he wags his tail in proper order; his teeth are displayed in due course; his hide is systematically admired, and his mane fitly appreciated. If he roars, good!--if he aggravates his voice to the note of a sucking-dove, better! All look on in the appropriate mood of delight, as Theseus and Hippolita, enraptured at the dramatic performance of Snug the Joiner. But when there comes a menagerie of lions, the case is altered. Too much familiarity, as the lawyers say in their peculiar jargon, begets contempt. We recollect, many years ago, when some ingenious artist in Paris proposed to make Brussels lace or blonde by machinery at the rate of a _sou_ per ell, to have congratulated a lady of our acquaintance on this important saving in the main expenditure of the fair sex. "You will have," said we, "a cap which now costs four hundred francs for less than fifty. Think of that!"

"Think of that!" said the countess, casting upon us the darkest expression of indignation that her glowing eyes [and what eyes they were!--but no matter] could let loose,--"think of that, indeed! Do you think that I should ever wear such rags as are to be bought for fifty francs?"

There was no arguing the matter: it was useless to say that the fifty-franc article, if the plan had succeeded, (which, however, it did not,) would have been precisely and in every thread the same as that set down at five hundred. The crowd of fine things generated by cheapness, in general, was quite enough to dim the finery of any portion of them in particular.

We are much afraid that we run somewhat loose of our original design in these rambling remarks. But it is always easy to come back to the starting-post. Abandoning metaphor and figure of all kinds, we were endeavouring to express our conviction, drawn from experience, that a company of professed wits might be justly suspected to be a dull concern. Every man is on the alert to guard against surprise.

Through all the seven courses laid down,
Each jester looks sour on his brother;
The wit dreads the punster's renown,
The buffoon tries the mimic to smother:
He who shines in the sharp repartee
Envies him who can yarn a droll story;
And the jolly bass voice in a glee
Will think your adagio but snory.

This is, we admit at once, and in anticipation of the reader's already expressed opinion, a very poor imitation of the opening song of the Beggar's Opera.

If this melancholy fact of the stupidity of congregated wits be admitted to be true, the question comes irresistibly, thrown in our faces in the very language of the street, "Who are _you_? Have not you advertised yourselves as wits, and can you escape from the soft-headed impeachment?" We reply nothing; we stand mute. It will be our time this day twelvemonths to offer to the pensive public a satisfactory replication to that somewhat personal interrogatory. Yet--

Having in our minds, and the interior _sensoria_ of our consciences, some portion of modesty yet lingering behind--how small that portion may be is best known to those who have campaigned for a few years upon the press, and thence learned the diffident mildness which naturally adheres to the pursuit of enlightening the public mind, and advancing the march of general intellect;--possessed, we say, of that quantity of retiring bashfulness, it is undeniable that, like one of the Passions in Collins's Ode,--we forget which, but we fear it is Fear,--we, after showing forth in the best public instructors as the Wits' Miscellany,

Back recoiled,
Scared at the sound ourselves had made.

To this resolution we were also led by the fact, that such a title would altogether exclude from our pages contributions of great merit--which, although exhibiting comic faculty, would also deal with the shadows of human life, and sound the deep wells of the heart.

We agreed that the work should not be called "The Wits'" any longer. We massacred the title as ruthlessly as ever were massacred its namesakes in Holland: and, agreeing to an _emendatio_, we now sail under the title of our worthy publisher, which happens to be the same as that of him who is by all _viri clarissimi_ adopted as _criticorum longè doctissimus_, RICARDUS BENTLEIUS; or, to drop Latin lore--Richard Bentley.

Here then, ladies and gentlemen, we introduce to your special and particular notice

BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.

What may be in the Miscellany it is your business to find out. Here lie the goods, warehoused, bonded, ticketed, and labelled, at your service. You have only, with the Genius in the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, to cry, "Fish, fish, do your duty;" and if they are under-cooked or over-cooked, if the seasoning is too high or the fire too low, if they be burnt on one side and raw on the other,--why, gentle readers, it is your business to complain. All we have to say here, is, that we have made our haul in the best fishing-grounds, and, if we were ambitious of pun-making, we might add, that we had well baited our _hooks_--caught some choice _souls_--flung our lines into right _places_--and so forth, as might easily he expanded by the students of Mr. Commissioner Dubois's art of punning made easy.

What we propose is simply this:--We do not envy the fame or glory of other monthly publications. Let them all have their room. We do not desire to jostle them in their course to fame or profit, even if it was in our power to do so. One may revel in the unmastered fun and the soul-touching feeling of Wilson, the humour of Hamilton, the dry jocularity and the ornamented poetry of Moir, the pathos of Warren, the tender sentiment of Caroline Bowles, the eloquence of Croly, and the Tory brilliancy of half a hundred contributors zealous in the cause of Conservatism. Another may shake our sides with the drolleries of Gilbert Gurney and his fellows, poured forth from the inexhaustible reservoir of the wit of our contributor Theodore Hook,--captivate or agitate us by the Hibernian Tales of Mrs. Hall,--or rouse the gentlest emotions by the fascinating prose or delicious verse of our fairest of _collaborateuses_ Miss Landon. In a third we must admire the polyglot facetiæ of our own Father Prout, and the delicate appreciation of the classical and elegant which pervades the writings of the Greek-thoughted Chapman; while its rough drollery, its bold bearing, its mirth, its learning, its courage, and its caricatures, (when, confined to the harmless and the mirth-provoking, they abstain from invading the sanctuary of private life,) are all deserving of the highest applause, though we should be somewhat sorry to stand in the way of receiving the consequences which they occasionally entail. Elsewhere, what can be better than Marryat, Peter Simple, Jacob Faithful, Midshipman Easy, or whatever other title pleases his ear; A Smollett of the sea revived, equal to the Doctor in wit, and somewhat purged of his grossness. In short, to all our periodical contemporaries we wish every happiness and success; and for those among their contributors whose writings tend to amuse or instruct,--and many among them there are to whom such praise may be justly applied,--we feel the highest honour and respect. We wish that we could catch them all, to illuminate our pages, without any desire whatever that their rays should be withdrawn from those in which they are at present shining.

