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NORTH.

Wilberforce ought to quote this song as a proof of negro capacity. Was she pretty ?

ODOHERTY.

TICKLER.

NORTH.

TICKLER.

Yes, black but comely-she squinted furiously, but it passed for ogling; and I can assure you her pine-apple rum was superb.

MULLION. You were then a rum customer, I take it. Apropos of love, Tom Moore is in Ireland, I understand.

NORTH So I am informed by letter from Killarney. He travels in the train of the Marquis of Lansdowne, who is visiting his Irish estates.

Tom goes as joculator, I suppose. Lansdowne, when in office, was distinguished as a dancing-master, and gave Thomas, if I mistake not, the place in the West Indies for his piping.

I do not blame him for that. I rejoice to see literary merit patronized, but there was something base and grovelling-in a word, something truly Whigin the ruffian treatment Dibdin experienced from the gang which got into power in 1806.

Dirty revengeful--and beggarly to the last degree. They could not forgive him for having, in his glorious songs, stirred the spirit of Britain against their friends the Jacobins ; and, accordingly, in his old age, the filthy fellows deprived him of a pension which he had earned by services to his country, more solid than the nine-tenths of those which have been the foundation of many a Whig property.

NORTH. Well, well--they stick to one another, however ; which is more than can be said of other people who shall be nameless. You know we have often contrasted the different treatment experienced by this very Tommy Moore and Theodore Hook, under the very same circumstances.

Theodore, however, is winding up after all, and must eventually be cleared of all slur. If the details of his case were published, it would be the expose of the most rascally piece of pitiful persecution ever heard of ; and I hope it will be published some fine day or other.

You have heard Theodore's joke on his misfortune ?
No, never.—(Aside.) Plus millies jam audivi.

Poh, man, you must have heard it; it is in print. When he came from the Isle of France, he touched at the Cape of Good-Hope, where he met Lord Charles Somerset. “ Bless me," said his lordship, “ what sends you home so soon, Hook—a complaint in your liver ?"-"No," replied Theodore; “ a disorder in my chest."--You certainly heard it?

Why, yes ; it's almost as venerable as anything in Joe Miller.

I was aware of that, and only told it as a preface to the Duke of Sussex's admirable version of the story. The Duke, you know, is very bright.

ODOHERTY. Yes, as one of Lambton's coal-scuttles.

MULLION. And hates Theodore, whom he suspects—with what reason I cannot say-of having demolished him in Bull.

TICKLER. Why, certainly his highness has no great reason to be obliged to the tribe of Bull; for he was only suspected to be a blockhead formerly, but now is written down as an ass regular.

ODOHERTY.

MULLION

BULLER.

MULLION.

NORTH.

MULLION.

MULLION. Well, sir, an ultra fit of candour every now and then seizes on him, and he panegyrizes Hook's wit. “ I don't like the man, sir,” he says—" I don't like the man; but do him justice ; let us be fair ; he is a droll fellow, sir-a droll fellow; he tells you a good thing—a devilish good thing now—ha, ha, ha!-a most excellent thing. You know he was at the Isle of France ; ay, and he came back from the Isle of France too_ha, ha, ha! and we all know why, ha, ha, ha! Well, then, coming home, he stopped at the Cape of Good-Hope -some place in India, you know—where he met Charles Somerset. Says Charles to him,' Why, Hook,' says he,' what the devil,' says he, 'brings you home? I hope,' says he, it is nothing ails your liver ?' Well now, just mind what Hook said-devilish good-very good, faith--I don't like the man, sir - I don't like the man; but let us be fair; he is a droll fellow, sir-a droll fellow. No,' says Hook, ‘nothing ails my liver-never was better in my life,' says he ; 'but there is a deficiency in my accounts, which I must go over to answer.'. Ha, ha, ha! Devilish good, was it not? When I heard it first, everybody laughed. Ha, ha, ha!”

You are a capital mimic, Mullion. I wish Mathews had that story.

No, no; it would be scandalous to bring a prince of the blood on the stage. Remember that he is a son of George III., and brother of George IV. Pooh! Mathews could tell it of Signor

or any other of the Duke's select circle.

