/ 
 
MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS, 
 
 AND 
 
 gates* Memintscences; 
 
 OR 
 
 ETCHINGS Or IIPB AND CHAR ACTED, 
 
 AS PERFORMED AT THE LONDON THEATRES BY 
 THOSE INIMITABLE PERFORMERS. 
 
 CONTAINING, 
 
 TWELVE NEW COMIC SONGS, 
 
 ANECDOTES AND ECCENTRICITIES, 
 
 OF THE MOST POPULAR ODDI¬ 
 TIES IN GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 EMBELLISHED WITH AN 
 Elegant Coloured Engraving of each Character. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY E. M. MURDEN, 
 No. 4 Chambers-street 
 
 J. Finch, Printer, 70 Bowery, 
 
 1826 * 
 
4 
 
 £c27 
 
 M A dL /r>v 
 
 MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 “ There are various reasons for giving invitations: 
 some issue invitations to gratify their vanity ; some to 
 display their wealth ; some to expose their folly ; and 
 others, not to pay you a compliment, but to place you 
 under a compliment to them. But of all invitations, 
 give me a plain three-cornered card, that says,«Come, 
 and enjoy a dinner with a particular friend.* 
 
 “ Since I have named my particular friends, I dare 
 say there are some of them here, and they have often 
 enjoyed the opportunity of laughing at me; so, in the 
 absence of something new, I shall take the liberty of 
 introducing to your notice a few of my old particulars, 
 that you in turn may have an opportunity of laughing 
 at them. 
 
 “ Among the first I shall usher before you a Mr. and 
 Mrs. Fingerfit. He was a retired sheriffs officer, and 
 his wife possessed all the high notions so familiarly 
 adapted to her elevated situation. One day he received 
 an invitation-card as he sat alone in his room, which 
 ran thus :—‘The honour of your company is requested 
 to dine.—R. S. V. P.’ Imagine Fingerfit putting his 
 spectacles on, and perusing the card over and over 
 again : ‘ Honour—requested—dine—R. S. V. P. 
 (imitating Fingerfit.) What can that mean ? I never 
 met with such a thing before—R. S. V. P. I must call 
 my wife.—Clotilda, my dear!—She, perhaps, may 
 find out the riddle.—Mrs. Fingerfit!—Clotilda, my 
 dear!—Mrs. Fingerfit, I say !—R. S. V. P.!—It is 
 high German to me.—Mrs. Fingerfit!—Clotilda, my 
 dear!—Mrs. Fingerfit!’ ”— 
 
4 
 
 MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS. 
 
 Mrs. Fingerfit. Did you call, dear ? 
 
 Mr. Fingerfit. I did.—Look at that card ; do you 
 know the meaning of it, Clotilda, dear? 
 
 Mrs. F. Yes, it’s an invitation to dinner, love. 
 
 Fing. I know that; but what can be the meaning 
 of R. S. V. P., Clotilda, dear ? 
 
 Mrs. F. I don’t think I can make it all out; but I 
 imagine I can make out the R. S. 
 
 Fing. Well, the R. S., that is half of it. What 
 is R. S. ? 
 
 Mrs . F Why, R. S. stands for Russel Square. 
 
 Fing. It can’t be Russel Square, for the party 
 don’t live there. 
 
 Mrs. F. That’s true. Suppose we ask John, our ser¬ 
 vant ; he was footman to the Lady Mayoress, and you 
 may rpst assured he knows all about it. 
 
 Fing. No, no, I don’t like it; it is very bad to ex¬ 
 pose ourselves to the servants; so we had better put 
 our heads together, and perhaps we may discover it. 
 
 Mrs. F. O! patience, patience, my dear, will do 
 wonders! 
 
 Fing, “ Honour of your company requested to din¬ 
 ner—R. S. V P.” I was never so bothered before in 
 all my life. Look at it again, my love ; look at it, 
 Clotilda, dear. 
 
 Mrs. F. “ Honour—to dinner—R. S. V. P.” I’ve 
 found it out—I’ve found it out! 
 
 Fing. What is it, chuck ? 
 
 Mrs. F. Why, it is remember six, very punctual. 
 
 There is a certain class of old ladies who pride 
 themselves upon their early knowledge of you, who 
 say they knew you before you sat in your mamma’s lap, 
 or before you got into your little trousers; perhaps 
 there are some here who know elderly ladies of that 
 description. Yes; now I am assured of it. I had a 
 friend of that description myself, a Mrs. W. Worrit,— 
 nay, she was an attached friend, and always met me 
 with an invitation (imitating Mrs. Worrit,)— “ Ah, 
 my dear Mr. Mathews, I have known you a long 
 time; you were a beautiful infant. Why don’t you 
 
MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS. 
 