Our path is single and distinct. In the first place, we have nothing to do with politics. We are so far Conservatives as to wish that all things which are good and honourable for our native country should be preserved with jealous hand. We are so far Reformers as to desire that every weed which defaces our conservatory should be unsparingly plucked up and cast away. But is it a matter of absolute necessity that people's political opinions should be perpetually obtruded upon public notice? Is there not something more in the world to be talked about than Whig and Tory? We do not quarrel with those who find or make it their vocation to show us annually, or quarterly, or hebdomadally, or diurnally, how we are incontestably saved or ruined; they have chosen their line of walk, and a pleasant one no doubt it is; but, for our softer feet may it not be permitted to pick out a smoother and a greener promenade,--a path of springy turf and odorous sward, in which no rough pebble will lacerate the ancle, no briery thorn penetrate the wandering sole?

Truce, however, to prefacing. We well know that speechmaking never yet won an election, because something more tangible than speechifying is requisite. So it is with books; and, indeed, so is it with every thing else in the world. We must be judged by our works. We have only one petition to make, which is put in with all due humility,--it is this--that we are not to be pre-judged by this our first attempt. Nothing is more probable than that many of our readers, and they fair-going people too, will think this number a matter not at all to be commended; and we, with perfect modesty, suggest, on the other side, the propriety of their suspending their opinion as to our demerits until they see the next. And then----And then! Well!--what then? Why, we do not know: and, as it is generally ruled, that, when a man cannot speak, he is bound to sing, we knock ourselves down for a song.

Our Opening Chaunt.

I.
Come round and hear, my public dear,
Come hear, and judge it gently,--
The prose so terse, and flowing verse,
Of us, the wits of Bentley.

II.
We offer not intricate plot
To muse upon intently;
No tragic word, no bloody sword,
Shall stain the page of Bentley.

III.
The tender song which all day long
Resounds so sentimént'ly,
Through wood and grove all full of love,
Will find no place in Bentley.

IV.
Nor yet the speech which fain would teach
All nations eloquéntly;--
'Tis quite too grand for us the bland
And modest men of Bentley.

V.
For science deep no line we keep,
We speak it reveréntly;--
From sign to sign the sun may shine,
Untelescoped by Bentley.

VI.
Tory and Whig, in accents big,
May wrangle violéntly:
Their party rage shan't stain the page--
The neutral page of Bentley.

VII.
The scribe whose pen is mangling men
And women pestiléntly,
May take elsewhere his wicked ware,--
He finds no mart in Bentley.

VIII.
It pains us not to mark the spot
Where Dan may find his rént lie;
The Glasgow chiel may shout for Peel,
We know them not in Bentley.

IX.
Those who admire a merry lyre,--
Those who would hear attent'ly
A tale of wit, or flashing hit,--
Are ask'd to come to Bentley.

X.
Our hunt will be for grace and glee,
Where thickest may the scent lie;
At slashing pace begins the chase--
Now for the burst of Bentley.

GEORGE COLMAN.

That a life of this eminent and much regretted man will be written by some competent author, there can be little doubt. That he himself extended his "_Random Records_" no further than two volumes, containing the history and anecdotes of the early part of his career, is greatly to be lamented. What is here collected is merely worthy of being called "Recollections," and does not assume to itself the character of a piece of biography.

Mr. Colman was the grandson of Francis Colman, Esq. British Resident at the Court of Tuscany at Pisa, who married a sister of the Countess of Bath. George Colman the elder, father of him of whom we write, was born about the year 1733, at Florence, and was placed at an early age at Westminster School, where he very soon distinguished himself by the rapidity of his attainments. In 1748 he went to Christchurch College, Oxford, where he took his Master's degree; and shortly became the friend and associate of Churchill, Bonnell Thornton, Lloyd, and the other principal wits and writers of the day.

Lord Bath was greatly struck by his merit and accomplishments, and induced him to adopt the law as his profession. He accordingly entered at Lincoln's Inn, and was eventually called to the bar. It appears--as it happened afterwards to his son--that the drier pursuits of his vocation were neglected or abandoned in favour of literature and the drama. His first poetical performance was a copy of verses addressed to his cousin, Lord Pulteney. But it was not till 1760 that he produced any dramatic work: in that year he brought out "Polly Honeycombe," which met with considerable success.

It is remarkable that, previous to that season, no new comedy had been produced at either theatre for nine years; and equally remarkable that the year 1761 should have brought before the public "The Jealous Wife," by Colman, "The way to Keep Him," by Murphy, and "The Married Libertine," by Macklin.

