ration, when a young woman bursts into his apartments, bewails her fate for a moment, and then faints away. Our countryman lays by hispistol, brings the lady to life, and having heard part of her story, sets her in a place of safety. More confusion follows: a gentleman enters, storming with rage at a treacherous friend he hints at, and a false mistress: the Englishman gravely advises him to shoot himself. "No, no," replied the woman Italian, "I will shoot them through, if I can catch them; but want of money hinders me from the search." That, however, is now instantly supplied by the generous Briton, who enters into their affairs, detects and punishes the rogue who had betrayed them all, settles the marriage and reconciliation of his new friends, adds something to the good girl's fortune, and concludes the piece with saying, that he has altered his intentions, and will think no more of shooting himself while life may in all countries be rendered pleasant to him who will employ it in the service of his fellow-creatures; and finishes with these words, that such are the sentiments of an Englishman.

Colman the younger founded his "Blue Devils" on the above.




Had a pain in her pate,

Her body was all in a tremble;

Her silence she broke,

Then, sobbing, bespoke

Her sable factotum-John Kemble,

"I give and devise

My tears and my sighs,

My rack's mighty havoc to humble;

My poison and scrolls,

My daggers and bowls,

In trust for the following jumble :

My sighs turn to neighs,

To litters my plays,

To gee ho! my tragedy speeches;

My howls made for slaughter,

To buckets of water,


My buskins to brown leather breeches :

Desdemona forlorn,

With a sieve full of corn,

Shall soften the rage of Othello ;

*This Squib made its appearance in the newspapers on the first introduction of the horses at Covent Garden Theatre, in 1811.

His jealousy check,

With a pat on the neck,

And whisper so ho, 'my poor fellow!'


In hiring my actors,

In spite of detractors,

Don't look at their features or eye balls;

Ne'er guide your selection,

By voice or complexion,

But give a high price for the pie-balds."

Melpomene died;

John Kemble replied,

"I like the experiment vastly;"

So booted and spurr'd,

He now trots in the herd

Of Merryman, Parker, and Astley.


THE death of Mr. Holland of Drury-Lane Theatre, who was the son of a baker at Chiswick, had a very great effect upon the spirits of Foote, who had a warm friendship for him; being a legatee, as well as appointed by the will of the deceased one of the pall bearers, he attended the corpse to the family vault at Chiswick, and there

very sincerely paid a plentiful tribute of tears to his memory. On his return to town, by way of alleviating his grief, he called in at the Bedford coffee-house; when Harry Woodward coming up to him, asked him if he had not been paying the last attentions to his friend Holland?" Yes, poor fellow," says Foote, almost weeping at the same time, "I have just seen him shoved into the family oven."


WHEN Foote was acting in Dublin, he introduced into one of his pieces the character of Faulkner, the printer, whose manners and dress were so closely imitated, that the poor fellow could not appear in public, without meeting with scoffs and jeers from the very boys in the streets. Enraged at the ridicule thus brought upon him, Faulkner one evening treated to the gallery all the devils of the printing office, that they might hiss Foote off the stage. Faulkner placed himself in the pit, to enjoy the actor's degradation, but when the objectionable scene came on, the unfortunate printer was excessively chagrined to find, that so far from a groan or a hiss being heard, his gallery friends partook of the laugh.

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


[Addressed to his Son.]

Adieu to Mother Goose!-adieu-adieu

To spangles, tufted heads, and dancing limbs, Adieu to Pantomime-to all-that drew

O'er Christmas' shoulders a rich robe of whims.

Never shall old Bologna-old, alack !——

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

And dance the matchless fling so loved of yore.

Ne'er shall I build the wond'rous verdant man,

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

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

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