 5 
 
 come and dine with me ? I went with you the first 
 time you had your hair cut; why don’t you come and 
 dine ? I knew you before you went to school,—you 
 should come and dine ; I am your friend,—I was al¬ 
 ways attached to you, I shall always he attached to 
 you,—but will you come and dine ?” This lady, who 
 was determined not only to continue her attachment, 
 but to patronise me under any circumstances, was so 
 pressing in her invitations, that at length I determined 
 not to resist them, and absolutely made up my mind 
 to dine with her. I went, according to appointment, 
 where I found my attached friend, Mrs. Worrit, and a 
 formal party. I was introduced (imitation.) —“Mr. 
 Mathews: I have known him ever since he was a 
 child, but he never would come and dine. I have 
 known every action of his life, but he would’nt come 
 and dine.” When dinner was served up, at every slice 
 she carved, her exclamations were-**" How much he’s 
 altered since he was a boy !—you must come and dine 
 again !—1 went with him when he was innoculated for 
 the small pox,—you must come and dine again!” 
 When the cloth was removed, l sat for a considerable 
 time, and was amused with Mrs. Worrit’s ob¬ 
 servations respecting my little foibles, tricks, and in¬ 
 fantine eccentricities, till at length I saw a little dumb- 
 show between the amiable Mrs. W. and her friends, 
 something like this :— 
 
 (Imitating.) Mrs. W., you (nudg-'] Imitating 
 ing her friends.) their anxiety 
 
 Friends . No; You (nudging to ask a par - 
 Mrs. W.) ticular fa - 
 
 Mrs . JV. No; I say you. vour. 
 
 Friends . I can’t, pon honour! J 
 
 At which, Mrs. Woirit’s grand-daughter, an in¬ 
 quisitive little girl, who appeared to know for what 
 purpose I was invited, came up to me with the corner 
 of her frock in her mouth, and said,— u Mr. Ma¬ 
 thews, grand-mamma’s compliments, and she wants 
 you to make yourself funny.” This was what I term a 
 verbal invitation; but there are various ways of de* 
 A 2 
 
6 
 
 MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS. 
 
 livering such matters, and I have received them from 
 the city ticket-porter, the upright running footman, 
 with a stick as long as the monument, and a three- 
 cornered cocked hat,.like a turnstile, that you can 
 push from one side to the other, to that mart for alt 
 invitations, the Two-penny Post, which supplies this 
 great metropolis and its suburbs with subjects from 
 every hand. 
 
 Song. —TWO PENNY POST. 
 
 Air —“ When I was a Yonker and lived with my Dad?' 
 
 In the two-penny post you each object may view ; 
 It’s the mart for love, honour, and business, too: 
 With greetings you’re cheer’d and with compli¬ 
 ments fed, 
 
 A man can tell scarcely what to do. 
 
 There is dine, 
 
 Wine, 
 
 Desert, with claret,— 
 
 And hock ; 
 
 With five—strive, 
 
 Don’t you be later 
 By clock* 
 
 They’ll hustle 
 And bustle, 
 
 The folks in a host,— 
 
 The rattling 
 Prattling 
 Two-penny post. 
 
 There are some they invite you to come to tea ; 
 Some to take a dance,—some to join in a glee; 
 
 Some writing to borrow, and others to lend,— 
 
 And a foe very often will write as a friend. 
 
 With cant, 
 
 Rant, 
 
 Cheating, 
 
 Beating— 
 
 The fools, 
 
 And making the letters convenient tools; 
 
MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS. 
 
 They hustle 
 And bysile, 
 
 The folks in a host,— 
 
 The rattling 
 Prattling, 
 
 Two-penny post. 
 
 Some write to friends that—they’ll mend their lives; 
 Then some write for husbands and some write 
 for wives ; 
 
 Some of children just born, and of old folks just dead ; 
 And when all are issued—they’re done, ’tis said. 
 
 With pray, 
 
 Pay 
 
 Two-pence, 
 
 Three-pence, 
 
 Or more, 
 
 I’ve brought many letters to you before, 
 
 They hustle, 
 
 And bustle, 
 
 The folks in a host, 
 
 This rattling 
 Prattling 
 Two-penny pest. 
 
 Now I have been supplied with all my invitations 
 for a week (pulling out cards.) Here are cards for 
 Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, 
 and Saturday ; but Monday being the first day, I 
 shall begin there. 
 
 Has any person here ever risen from a bed on a 
 Monday morning with a ghost of a tune in his head. 
 I have,—something of this sort (hums chorus from 
 Der Freischutz.) Having received an invitation to 
 breakfast with my friend Mr. Shakely, I prepared to 
 shave myself, with ri tol lol, he. (hums tune.) I’ve 
 cut myself—ri tol, he. (hums tune.) Pull out my 
 /handkerchief to stop the bleeding, with ri tol, &c. 
 (humming.) Got dressed and left my home for that 
 of my friend; when I got to the door, I knocked 
 (knocking,) ri tol, he. fee. (humming tune.) Now, 
 
3 
 
 MATHEWS* INVITATIONS. 
 
 it may be necessary to remark, that my friend Shake- 
 iy, a complete valetudinarian, had a servant he called 
 Master Peter, but I called Peter Master. This was a 
 singular character, one who never answered a single 
 question you put to him in a direct manner.—But the 
 door is now open, so I will introduce myself to Mas¬ 
 ter Peter, and you to Peter Master. 
 
 Mr . Mathews. How do you do this morning, 
 Peter? 
 
 Pet. You are looking charmingly, Mr. Mathews. 
 
 Mr . M. Is Mr. Shakely at home ? 
 
 Pet. He’s been dying to see you, sir. 
 
 Mr. M. Is Mr. Shakely at home ? 
 
 Pet. He’ll be quite happy to see you. 
 
 Mr. M. Is he up yet ? 
 
 Pet. Up,—yes; he's upstairs abed. 
 
 I was ushered into the house, and found every inch 
 of the floor carpeted, the crevices of the doors made 
 air proof, and there was not a window in it that looked 
 as if it was ever intended to be opened again. At 
 length Mr. Shakely made his appearance, and with¬ 
 out noticing me, said,—“Peter, there’s a draught 
 comes from that door.” 
 