In the following year Lord Bath died, and left Mr. Colman a very comfortable annuity, but less in value than he had anticipated. In 1767, General Pulteney, Lord Bath's successor, died, and left him a second annuity, which secured him in independence for life. And here it may be proper to notice a subject which George Colman the younger has touched before in his "Random Records," in which he corrects a hasty and incautious error of the late Margravine of Anspach, committed by her, in her "Memoirs." Speaking of George Colman the elder, she says,

"He was a natural son of Lord Bath, Sir James Pulteney; and his father, perceiving in the son a passion for plays, asked him fairly if he never intended to turn his thoughts to politics, as it was his desire to see him a minister, which, with his natural endowments, and the expense and pains he had bestowed on his education, he had reason to imagine, with his interest, he might become. His _father_ desired to know if he would give up the Muses for diplomacy, and plays for politics; as, in that case, he meant to give him his whole fortune. Colman thanked Lord Bath for his kind communication, but candidly said, that he preferred Thalia and Melpomene to ambition of any kind, for the height of his wishes was to become, at some future time, the manager of a theatre. Lord Bath left him fifteen hundred pounds a-year, instead of all his immense wealth."

Mr. Colman, after exposing the strange mistake of calling _the_ Sir William Pulteney, James, goes on to state, that, being the son of his wife's sister, Lord Bath, on the death of Francis Colman (his brother-in-law), which occurred when the elder George was but one year old, took him entirely under his protection, and placed him progressively at Westminster, Oxford, and Lincoln's Inn. In corroboration of the else unquestioned truth of this statement, he refers to the posthumous pamphlets of his highly-gifted parent, and justly takes credit for saving him from imputed illegitimacy, by explaining that his grandmother was exempt from the conjugal frailty of Venus, and his grandfather from the fate of Vulcan.

George Colman the elder suffered severely from the effects of a paralytic affection, which, in the year 1790, produced mental derangement; and, after living in seclusion for four years, he died on the 14th of April 1794, having been during his life a joint proprietor of Covent Garden Theatre, and sole proprietor of the little theatre in the Haymarket.

George Colman the younger became, at Westminster, the schoolfellow and associate of the present Archbishop of York, the Marquess of Anglesea, the late Earl of Buckinghamshire, Doctor Robert Willis, Mr. Reynolds, his brother dramatist, the present Earl Somers, and many other persons, who have since, like himself, become distinguished members of society.

The account which Mr. Colman gives of his introduction by his father to Johnson, Goldsmith, and Foote, when a child, is so highly graphic, and so strongly characteristic of the man, that we give an abridgement of it here:

"On the day of my introduction," says Colman, "Dr. Johnson was asked to dinner at my father's house in Soho-square, and the erudite savage came a full hour before his time. My father, having dressed himself hastily, took me with him into the drawing-room.

"On our entrance, we found Johnson sitting in a _fauteuil_ of rose-coloured satin. He was dressed in a rusty suit of brown, cloth _dittos_, with black worsted stockings; his old yellow wig was of formidable dimensions; and the learned head which sustained it rolled about in a seemingly paralytic motion; but, in the performance of its orbit, it inclined chiefly to one shoulder.

"He deigned not to rise on our entrance; and we stood before him while he and my father talked. There was soon a pause in the colloquy; and my father, making his advantage of it, took me by the hand, and said,--'Dr. Johnson, this is a little Colman.' The doctor bestowed a slight ungracious glance upon me, and, continuing the rotary motion of his head, renewed the previous conversation. Again there was a pause;--again the anxious father, who had failed in his first effort, seized the opportunity for pushing his progeny, with--'This is my son, Dr. Johnson.' The great man's contempt for me was now roused to wrath; and, knitting his brows, he exclaimed in a voice of thunder, 'I _see_ him, sir!' He then fell back in his rose-coloured satin _fauteuil_, as if giving himself up to meditation; implying that he would not be further plagued, either with an old fool or a young one.

"After this rude rebuff from the doctor, I had the additional felicity to be placed next to him at dinner: he was silent over his meal; but I observed that he was, as Shylock says of Lancelot Gobbo, 'a huge feeder;' and during the display of his voracity, (which was worthy of _Bolt_ Court,) the perspiration fell in copious drops from his visage upon the table-cloth."

"Oliver Goldsmith, several years before my luckless presentation to Johnson, proved how 'doctors differ.' I was only five years old when Goldsmith took me on his knee, while he was drinking coffee, one evening, with my father, and began to play with me; which amiable act I returned with the ingratitude of a peevish brat, by giving him a very smart slap in the face; it must have been a tingler, for it left the marks of my little spiteful paw upon his cheek. This infantile outrage was followed by summary justice; and I was locked up by my indignant father in an adjoining room, to undergo solitary imprisonment in the dark. Here I began to howl and scream most abominably; which was no bad step towards liberation, since those who were not inclined to pity me might be likely to set me free, for the purpose of abating a nuisance.