TICKLER

NORTH.

TICKLER.

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MULLION.

Who, by the way, regularly laugh at the joke, whenever it pleases the Duke to tell it. It is his highness's best story, and is always told on great occasions, state days, holidays, and the like.

Come, gentlemen, change the subject, if you please. I do not like to hear anything disparaging to any son of him, who, no matter what king may reign, shall be king of my heart to the end of the chapter.

NORTH.

Come, fill up your wine,
Look, fill it like mine;
Here, boys, I begin,
A good health to the King!
Tims, see it go round,
Whilst with mirth we abound.

Chorus.
For we will be dull and heavy no more,
Since wine does increase, and there's claret good store.

Nay, don't us deceive

NORTH.

ODOHERTY.
Upon honour, I filled a bumper from the foundation.

I did not address you, my good fellow. I spoke to Mullion, who is fighting shy; but do not interrupt me.

Nay, don't us deceive,
Why this will you leave?
The glass is not big,
What the deuce, you're no whig.
Come, drink up the rest,
Or be merry at least,

Chorus.
For we will be dull and heavy no more,
Since wine does increase, and there's claret good store.

TICKLER

NORTH

Out of Pills to Purge Melancholy, if I mistake not?
Yes, from the aforesaid. It was a favourite chaunt of worthy

Dr Webster, some forty years ago, when we used to meet in the Gude Auld Town, at the White Horse in the Canongate. Many a scene I have got through since the Aughty-Three. And I said, the days of my youth, where are they? And Echo answered, Where are they."

Pr’ythee, no more of your antediluvian recollections—your dramas of the ancient world.

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We have laughed,

We have quaffed,

We have raked it fore and aft,
But out of pleasure's bowl have not emptied all the draught.

Never mind

Days behind,

But still before the wind,
Float after jolly souls, full flasks, and lasses kind.

BULLER

ODOHERTY.

BULLER.

Extempore? Stans pede in uno ?
Yes, on honour. I was seized with a fit of poetical fury.
You are almost as great as Pistrucci himself.

I knock under to Coleridge only; for he makes verses asleep I make mu. sic sometimes in that state, but never poetry.

NORTH. Have you heard Coleridge's late epitaph on himself, which he composed in that way?

ODOHERTY.

TICKLER.

NORTH

No. Repeat it.

Here lies poor Cole, at length and without screaming,
Who died, as he was always wont, a-dreaming ;
Shot, as with pistol, by the gout within,
Alone, and all unknown, at Embro' in an inn.

TICKLER.

« Alone, and all unknown, at Embro' in an inn.” How mournful and musical. I hope, before the day comes when my epitaph will be required for him, he will have the firmness to put forth his strength, and take his place among our great men.

MULLION. What are you thinking of, Ensign ?-You don't hear what anybody says to you. You did not hear the Epitaph.

Beg your pardon-beg your pardon a thousand times over-I was looking at these prints—they're new ones surely-What the devil are they?

Pooh ! they're some new affairs-materials that Dr Mullion has got together for his Lectures on the Fine Arts.

ODOHERTY.

NORTH.

ODOHERTY.

Oh! is that the case ?-What are the subjects, pray ?

MULLION.

Don't you see well enough what they are ?--why, they're the new set of prints come out by way of illustrations to Leigh Hunt's poem of “The Choice,” in the last Liberal. I shall lecture on them one of these days.

ODOHERTY.

The artist?

MULLION.

Nay, as to that I can't say—There's no name to the article ; but 'tis whispered that they are Haydon's.

Haydon's ?-Impossible!—impossible—not the least like his style. Why they seem to be mere caricatures.

ODOHERTY.

MULLION.

Not a bit-I assure you 'tis all dead earnest. There is much gusto about them--a fine free sweep of pencil—a delicate sense of the grace of thingsThey're very pretty sweet prints. I intend to make Ambrose a present of them after my lecture is fairly done and delivered.

ODOHERTY. By jingo, I can't make either head or tail of these things. There should have been a motto, or something, at the bottom, to let one into the artist's meaning. What, now, is this here one, Mullion?