 Pet. Here’s Mr. Mathews come to see you. 
 
 Shake. I hope you are well, Mr. Mathews. 
 There’s a draught from that door, Peter. 
 
 Pet. Dont’ee be foolish—I tell’ee there’s no 
 draught. 
 
 Shake. I must be shaved, Peter. Now, mind what 
 your’e doing with that razor; you make me quite 
 nervous. 
 
 Pet. Be still, or I won’t lather thee. 
 
 Shake. You come so close you make me quite 
 feverish. 
 
 Pet . Be quiet, I tell’ee, or I won’t shave’ee 
 
 Shake . That Peter will be impertinent by and by. 
 
 It appeared, indeed, that Peter had every thing his 
 own way, which may be clearly exemplified by the 
 following short conversation. Shakely commences—* 
 
 Shake . Mr. Mathews, I had such a horrid dream 
 
MATHEWS* INVITATIONS. 
 
 9 
 
 last night. I dreamt that the whole house fell down, 
 and the gable end precipitated itself across my chest. 
 
 Pet . That all comes o’ your eating hot suppers. 
 
 Shake. After which a chimney-pot fell, and alight¬ 
 ed right on the bridge of my nose. 
 
 Pet. That’s all owing to eating toasted cheese. 
 
 (A knock.) 
 
 Shake. There’s a knocking at the door. Peter, go 
 and see who it is. 
 
 Pet. There’s no hurry—they’ve only knocked 
 once. 
 
 Thus we got rid of Master Peter for a short time, 
 and Mr. Shakely informed me, he expected his 
 friend, Sir Benjamin Blancmange, whose visits were 
 of a condoling nature. In short, one was a valetudi¬ 
 narian as well as the other, and they generally met for 
 mutual consolation, and to canvass over their various 
 complaints. Sir Benjamin appeared, and they no 
 sooner met than they attacked each other thus :— 
 
 Shake. Sir Benjamin Blancmange—Mr. Mathews 
 —I’m glad to see you look so well this morning. 
 
 Sir. B. I never was worse in all my life! How is 
 your appetite ? 
 
 Shake . Very poor—I didn’t eat an ounce last 
 night. 
 
 Sir. B. I didn’t eat half an ounce. I’ve had an at¬ 
 tack of the rheumatism. 
 
 Shake. So have I, in my arm. 
 
 Sir B. I’ve had it in both arms. 
 
 Shake. I couldn’t rest last night—I had such a 
 horrid dream. 
 
 Sir B . I could’nt sleep at all, I had so many horrid 
 dreams. 
 
 Shake. I’ve been obliged to have a doctor. 
 
 Sir B. I was compelled to have two. 
 
 Shake. I lost a pint of blood. 
 
 ) Sir B. I was obliged to lose two. 
 
 Shake . I’ve had a terrible pain in my head. 
 
 Sir B. I’ve had terrible pains all over me. 
 
 Shake . I can’t hold out another year. 
 
10 
 
 MATHEWS* INVITATIONS. 
 
 Sir B. I can’t hold out for a month. 
 
 Thus, after listening to my entertaining friends, till 
 they had completely compared notes, I was agreeably 
 surprised by the introduction of breakfast, when my 
 poor weak host, Mr. Shakely, exclaimed—Peter, Pm 
 very nervous this morning—nay, so nervous that I 
 have dropped my snuff-box into the tea-pot. I don’t 
 know whether either of you gentlemen like snuff in 
 your tea. 
 
 I next remembered an invitation I had to join Lady 
 Dawdle in a pic-nic party to Norwood. Now I had 
 heard of political pic-nics and theatrical pic-nics, but 
 never of such pic-niekry as her ladyship’s hefoie ; so 
 I resolved, for the novelty of the thing, to accompany 
 her ladyship ; and as she told me, with her own dear 
 delicate lips, that there would be quadrilles afterwards 
 at her own house, I consulted The Cook’s Oracle, 
 where I found a recipe for concocting a rout, which 
 is briefly thus :—Take a tolerable-sized room with a 
 slow fire ; put in several males and females—season 
 them with a little wit, but, as that is scarce a few 
 jokes at any body’s expense ; stir them up with a 
 couple of violins, a clarionet, flute, and harp, and let 
 them intermix indiscriminately with each other; then 
 introduce your wine, and when you find the whole 
 sufficiently warm/the scene will clear off itself. So, 
 to finish my Monday’s excursion, I’ll give a descrip¬ 
 tion of the pic-nic and quadrilles. 
 
 Song.— GIPSYING EXCURSION AND 
 QUADRILLES. 
 
 Air—“ Let us all be unhappy together .” 
 
 Our party for Norwood is ready, 
 
 And each, as the moment approaches, 
 
 Advances uncommonly steady, 
 
 To fill up the sides of the coaches. 
 
 With jest, smile, and laughter so gay, 
 
 The ladies all smile at the weather, 
 
 For mirth seems the whim of the day, 
 And we all must be merry together. 
 
MATHEWS* INVITATfONS. 
 