"At length a generous friend appeared to extricate me from jeopardy, and that generous friend was no other than the man I had so wantonly molested by assault and battery; it was the tender-hearted doctor himself, with a lighted candle in his hand, and a smile upon his countenance, which was still partially red from the effects of my petulance. I sulked and sobbed, and he fondled and soothed; till I began to brighten. Goldsmith, who, in regard to children, was like the village preacher he has so beautifully described,--for

'Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed,'--

seized the propitious moment of returning good-humour; so he put down the candle, and began to conjure. He placed three hats, which happened to be in the room, upon the carpet, and a shilling under each: the shillings he told me, were England, France, and Spain. 'Hey, presto, cockolorum!' cried the doctor,--and, lo! on uncovering the shillings which had been dispersed, each beneath a separate hat, they were all found congregated under one. I was no politician at five years old, and, therefore, might not have wondered at the sudden revolution which brought England, France, and Spain all under one crown; but, as I was also no conjuror, it amazed me beyond measure. Astonishment might have amounted to awe for one who appeared to me gifted with the power of performing miracles, if the good-nature of the man had not obviated my dread of the magician; but, from that time, whenever the doctor came to visit my father,

'I pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile;

a game at romps constantly ensued, and we were always cordial friends, and merry play-fellows.

"Foote's earliest notices of me were far from flattering; but, though they had none of Goldsmith's tenderness, they had none of Johnson's ferocity; and when he accosted me with his usual salutation of 'Blow your nose, child!' there was a whimsical manner, and a broad grin upon his features, which always made me laugh.

"His own nose was generally begrimed with snuff; and, if he had never been more facetious than upon the subject of my _emunctories_, which, by the bye, did not went cleansing, I need not tell the reader, that he would not have been distinguished as a wit;--he afterwards condescended to pass better jokes upon me.

"The paradoxical celebrity which he maintained upon the stage was very singular; his satirical sketches were scarcely dramas, and he could not be called a good legitimate performer. Yet there is no Shakspeare or Roscius upon record who, like Foote, supported a theatre for a series of years by his own acting, in his own writings, and, for ten years of the time, upon a _wooden leg_!"

The reader, if he have not seen these passages before, will, we are sure, sympathise with us in our regrets that the work from which we extract them, carries us only in its two volumes to the year 1785,--a period at which Colman's fame and reputation had yet to be made.

His first decidedly successful drama was "Inkle and Yarico:" this at once established his character as an author. "Ways and Means," "The Mountaineers," and "The Iron Chest" followed; and in 1798 he published those admirable poems known as "My Night-gown and Slippers." His greatest literary triumphs were, however, yet to come. "The Heir at Law" was his first regular comedy; and we doubt very much whether he ever excelled it, or, indeed, if it has been excelled by more than a very few plays in the English language. We know that the theatrical world, and we believe the author himself, gave a decided preference to "John Bull;" but we admit that as we are unfashionable enough to prefer Sheridan's "Rivals" to his "School for Scandal," so are we prepared unhesitatingly to declare our opinion that "The Heir at Law" is Colman's _chef d'oeuvre_.

"The Poor Gentleman" is an excellent play; and "Who wants a Guinea?" although not so decidedly successful as its predecessors, teems with that rich humour and quaintness of thought which so strongly characterise the writing of its author. His farces of "The Review," "Love laughs at Locksmiths," "We fly by Night," and several others, are all admirable in their way. These were given to the town as the reductions of Arthur Griffinhoofe, a _nom de guerre_, however, which proved quite inefficient in making the public mistake the source whence their amusement was derived.

In 1819, Mr. Colman finally retired from the proprietorship and management of the Haymarket Theatre. Upon the escape and flight from England of Captain Davis, the lieutenant of the Yeoman Guard, his Majesty George the Fourth appointed Mr. Colman to succeed him; and on the death of Mr. Larpent he also received the appointment of Examiner of Plays. The former office he relinquished in favour of Sir John Gete, some three or four years since; and in the latter he has, as our readers know, been succeeded by Mr. Charles Kemble.

It would be unjust and unfair to the memory of Mr. Colman were we to let slip this opportunity of saying a few words upon the subject of his conduct in the execution of the duties of this situation; because it has been made the object of attack even by men of the highest talent and reputation, as well as the low ribald abuse of their literary inferiors,--which, however, considering the source whence it came, is not worth noticing.

It has been alleged that Mr. Colman was unnecessarily rigid in his exclusion of oaths and profane sayings from the dramatic works submitted to his inspection; and the gist of the arguments against him touching this rigour went to show that he ought not to expunge such expressions as examiner, because he had used such expressions himself as an author. This reasoning is absurd, the conclusion inconsequential. When Mr. Colman wrote plays, he was not bound by oath to regulate their language by any fixed standard; and, as all other dramatists of the day had done, in a dialogue or depicting a character he used in some--perhaps all his dramas--occasional expletives. But Mr. Colman's plays then had to be submitted to an examiner, who, conscientiously, did his duty; and, from the high moral character of the late licenser, there can be little lesson for doubting that _he_, like his successor, drew his pen across any expression which he might have considered objectionable; but no one ever complained of this, because Mr. Larpent had never written a play, or used an oath in its dialogues.

When Mr. Colman assumed the legal and necessary power of correction, he had but one course to pursue: he was sworn to perform a certain duty assigned to him to the best of his judgment, and to correct any expressions which he might consider injurious to the state or to morality. What had _he_ to do, as licenser, with what he had himself done as author? The _tu quoque_ principle in this use is even more than usually absurd; it is as if a schoolmaster were to be prevented from flogging a boy for breaking windows, because, when he was a boy, he had broken windows himself.

As we have already stated that it is not our intention to make these few pages a piece of biography, we shall leave to some better qualified person to give the more minute details of Mr. Colman's life. The following lines, written by himself, now many years since, and when he himself was under fifty, give as good an epitome of his career up to that period as fifty pages of matter-of-fact; and from that time until the occurrence of the sad event to which the last stanza, so pathetically--as it _now_ reads--refers, he lived on in happiness and comfort.