MULLION.

There are mottoes to each of them, taken from the poem itself; but the frame-maker has, by some mistake, covered them with his pasteboard and gilding. Here, however, is the Liberal, No IV.-I believe I can easily point out the appropriate passages for your

benefit. That's a good fellow. Well, then, what is the bit alluded to here?-(I haven't seen the last Liberal myself yet.)

ODOHERTY.

MULLION.

ODOHERTY.

This print, sir, represents his Majesty of Cockaigne in the attitude of doing what he says in this poem he is very fond of_admiring Nature.

Nature ?-Why, he's at the tea-table.
No matter-he's admiring the “ Goal of life.”

MULLION.

MULLION.

ODOHERTY.
The Bowl of life you mean-he has the Slop-basin in his dexter paw.

Well—and what should he have? He is talking in the poem about bowers and showers, and treeses and breezes, and so forth; and he breaks out into this fine apostrophe-which is the motto to your print.

" Come then, ye scenes of quiet and content,
Ye Goals of life, on which our hearts are spent,
Meet my worn eyes—I LOVE YOU EVEN IN VALES
OF CUPS AND SAUCERS, AND SUCH Delfic DALES-

Are not they sweet, natural lines ?

ODOHERTY.

KEMPPERHAUSEN.

Why, Wales is a pretty country—and, I dare say, even on delft-ware, such' as he seems to have on his table, the representation yet may be charming. Seriously, this print gives us an amicable idea of his Majesty.

Dear divine enthusiast! Well, only to think of people making a laughingstock of this innocent-hearted, good, worthy, gentle soul, that is quite happy, quite upon the air, with having a rural peep of a few blue trees and cottages on a piece of crockery ware! For shame! for shame!

What the deuce is this grand roll, North?

You talk of Dr Mullion's lectures, I would have you know, I mean to cut in upon that series of his myself—In a word, here goes my lecture on these prints, and on the poem from which they sprung. I shall read it to you Listen, boys !

ODOHERTY.

NORTH.

Mr North's Lecture on The Choice ;” a Poem recently written by Leigh

Hunt, a Convert, and Vice-Poet-Laureate to Blackwood's Magazine. Our innumerable delightful quali- ruptions of his Cockney blood, and so ties of head and heart, and, above all, fills his brain with “ fancies chaste and our invincible good nature, have at noble,” that he is henceforth appointlast made a complete convert of Leighed our Vicc-Poet-Laureate, with a salaHunt, and he is never happy except ry of four gallons of gin-twist, and a when lauding Blackwood's Magazine keg of best Dunbar red-herrings, to be to the seventh heaven. No sooner does paid at Hampstead “at ten of April he put on his yellow breeches, in the morn, by the chime.” Let no envious morning early, than he trips crisply railer scoff at Leigh Hunt as a placedown from his attic story into the man and pensioner. No doubt, the sibreakfast-parlour, and seasons every tuation is a lucrative one, and, with jumouthful of muffin with the mustard dicious economy, our laureate, if he of Ebony. He cannot write a note to may not live upon it and lay by money, Mr Pygmalion the painter, or Mis- cannot fail to becomea richer man every tress Molly the charewoman, without year. He must not, however, buy any trumpeting our praises; and will sit more busts of those “ down-looking" up for hours together in his bed, with Greeks, and we recommend him (if he his perked-up mouth, and swaling has not done so already) to sell his pinight-cap,gazing himself away through ano-forte. He has but an indifferent an opening in the dimity, on a striking ear for instrumental music, and tuning likeness of us, sketched by our common is expensive. The position, too, either friend Haydon, during his last visit to of a man or a Cockney, at the ivories, is Scotland. He is absolutely possessed below the dignity of our laureate, and -haunted – waylaid-bed-ridden,- unworthy an eater of red-herrings. not by an Incubus, God forbid, but The barrel-organ is a preferable inby a most affable and benign spirit, strument; and we have heard that Mr hight Christopher North, who purić Hunt's execution upon it is to be fies, by gentle ministrations, the core equalled only by his command over VOL. XIV.

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