 11 
 
 (Spoken) “ So we are going to Norwood.”— Dole¬ 
 ful) “ Yes ; and I would we were therp. Where shall 
 we put our bags?”—“There, at the back of the car¬ 
 riage.” (Doleful) “I never leave my provisions, so 
 wherever I sit they must sit too.”—“ Have you any 
 idea of a pic-nic, madam ?”—( Lady with stoppage in 
 her nose) “No, sir, I have no notion.”—“It’s a fine 
 day, miss.”—“Very.”—“ Pleasant ride.”—“Very.” 
 —“ Hot sun.”—“Very.”—“It’s likely we shall have 
 rain.”-^“ Very .”—(A Dashing Gentleman) “ Talking 
 of rain, I like a little rain where there are ladies in 
 company—I like fun. Ha! the coachman nearly 
 drove over a pig—I wish he had—I like fun. 
 Pray what is that lady doing ?”— (Lady with 
 stoppage in nose) “That lady is lothing —“Loth- 
 ing P I don’t comprehend.”— (Lady) “ You don’t— 
 why she is lothing.” —“Pray, sir, can you knot ?”— 
 “ Sir, I can-wof.”— (Mr. Doleful) %i What’s the matter 
 with you? you seem uncomfortable.”—“I don’t 
 know how I should feel otherwise, for I’ve been sitting 
 upon the knives and forks for the last half hour, and 
 here are five or six of them sticking against me in the 
 most pointed manner. If you call this gipsymg, I 
 was never more cut up—and the knives and forks have 
 had a proper pic-nic at me.”— (Gent.) “ That’s right, 
 Doleful! Let them remain, for I like fun.” So 
 
 With jest, tale, and laughter so gay, 
 
 The ladies all smile at the weather, 
 
 For mirth seems the whim of the day, 
 And we all must be merry together. 
 But now we’re approaching the ground, 
 
 Nor dreaming of troubles or crosses, 
 Where we hope all the treat will be found, 
 
 For in pleasure we think not of losses. 
 
 Poor Doleful sits still as a gun, 
 
 And scorns ev’ry thought to be merry ; 
 One’s a lotion , the other’s for fun, 
 
 And Miss for each answer says “very.” 
 
 (Imitating bursting of spruce beer and soda-water 
 
12 
 
 MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS. 
 
 bottles.) “Why bless me, all the spruce beer and 
 soda water has gone off.”—“ Aye, I suppose the 
 knives and forks have been drawing the corks.” 
 Doleful. “ How very cold my feet are !” “ I’m not 
 
 astonished at that, for the ice has been melting in the 
 bottom of the carriage ever since I noticed how hot 
 the sun was.”— Lady Dawdle. “ Well, nevel mild, 
 we are now on the spolt; but I hope, sir, you hav’nt 
 forgolt the wile (wine.”)—“ O no; 1 told mv man to 
 be very particular in putting it up.”—“ Now, now 
 we have arrived, where is the marquee ?” “ Well 
 
 now, that’s very strange ; I quite forgot to bring it.” 
 —“ But I’ve not forgot the corkscrew ; here it is.” 
 —“ Now, now for the wine.”—Why, bless my soul! 
 my man has forgot to send the wine.”— Doleful. “ I 
 never forget any thing : I’ve got my provisions !”— 
 —“Ha! see there! Pompey V\s run away with her 
 ladyship’s tongue!”— DolejulJ “I defy Pompey to 
 run away with any thing of mine.” Gentleman. I 
 wish I could steal Doleful’s round of beef. See ! 
 see! Pompey has got it; hah! he runs down hill 
 with it. See! they are rolling one after the other 
 into the water!”—At length, for the want of a 
 marquee, our funny friend proposed that four gentle¬ 
 men should hold the ends of a shawl over the heads 
 of the party, and thus enjoy our rural repast; when 
 sitting down, we found that every gentleman had 
 brought a joint of mutton, and I urged the necessity 
 of every man devouring his own leg. 
 
 With jest, tale, and laughter so gay, &c. 
 
 Once more we’re assembled in town, 
 
 Where mirth still has sanction to dash on; 
 
 There are carriages now setting down, 
 
 To put forth the pinks of the fashion. 
 
 With officers clearing the way, 
 
 Footmen leading, my lady’s room filling, 
 
 The night seems much brighter than day, . 
 
 As we gayly commence our quadrilling. 
 
 (Spoken) “ What quadrille?”—“ Caledonians.”-^ 
 
Mathews’ Invitations. 
 
 13 
 
 a Why, what tall gentleman is that, that throws his 
 leg across the room in that pompous manner!”—- 
 “ Oh ! that’s Mr. Limber; he’s a very tall man.”— 
 “It you expect many more like him, we had better 
 have the Lancers.”—“ Has that gentleman come to 
 foot it to-night?”—“No, he’s come to leg it.”— 
 “Leg it! bless me, what do you mean by that?”— 
 “ Why, he’s got a coik leg,”—“ Dear me, how does 
 he undo it?”—“ Why, with a corkscrew.”—“ What 
 does your ladyship think of the quadrilles?”—“ Oh, 
 they are vely nilce.”—“Ah, Mr. Fashionist, you are 
 
 just in time.”-“’Pon honour, I’m afraid I shall 
 
 put out the dance, for I’ve brought two left-handed 
 
 gloves.”-“ O, then, do dance, sir, for I like fun!” 
 
 —“But, sir, consider my gloves.”—“ Why,certainly 
 they would look odd ; but kid is scarce since it be¬ 
 came so fashionable a '"mg gentlemen.” 
 
 With jest, tale, and laughter so gay, 
 
 The ladies all smile at the weather, 
 
 For mirth seemed the whim of the day, 
 And we all have been merry together. 
 