A RECKONING WITH TIME.

I.
Come on, old Time!--Nay, that is stuff;
Gaffer! thou comest fast enough;
Wing'd foe to feather'd Cupid!--
But tell me, Sand-man, ere thy grains
Have multiplied upon my brains,
So thick to make me stupid;--

II.
Tell me, Death's journeyman!--But no!
Hear thou my speech: I will not grow
Irreverent while I try it;
For, though I mock thy flight, 'tis said
The forelock fills me with such dread,
I never take thee by it.

III.
List, then, old Is, Was, and To-be;
I'll state accounts 'twixt thee and me.
Thou gav'st me, first, the measles;
With teething would'st have ta'en me off;
Then mad'st me, with the hooping-cough,
Thinner than fifty weasels;

IV.
Thou gav'st small-pox, (the dragon now
That Jenner combats on a cow,)
And then some seeds of knowledge,--
Grains of Grammar, which the flails
Of pedants thresh upon our tails,
To fit us for a college.

V.
And, when at Christ-Church, 'twas thy sport
To rack my brains with sloe-juice port,
And lectures out of number!
There Freshman Folly quaffs and sings,
While Graduate Dullness clogs thy wings
With mathematic lumber.

VI.
Thy pinions next,--which, while they wave,
Fan all our birth-days to the grave,--
I think, ere it was prudent,
Balloon'd me from the schools to town,
Where I was parachuted down,
A dapper Temple student.

VII.
Then, much in dramas did I look,--
Much slighted thee and great Lord Coke:
Congreve beat Blackstone hollow;
Shakspeare made all the statues stale,
And in my crown no pleas had Hale
To supersede Apollo.

VIII.
Ah! Time, those raging heats, I find,
Were the mere dog-star of my mind;
How cool is retrospection!
Youth's gaudy summer solstice o'er,
Experience yields a mellow store,--
An autumn of reflection!

IX.
Why did I let the God of song
Lure me from law to join his throng,
Gull'd by some slight applauses?
What's verse to A. when versus B.?
Or what John Bull, a comedy,
To pleading John Bull's causes!

X.
Yet, though my childhood felt disease,--
Though my lank purse, unswoll'n by fees,
Some ragged Muse has netted,--
Still, honest Chronos! 'tis most true,
To thee (and, 'faith! to others too,)
I'm very much indebted.

XI.
For thou hast made me gaily tough,
Inured me to each day that's rough,
In hopes of calm to-morrow.
And when, old mower of us all,
Beneath thy sweeping scythe I fall,
Some few dear friends will sorrow.

XII.
Then, though my idle prose or rhyme
Should, half an hour, outlive me, Time,
Pray bid the stone-engravers,
Where'er my bones find church-yard room,
Simply to chisel on my tomb,--
"Thank Time for all his favours!"

It is a curious coincidence--although considering the proximity of their ages there may be nothing really strange in it--that Mr. Colman and his intimate friend Bannister should have quitted this mortal world so nearly at the same time. The circumstance, however, gives us an opportunity of bringing their names together in a manner honourable to both. We derive the anecdote from the "Random Records;" and we think it will be at this juncture favourably received by those who admire dramatic authors and actors, and who rejoice to see traits of private worth the concomitants of public excellence.

After recounting the circumstances of his first acquaintance with Bannister, Mr. Colman says,

"In the year of my return from Aberdeen, 1784, unconscious of fear through ignorance of danger, I rushed into early publicity as an avowed dramatist. My father's illness in 1789 obliged me to undertake the management of his theatre; which, having purchased at his demise, I continued to manage as my own. During such progression, up to the year 1796 inclusive, I scribbled many dramas for the Haymarket, and one for Drury-lane; in almost all of which the younger Bannister (being engaged at both theatres) performed a prominent character; so that, for most of the thirteen years I have enumerated, he was of the greatest importance to my theatrical prosperity in my double capacity of author and manager; while I was of some service to him by supplying him with new characters. These reciprocal interests made us, of course, such close colleagues, that our almost daily consultations promoted amity, while they forwarded business.

"From this last-mentioned period, (1796,) we were led by our speculations, one after the other, into different tracks. He had arrived at that height of London popularity when his visits to various provincial theatres in the summer were productive of much more money than my scale of expense in the Haymarket could afford to give him. As he wintered it, however, in Drury-lane, I profited for two years more by his acting in the pieces which I produced there. I then began to write for the rival house in Covent Garden, and this parted us as author and actor: but separating, as we did, through accident, and with the kindest sentiments for each other, it was not likely that we should forget or neglect further to cultivate our mutual regard: that regard is now so mellowed by time that it will never cease till Time himself,--who, in ripening our friendship, has been all the while whetting his scythe for the friends,--shall have mowed down the men, and gathered in his harvest.

"One trait of Bannister, in our worldly dealings with each other, will nearly bring me to the close of this chapter.

"In the year 1807, after having slaved at some dramatic composition,--I forget what,--I had resolved to pass one entire week in luxurious sloth.

"At this crisis,--just as I was beginning the first morning's sacrifice upon the altar of my darling goddess, Indolence,--enter Jack Bannister, with a huge manuscript under his left arm!--This, he told me, consisted of loose materials for an entertainment, with which he meant to "skirr the country," under the title of BANNISTER'S BUDGET; but, unless I reduced the chaos into some order for him, and that _instantly_,--he should lose his tide, and with it his emoluments for the season. In such a case there was no balancing between two alternatives, so I deserted my darling goddess to drudge through the week for my old companion.