 On Tuesday, I received an invitation to dine with 
 Sir Donald Scrupleton, where I was introduced to 
 Sir Harry Skelter and Mr. Popper, a nephew of my 
 old frend Major Longbow. Sir Donald was a man 
 who never had an opinion of his own ; Mr. Popper 
 appeared a regular-bred sportsman ; and Sir Harry 
 Skelter seemed to entertain the most contemptible 
 ideas of every thing in the world ; which may be 
 exemplified by the recital of a dialogue between the 
 parties 
 
 Sir D. Sir Harry, you have travelled a great deal, 
 and must have seen some wonderful things in your 
 time. 
 
 Sir H. No ; I was very much disappointed : every 
 jbody says so much of every thing. 
 
 Sir D. Did you see any thing curious in America ? 
 
 Si H. There I was disappointed ; people talk of 
 A rica,—I saw nothing there. Certainly there 
 
 B 
 
14 
 
 MATHEWS 1 * INVITATIONS. 
 
 were white people and black people, nothing else: 
 but every body says so much of every thing. You’ve 
 been in America, Mr. Mathews ? 
 
 Mr. M. I have, sir. What do you think of the 
 Niagara ? 
 
 Sir H. 1 was quite disappointed; there was so 
 much noise, I couldn’t see any thing: but I don’t 
 know how it is every body says so much of every thing. 
 
 Sir D. You have been in Italy, too. Did you go 
 to Rome ? 
 
 Sir H. Yes, but I was quite disappointed ; they’ve 
 got their Saint Peter’s, to be sure, but it’s nothing 
 like Saint Paul’s ; but every body says so much about 
 every thing. 
 
 Mr. M. That reminds me of a curious fact: an 
 English gentleman ordered his coachman to drive to 
 Vesuvius when its top was in a blaze ; but no sooner 
 had he arrived there than he put his head out of the 
 carriage window, looked with much indifference on 
 the scene before him, exclaimed, snapping his fingers, 
 u humbug,” and ordered his coachman to drive back 
 again. Did you ever see the pope, Sir Harry ? 
 
 Sir H. Yes, but was quite disappointed ; he was 
 quite as old, but not so fat, as Pope the actor: but 
 every body says so much of every thing. 
 
 I had been observing for some time, that my friend 
 Popper could’nt get in a word edgeways; so mo¬ 
 destly asked him, if he could favour us with a sport¬ 
 ing anecdote ? 
 
 “ O yes,” says Popper, with avidity. “I had a 
 stanch pointer once ; I went out shooting to Ball’s 
 Bush ; you know Ball’s Bush, I suppose ; but never 
 mind if you don’t,—that’s of little consequence ; well, 
 
 I brought a bird down, and, in going to secure it, I 
 missed, my way, and lost my Popsey. I couldn’t 
 find her by any means, and at last gave up the idea 
 altogether; when going to the spot on the 27th ofl 
 February the year following, 1 saw the skeleton of a 
 patridge lying on the ground, and not very far from 
 
MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS. 
 
 15 
 
 it, my faithful Popsey, likewise a skeleton, in the 
 very act of pointing.” 
 
 Sir D. O, that’s too much. 
 
 Popper . It’s a fact; it was on the 27th of February. 
 
 Sir H. That’s the way; every body says so much 
 of every thing. I’ve read Captain Cook’s Voyages 
 and Travels; so I was obliged to go and see every 
 thing he had seen, but I was quite disappointed. I 
 read Captain Parry’s account of his voyage to the 
 North Pole, so I was obliged to go to the North Pole, 
 but I was quite disappointed ; I thought we should all 
 been have frozen to death, but we were not: then I 
 thought, at least, that the frost would have bitten our 
 noses off, but none of us lost our noses; I was quite 
 disappointed; but every body says so much of every 
 thing. There’s nothing wonderful on the face of 
 the earth. 
 
 “ I beg pardon,” says Popper, “ but I’ll tell you of 
 something wonderful. I had a greyhound ; the grey¬ 
 hound was a lady, and, was as all ladies wish to be 
 who love their lords. We were out together, when 
 I saw a hare. I gave the view hollo,—away she went, 
 ’ and I never knew that the lady hare was similarly 
 situated to the lady greyhound, and, when I got up to 
 * them, they were about one hundred yards distant 
 from each other, and both had an equal number of 
 young ones. I gave another view hollo, off they 
 went, the greyhound ran down the hare, and every 
 pup did the same by the young ones.” 
 
 Sir Donald did not know how to credit this story: 
 but Popper assured him it was a fact, and pulled out 
 his pocket-book, to give him the time, place, and 
 date. 
 
 I next was invited to the Kings Theatre, Italian 
 Opera, and, although I prefer native talent to any 
 other, I certainly must confess, that I go there more 
 for the sake of viewing that fashion and beauty which 
 is so frequently concentrated to keep trade in coun¬ 
 tenance, and stimulate others to follow their exam- 
 
16 
 
 MATHEWS* INVITATIONS. 
 
 pie. At the same time, I am not blind to their follies* 
 and sometimes enjoy a hearty laugh at them; but l 
 will explain the whole in a song 
 Song— VISIT TO THE ITALIAN OPERA. 
 
 Air —Manager Strut . 
 
 Off to the opera now we go, 
 
 To see all the dancing and singing and show; 
 
 And servants dress’d so gay 
 Are lounging time away : 
 
 See, see the throng approaches, 
 
 All dress’d and painted too. 
 
 See how they stray, to pass the time away. 
 
 With smiles, lord, they look so bewitching, 
 
 As out of chariots tumbling: 
 
 Some are for places grumbling. 
 
 I’ve ne’er been here before, 
 
 Where’s box a hundred and sixty-four ? 
 
 Sir, sir, go higher,— 
 
 You’ll be higher, 
 
 By stairs many a score. 
 
 (Spoken) “ So, this is the Italian Opera?—“ \es f 
 papa, and you mustn’t wear your hat here either.”— 
 “ This way, sir, this way ; half a guinea, if you please, 
 sir.”—“ Half a guinea ! (searching his pockets.) 
 How unfortunate! Can you cash me a check on 
 Hammersly for 500Z.?”—“No sir; you must goon 
 farther; I am not the check taker.”—“ Stand out of 
 the way, sir, and let the company pass; I hope we 
 are not all to be checked on account of your check.” 
 —“ Holloa ! my hearties, how much ?”---“ Five shil¬ 
 lings to the gallery.”—“ O ! I suppose you charges 
 three shillings more, because this is the King’s Thea¬ 
 tre ; well, I always loved old George, and I don't know 
 any body that’s more deserving of a crown.”— 
 “ Which is 184, sir?”—“Up stairs sir.”- -(Imitates 
 walking up stairs.) —“164, I want.”—“Up stairs, 
 sir.”—“ Go on, my boy; I’ll stand by you to the 
 last.” (Old man clapping) “ Bravo ! bravo !”— 
 (Young Lady) “La! pa, do be quiet—you must not 
 
MATHEWS 5 INVITATIONS. 
 
 17 
 
 applaud here.”—“ I applaud wherever I please; but, 
 I say, when does the performance begin ? I’ve 
 heard nothing but singing yet.—(.Applauds again) 
 —Is that him? Is that him?”—“Who?”— u Why, 
 him.”—“ I don’t know what you mean.”—“ I mean, 
 is that him?”—“Yes, there he is—there he is!” 
 
 (applauding outrageously .)- -[Here Mr . Mathews 
 
 cases himself in a suit of chain armour , and gives 
 a striking imitation of Veluti. When he has con¬ 
 cluded ,]-“ What is that ?—What is that ? (taking 
 
 his opera-glass )—O I Veluti in speculum /” 
 
 Bravo !—Bravissimo !—Encora!—Encora! 
 
 Oh ! Bravo !—Bravissimo !—Encora!—Encora ! 
 
 Now we are looking for some treat 
 That comes from their voices, or else from their feet, 
 And all admire the scene, 
 
 And all admire the scene, 
 
 See another now appears, 
 
 With soft and melting strains; 
 
 They sing, O dear! how very clear ! 
 
 It is a Paradise for certain, 
 
 It is a Paradise for certain ! 
 
 O ! the action ! They’re adoring! 
 
 The action—they’re adoring ! 
 
 With quizzing-glasses out, 
 
 Now how they gaze about, 
 
 O hear, he’s very fine ! 
 
 Isn’t she divine! 
 
 Encore !—Encore !—Encore! 
 
 [Here Mr. Mathews gives imitations of other 
 popular singers .] 
 
 (Spoken.) “I say, what’s the stage-manager’s 
 name ?” “ Giovani.”—“ Giovani! Bless me, he had 
 a great run about four years ago.”—“ What is the 
 piece called to-night ?”—“The Lady of the Lake.” 
 —“Who is it written by ?”—“ Sir Walter Scott.”— 
 “ Who composed the music ?”—“ Handel.”—“ O, I 
 believe he was very famous at water-pieces.”—“ Buy 
 a book of the performances.”—“ What’s the use ? I 
 
 B 2 
 
18 
 
 MATHEWS' INVITATIONS'. 
 
 don’t understand French.”— 44 1 want a bill—bring 
 me a bill.”—“They don’t sell bills here, pa.”— 44 O, 
 never mind ; I’ve got one in my pocket;—it’s a large 
 one the boy left at the shop this morning; it makes 
 no matter being a little ragged, for I pulled it off the 
 tenter-hooks before I left home.”— 44 Who is that man 
 that seems so attentive ?”— 44 That’s Townsend.”— 
 “Townsend ! Well, I never thought to find Town’s- 
 end in the Haymarket.” 
 
 Bravo!—Bravissimo! he. 
 PART II. 
 
 In turning over my cards for the rest of the week, 
 I found that Professor Archibald M’Rumbold was at 
 the top of the list. Mr. M’Rumbold was a rigid 
 Scoth disciplinarian, who turned the most trivial cir¬ 
 cumstances into matters of great weight, and whose 
 eyes, at the slightest news or rumour, bespoke that, if 
 possible, he would search into the mind of the relater 
 with the most terrific curiosity. Well, I proceeded 
 to this gentleman’s house, and the door was opened 
 by his attached servant, if I may be allowed the 
 name, Mr. Robin Crankie, a gentleman from Nor¬ 
 thumberland, and who carried his native bur with the 
 greatest facility on the tip of his tongue. He appeared 
 to be a second fac-simile of the already-mentioned 
 Master Peter in his manners. After a few moments’ 
 conversation with this person, I was introduced into 
 the presence of the professor, who received me with 
 all due solemnity, and placed me at his table with the 
 greatest observance of etiquette I have ever experi¬ 
 enced. I found one chair empty, and understood 
 that its absent tenant was a Mr. M 4 Pherson, an in¬ 
 mate of the house, whose long stay seemed, by the 
 professor, to be considered as a circumstance of the 
 greatest consequence; for, putting one hand on the 
 table, and throwing himself back in a majestic style, 
 he thus addressed Mr. Robin : 44 Why, Robin, Robin, 
 where can M 4 Pherson be ? I never knew any thing 
 so surprising; what can detain him ?” 
 