"To concoct the crudities he had brought me, by polishing, expunging, adding,--in short, almost re-writing them,--was, it must be confessed, labouring under the "horrors of digestion;" but the toil was completed at the week's end, and away went Jack Bannister into the country with his BUDGET.

"Several months afterwards he returned to town; and I inquired, of course, what success?--So great, he answered, that in consequence of the gain which had accrued to him through my means, and which he was certain would still accrue, (as he now considered the Budget to be an annual income for some years to come,) he must insist upon cancelling a bond which I had given him, for money he had lent to me. I was astounded; for I had never dreamt of fee or reward.

"To prove that he was in earnest, I extract a paragraph from a latter which he wrote to me from Shrewsbury.

"'For fear of accidents, I think it necessary to inform you that Fladgate, your attorney, is in possession of your bond to me of £700; as I consider it _fully discharged_, it is but proper you should have this acknowledgment under my hand. J.B.'

"Should my unostentatious friend think me indelicate in publishing this anecdote, I can only say, that it naturally appertains to the sketch I have given of our co-operations in life; and that the insertion of it here seems almost indispensable, in order to elucidate my previous statement of our having blended so much _sentiment_ with so much _traffic_. I feel, too, that it would be downright injustice to him if I suppressed it; and would betoken in myself the pride of those narrow-minded persons who are ashamed of acknowledging how greatly they have profited by the liberal spirit of others.

"The bond above mentioned was given, be it observed, on a private account; not for money due to an actor for his professional assistance. Gilliland, in his 'Dramatic Mirror,' says that my admission of partners 'enabled the proprietors to completely liquidate all the demands which had for some time past involved the house in temporary embarrassments.' This is a gross mistake; the Haymarket Theatre was _never_ embarrassed (on the contrary, it was a prosperous speculation) while under my direction. My own difficulties during part of this time are another matter: I may touch _slightly_ on this hereafter; but shall not bore my readers by dwelling long on matters which (however they may have annoyed _me_) cannot entertain or interest _them_.

"I regret following up one instance of Mr. Gilliland's inaccuracy immediately with another; but he asserts, in his 'Dramatic Mirror,' that J. Bannister, 'in the season 1778, made his appearance for the benefit of his father, _on the boards of Old Drury_.' In contradiction to the foregoing statement a document now lies before me,--I transcribe it verbatim:

"'First appearance, _at the Haymarket_, for my father's benefit, 1778, in The Apprentice. First appearance at Drury-lane, 1779, in Zaphna, in Mahomet. Took leave of the stage at Drury-lane, Thursday, June 1st, 1815. Garrick instructed me in the four first parts I played,--the Apprentice; Zaphna (Mahomet); Dorilas (Merope); and Achmet (Barbarossa).--Jack Bannister, to his dear friend George Colman. June 30th, 1828.'"

These memoranda, under the circumstances, are curious and affecting.--Death _has_ gathered in his harvest, and both the men _are_ gone.

Of Mr. Colman's delightful manners and conversational powers no words can give any adequate idea: with all the advantages of extensive reading, a general knowledge of mankind, and an inexhaustible fund of wit and humour, he blended a joyousness of expression, a kindness of feeling, and a warmth of manner, which rendered him the much-sought companion of every circle of society in which he chose to mix. Of his literary talents all the world can judge; but it is only those who have known him in private life who can appreciate the qualities which we despair of being able justly to describe.

IMPROMPTU BY THE LATE GEORGE COLMAN.

About a year since, a young lady begged this celebrated wit to write some verses in her album: he shook his head; but, good-naturedly promising to try, at once extemporised the following,--most probably his last written and poetical jest.

My muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled,
Sat up together many a night, no doubt;
But now, I've sent the poor old lass to bed,
Simply because _my fire is going out_.

THE "MONSTRE" BALLOON.

Oh! the balloon, the great balloon!
It left Vauxhall one Monday at noon,
And every one said we should hear of it soon
With news from Aleppo or Scanderoon.
But very soon after, folks changed their tune:
"The netting had burst--the silk--the shalloon;
It had met with a trade-wind--a deuced monsoon--
It was blown out to sea--it was blown to the moon--
They ought to have put off their journey till June;
Sure none but a donkey, a goose, or baboon,
Would go up, in November, in any balloon!"

Then they talk'd about Green--"Oh! where's Mister Green?
And where's Mister Hollond who hired the machine?
And where is Monk Mason, the man that has been
Up so often before--twelve times or thirteen--
And who writes such nice letters describing the scene?
And where's the cold fowl, and the ham, and poteen?
The press'd beef with the fat cut off,--nothing but lean?
And the portable soup in the patent tureen?
Have they got to Grand Cairo? or reached Aberdeen?
Or Jerusalem--Hamburgh--or Ballyporeen?--
No! they have not been seen! Oh! they haven't been seen!"

Stay! here's Mister Gye--Mr. Frederick Gye.
"At Paris," says he, "I've been up very high,
A couple of hundred of toises, or nigh,
A cockstride the Tuilleries' pantiles, to spy,
With Dollond's best telescope stuck at my eye,
And my umbrella under my arm like Paul Pry,
But I could see nothing at all but the sky;
So I thought with myself 'twas of no use to try
Any longer; and feeling remarkably dry
From sitting all day stuck up there, like a Guy,
I came down again and--you see--here am I!"

But here's Mister Hughes!--What says young Mr. Hughes?
"Why, I'm sorry to say, we've not got any news
Since the letter they threw down in one of their shoes,
Which gave the Mayor's nose such a deuce of a bruise,
As he popp'd up his eye-glass to look at their cruise
Over Dover; and which the folks flock'd to peruse
At Squier's bazaar, the same evening, in crews,
Politicians, newsmongers, town council, and blues,
Turks, heretics, infidels, jumpers, and Jews,
Scorning Bachelor's papers, and Warren's reviews;
But the wind was then blowing towards Helvoetsluys,
And my father and I are in terrible stews,
For so large a balloon is a sad thing to lose!"

Here's news come at last! Here's news come at last!
A vessel's arrived, which has sail'd very fast;
And a gentleman serving before the mast,
Mister Nokes, has declared that "the party has past
Safe across to the Hague, where their grapnel they cast
As a fat burgomaster was staring aghast
To see such a monster come home on the blast,
And it caught in his breeches, and there it stuck fast!"

Oh! fie! Mister Nokes,--for shame, Mister Nokes!
To be poking your fun at us plain-dealing folks--
Sir, this isn't a time to be cracking your jokes,
And such jesting, your malice but scurvily cloaks;
Such a trumpery tale every one of us smokes,
And we know very well your whole story's a hoax!

"Oh! what shall we do? oh! where will it end?
Can nobody go? Can nobody send
To Calais--or Bergen-op-zoom--or Ostend?
Can't you go there yourself? Can't you write to a friend,
For news upon which we may safely depend?"

Huzzah! huzzah! one and eight-pence to pay
For a letter from Hamborough, just come to say
They descended at Weilburg about break of day;
And they've lent them the palace there, during their stay,
And the town is becoming uncommonly gay,
And they're feasting the party, and soaking their clay
With Johannisberg, Rudesheim, Moselle, and Tokay;
And the landgraves, and margraves, and counts beg and prey
That they won't think as yet, about going away;
Notwithstanding, they don't mean to make much delay,
But pack up the balloon in a waggon or dray,
And pop themselves into a German "_po-shay_,"
And get on to Paris by Lisle and Tournay;
Where they boldly declare, any wager they'll lay,
If the gas people there do not ask them to pay
Such a sum as must force them at once to say "Nay,"
They'll inflate the balloon in the Champs Elysées,
And be back again here, the beginning of May.

Dear me! what a treat for a juvenile _féte_!
What thousands will flock their arrival to greet!
There'll be hardly a soul to be seen in the street,
For at Vauxhall the whole population will meet,
And you'll scarcely get standing-room, much less a seat,
For this all preceding attraction must beat:--

Since, there they'll unfold, what we want to be told,
How they cough'd, how they sneez'd, how they shiver'd with cold,
How they tippled the "cordial," as racy and old
As Hodges, or Deady, or Smith ever sold,
And how they all then felt remarkably bold;
How they thought the boil'd beef worth its own weight in gold;
And how Mister Green was beginning to scold
Because Mister Hollond would try to lay hold
Of the moon, and had very near overboard roll'd.

And there they'll be seen--they'll be all to be seen!
The great-coats, the coffee-pot, mugs, and tureen!
With the tight-rope, and fire-works, and dancing between,
If the weather should only prove fair and serene.
And there, on a beautiful transparent screen,
In the middle you'll see a large picture of Green,
With Holland on one side, who hired the machine,
And Monk Mason on t'other, describing the scene;
And Fame on one leg in the air, like a queen,
With three wreaths and a trumpet, will over them lean;
While Envy, in serpents and black bombazine,
Looks on from below with an air of chagrin.

Then they'll play up a tune in the Royal Saloon,
And the people will dance by the light of the moon,
And keep up the ball till the next day at noon;
And the peer and the peasant, the lord and the loon,
The haughty grandee, and the low picaroon,
The six-foot life-guardsman, and little gossoon,
Will all join in three cheers for the "monstre" balloon.

HANDY ANDY.

Andy Rooney was a fellow who had the most singularly ingenious knack of doing every thing the wrong way; disappointment awaited on all affairs in which he bore a part, and destruction was at his fingers' ends: so the nick-name the neighbours stuck upon him was Handy Andy, and the jeering jingle pleased them.

Andy's entrance into this world was quite in character with his after achievements, for he was nearly the death of his mother. She survived, however, to have herself clawed almost to death while her darling babby was in arms, for he would not take his nourishment from the parent fount unless he had one of his little red fists twisted into his mother's hair, which he dragged till he made her roar; while he diverted the pain by scratching her till the blood came, with the other. Nevertheless she swore he was "the loveliest and sweetest craythur the sun ever shined upon;" and when he was able to run about and wield a little stick, and smash every thing breakable belonging to her, she only praised his precocious powers, and used to ask, "Did ever any one see a darlin' of his age handle a stick so bowld as he did?"

Andy grew up in mischief and the admiration of his mammy; but, to do him justice, he never meant harm in the course of his life, and was most anxious to offer his services on all occasions to any one who would accept them; but they were only those who had not already proved Andy's peculiar powers.