 Robin. Cod, sir, he is in the boost somewhere. 
 
MATHEWS 5 INVITATIONS. 
 
 19 
 
 “ Go and search for him, Robin ! Go and search for 
 him ! I never knew any thing so surprising !” Robin 
 obeyed his master, and thinking to keep up the 900- 
 versation, I simply asked Mr. M‘Rumbold this ques¬ 
 tion,—Whether he had read in the newspapers an 
 account of the execution of a Spanish nobleman of 
 distinction ? “ No, sir \—(imitating his wonder-struck 
 countenance)— No, sir! but tell me! tell me, Mr. 
 Mathews, what was his name Really, sir, it 
 quite escaped my memory to look.”—“ Not know the 
 name of a Spanish nobleman of distinction who was 
 executed! Mr. Mathews, I’m greatly surprised , 
 greatly surprised , sir, at you!” 
 
 Seeing this was a matter of importance, I soon 
 christened the gentleman, and went on with my story ; 
 but was again interrupted by the professor, who in¬ 
 quired what his crime was? I spent a few moments 
 longer in inventing one, and at length fixed upon 
 high treason; this added additional weight to my 
 tale, and asking Mr. Rumbold’s permission, I again 
 proceeded. “Well, sir, being found guilty, the don 
 was escorted to the place of execution amidst multi¬ 
 tudes of people, and the poor gentleman having ar¬ 
 rived there”—“Mr. Mathews, Mr. Mathews ! I won¬ 
 der, sir, at your want of discernment, in calling a 
 nobleman of Spain a poor gentleman ! Sir, I am sur¬ 
 prised —very much surprised .” Having got into 
 another hobble, I found it rather hard to get out of it 5 
 but a dozen apologies did the business, and I again 
 went on.—Well, sir, the Spanish nobleman regarded 
 the executioner for a few moments, and then ad¬ 
 dressed him with great seriousness and sensibility, 
 saying, if he did his business effectually, he would 
 present him with three hundred piastres. The exe¬ 
 cutioner informed him he should have no occasion to 
 complain. The nobleman’s head was placed on the 
 block, and the fatal blow was struck; but, sad to re¬ 
 late, the nobleman slowly raised his head again, and 
 gazed on the man with a look of agony.” 
 
 “Well, sir.” 
 
20 
 
 MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS. 
 
 “Well, sir.—‘Shake your head, my lord,’ ex¬ 
 claimed the executioner, ‘ and you will find all light.’ 
 
 “The nobleman did so, and the head dropped off 
 of his shoulders!” 
 
 How was I surprised, after relating this story, to 
 hear the professor inquire,—whether the man re¬ 
 ceived the three hundred piastres? I remained with 
 Mr. M‘Rumbo]d till it was rather late, and found 
 myself traversing the streets of London at five 
 o’clock on a fine morning; but, as there are many 
 of the audience who have never been up at that early 
 hour, I shall put my observations into the shape of a 
 song, and strive to satisfy their curiosity upon the 
 subject. 
 
 Song. —LONDON AT FIY r E O’CLOCK IN 
 THE MORNING. 
 
 Air — Popular Country Dance. 
 
 Now’s the time—bang up prime ; 
 
 Teach me how to sing in rhyme, 
 
 London city,all so gay, early in the Morning; 
 Gard’ners roam, quite at home, 
 
 Into Convent Garden, come 
 Sago, see,—coffee—tea—every street adorning* 
 
 “Clo! Clo ! Clo !” (Jew clothesman .)-- 1 “ I say, 
 Moses, have you come from the Old Bailey ?” (boy) 
 —“Why so Because I thought you might be 
 getting something there.”—“ Well, suppose I did, do 
 you think your peoples are to keep all the gallows to 
 themselves ?”—“ Hare-skin ! Rabbit-skin ! Cook, 
 have you any hare-skin ?”—No; my mistress cuts 
 them all up to make comforters for the children.”— 
 “ Coach ! Coach !” (in a hoarse voice.)—" I’m hired.” 
 —“I say you are not.”—“ I says I am.”—“But I say 
 you are not.”—“ Why, how d’ye know ?—“ I know 
 you are not, you scoundrel!”—“ You’re very handy at 
 your good names, howdsomever, but look inside if 
 you don’t believe,—there ! There’s a gentleman lay¬ 
 ing on both seats asleep ; he’s engaged me for the 
 whole day—he’s going to the Royalty Theatre, in' 
 
MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS, 
 
 21 
 
 Wellclose Square, this evening, and is determined to 
 be there in time.”— 1 “ What’s o’clock, watchman?”— 
 44 I can’t tell; I’m off my beat.”— 44 You deserve to be 
 beat for the answer.”— 44 Hollo! Who have you here ? 
 This gentleman seems to have business on both sides 
 of the way.” (reeling.) 
 
 Drunken Gentleman. 44 Hallo! coach, I say.”— 
 44 I’m hired.”—“Yes; and I’m tired, so we shall suit 
 very well together.”—“ Do you want ere a basket- 
 woman, your honour “ No, sir; much obliged to 
 you—no, sir.”—“ Och, be after using me your 
 honour.”— 44 No, sir; much obliged to you—no, sir.” 
 — 44 And does your honour mistake the sexes sure ; 
 and an’t I a woman, now, only by my coat and hat 
 you are after taking me for one of yourselves; but if 
 your honour will only step into my basket, I’ll trip 
 home with you as safe as a bunch of turnips, and 
 much cheaper into the bargain.” 
 