There was a farmer hard by in this happy state of ignorance, named Owen Doyle, or, as he was familiarly called, _Owny na Coppal_, or, "Owen of the Horses," because he bred many of these animals, and sold them at the neighbouring fairs; and Andy one day offered his services to Owny when he was in want of some one to drive up a horse to his house from a distant "bottom," as low grounds by a river side are always called in Ireland.

"Oh, he's wild, Andy, and you'd never be able to ketch him," said Owny.--"Throth, an' I'll engage I'll ketch him if you'll let me go. I never seen the horse I couldn't ketch, sir," said Andy.

"Why, you little spridhogue, if he took to runnin' over the long bottom, it 'ud be more than a day's work for you to folly him."--"Oh, but he won't run."

"Why won't he run?"--"Bekase I won't make him run."

"How can you help it?"--"I'll soother him."

"Well, you're a willin' brat, any how; and so go, and God speed you!" said Owny.

"Just gi' me a wisp o' hay an' a han'ful iv oats," said Andy, "if I should have to coax him."--"Sartinly," said Owny, who entered the stable and came forth with the articles required by Andy, and a halter for the horse also.

"Now, take care," said Owny, "that you're able to ride that horse if you get on him."--"Oh, never fear, sir. I can ride owld Lanty Gubbin's mule betther nor any o' the other boys on the common, and he couldn't throw me th' other day, though he kicked the shoes av him."

"After that you may ride any thing," said Owny: and indeed it was true; for Lanty's mule, which fed on the common, being ridden slily by all the young vagabonds in the neighbourhood, had become such an adept in the art of getting rid of his troublesome customers, that it might be well considered a feat to stick on him.

"Now, take grate care of him, Andy, my boy," said the farmer.--"Don't be afeard sir," said Andy, who started on his errand in that peculiar pace which is elegantly called a "sweep's trot;" and as the river lay between Owny Doyle's and the bottom, and was too deep for Andy to ford at that season, he went round by Dinny Dowling's mill, where a small wooden bridge crossed the stream.

Here he thought he might as well secure the assistance of Paudeen, the miller's son, to help him in catching the horse; an he looked about the place until he found him, and, telling him the errand on which he was going, said, "If you like to come wid me, we can both have a ride." This was temptation sufficient for Paudeen, and the boys proceeded together to the bottom, and they were not long in securing the horse. When they had got the halter over his head, "Now," said Andy, "give me a lift on him;" and accordingly by Paudeen's catching Andy's left foot in both his hands clasped together in the fashion of a stirrup, he hoisted his friend on the horse's back; and, as soon as he was secure there, Master Paudeen, by the aid of Andy's hand contrived to scramble up after him; upon which Andy applied his heels into the horse's side with many vigorous kicks, and crying "Hurrup!" at the same time, endeavoured to stimulate Owny's steed into something of a pace as he turned his head towards the mill.

"Sure aren't you going to crass the river?" said Paudeen.--"No, I'm going to lave you at home."

"Oh, I'd rather go up to Owny's, and it's the shortest way acrass the river."--"Yes but I don't like--"

"Is it afeard you are?" said Paudeen.--"Not I, indeed," said Andy; though it was really the fact, for the width of the stream startled him; "but Owny towld me to take grate care o' the baste and I'm loath to wet his feet."

"Go 'long wid you, you fool! what harm would it do him? Sure he's neither sugar nor salt that he'd melt."

"Well, I won't, any how," said Andy, who by this time had got the horse into a good high trot, that shook every word of argument out of Paudeen's body; besides, it was as much as the boys could do to keep their seats on Owny's Bucephalus, who was not long in reaching the miller's bridge. Here voice and rein were employed to pull him in, that he might cross the narrow wooden structure at a quiet pace. But whether his double load had given him the idea of double exertion, or that the pair of legs on each side sticking into his flanks (and perhaps the horse was ticklish) made him go the faster, we know not: but the horse charged the bridge as if an Enniskilliner were on his back, and an enemy before him; and in two minutes his hoofs cluttered like thunder on the bridge, that did not bend beneath him. No, it did _not_ bend, but it broke: proving the falsehood of the boast, "I may break, but I won't bend:" for, after all, the really strong may bend, and be as strong as ever: it is the unsound, that has only the seeming of strength, that breaks at last when it resists too long.

Surprising was the spin the young equestrians took over the ears of the horse, enough to make all the artists of Astley's envious; and plump they went into the river, where each formed his own ring, and executed some comical "scenes in the circle," which were suddenly changed to evolutions on the "flying cord" that Dinny Dowling threw the performers, which became suddenly converted into a "tight rope" as he dragged the _voltigeurs_ out of the water; and, for fear their blood might be chilled by the accident, he gave them both an enormous thrashing with the _dry_ end of the rope, just to restore circulation; and his exertions, had they been witnessed, would have charmed the Humane Society.

As for the horse, his legs stuck through the bridge, as though he had been put in a _chiroplast_, and he went playing away on the water with considerable execution, as if he were accompanying himself in the song which he was squealing at the top of his voice. Half the saws, hatchets, ropes, and poles in the parish were put in requisition immediately; and the horse's first lesson in _chiroplastic_ exercise was performed with no other loss than some skin and a good deal of hair. Of course Andy did not venture on taking Owny's horse home; so the miller sent him to his owner with an account of the accident. Andy for years kept out of Owny na Coppal's way; and at any time that his presence was troublesome, the inconvenienced party had only to say, "Isn't that Owny na Coppal coming this way?" and Andy fled for his life,