 For now’s the time, &c. 
 Every maid begins to sing, 
 
 Mops they trundle—clothes they ring, 
 Turning Morpheus from their eyes. 
 
 Spirits play in glasses, 
 
 Cdits and horses form a throng, 
 
 Going merrily along, 
 
 Cracking many a joke or song— 
 
 Tune it gayly passess. 
 
 (Spoken.) “Ha! why it’s Jack! our friend Jack, 
 How d’ye do—you rise early.”— 44 No ; I’ve been up 
 Z«£e.”— 44 Why, where’s your cabriolet?”— 44 Oh ! it’s 
 gone—gone, my dear fellow: played with a friend- 
 lost all the cash—two to one on the cab, says he— 
 done, says I; away went the dice, and I lost my 
 man,—but that’s nothing. Owe him two year’s wages 
 —rather a troublesome article. So away went my ca¬ 
 briolet and friend together, and here am I.— 4 Sweep! 
 sweep !’ how I pity those creatures, who are obliged 
 to plod through the dirty paths of life to keep us 
 clean.”— 44 Aye, a friend of mine has invented a plan 
 to do away with climbing boys.”— 44 How is that, 
 
22 
 
 MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS. 
 
 pray?”—“He means to substitute climbing girls.”— 
 “Indeed “ Sir, I am surprised at your introducing 
 such a subject at this time of the morning.—* Sweep, 
 sweep !’— Here, my little fellow ; here’s sixpence for 
 you.”—“ Thank’ee, sir!”—“Come Bill, make a bow 
 to the gentleman.— (The master in a whisper to the 
 boy) I say, Bill, von’t you be arter treating your 
 master to a dram ?— (Aloud.) I always takes care of 
 the boy’s money, your honour.” 
 
 For now’s the time, &c. 
 Milk begins to walk around, 
 
 Cherries ripe and round and sound, 
 Barrow-women plod the ground, 
 
 Bullocks, sheep, to Sraithfied creep, 
 Onward at their leisure ; 
 
 Half the town is fast asleep, 
 
 Except where here and there a sweep 
 Calls ’em from the pleasure. 
 
 (Spoken.) “ Mackrel! ah, mackreal!”—What a 
 number of derivations that word has in London, to 
 be sure ! now only listen :—“ Ah, meckral! eh, 
 mackreal! oh, mackerall! ah, mackera!” (Imita¬ 
 ting the various voices.) “ Gooseberries, ripe goose¬ 
 berries!”—“ Why, what notes do you call them 
 “T should consider them as Barrow notes.”—“ Milk 
 below! milk above! me oh! me oh!” Why, what 
 can that man mean by me oh! Surely there’s no 
 English for me oh!”—“No; but it’s good French; 
 for all that mi oh ! means half water.”~l say, why 
 don’t you move your cart there What’s that to 
 you”—“Vhy, it is to me! I’se been standing here 
 for the last half hour ; so, why don’t you move on 
 your horse, and let me get over the way ?”—“If you 
 wish to get over the way, you must get under my 
 horse’s belly.” “Veil, you’re a gentleman, full 
 weight, I don’t think.”— 44 Hollo, coachee, are you 
 hired ?”—( Coachman yawns.) “Yes; I’ve been wait¬ 
 ing for a gentleman all night. Oh, here he is. Here 
 I am, your honour.”- 44 Well, what of that?”- 44 1 
 drove your honour here last night; my fare was 
 
MATHEWS - INVITATIONS. 
 
 23 
 
 eighteen-pence”—“ Oh, true, true ; and I’ll pay you.” 
 —“Yes, sir; but now I’ve been waiting all night, my 
 fare’s seven-and-twenty shillings and nine-pence.” 
 
 But now’s the time, &cc. 
 
 We ariived at our friend’s and were ushered into a 
 room where all the minor part of the family were as¬ 
 sembled, and in the arms of an ugly black woman 
 was placed a handsome white child. This amiable 
 lady was the nurse. “Very fine children,” exclaimed 
 Mr. John Rally, “sweet little creatures!” Mrs. 
 White, for so was her black ladyship named, showed 
 her teeth, and began dandling the child, and exciting 
 his mellifluous voice to the tune of“ High diddle did¬ 
 dle, the cat’s in the fiddle,” &c.-~ 1 “ Very pretty air,” 
 cried my friend ; “ I must get you to teach it to me, 
 Mrs. White ” 
 
 “ Ees, massa ; but me know anodder, vere much 
 betterer den dat.” 
 
 And she began— 
 
 “ Let’s have it,” exclaimed he. 
 
 Dimity dimity dot, 
 
 The mouse jumpt out ob de pot, fee. 
 
 This and a curious game played on the child’s fin¬ 
 gers, entitled “Dis Pig went to Mar ket,” &tc. made up 
 our entertainment, and it was broken in upon by the 
 sudden appearance of Mrs. Dilberry herself, who in¬ 
 vited us after a long harangue on the merits of her 
 little brood, into the presence of her husband ; de¬ 
 claring that Mr. Dilberry was his own butler, and we 
 should most assuredly find him in the cellar. We 
 journeyed thither, and discovered him in the act of 
 uncorking a bottle of claret. His face resembled a 
 scarlet pincushion, and he received us something after 
 this manner. (Imitating Dilberry.) “ How d’ye do, 
 Mr. Mathews P (Drawing the cork.) Confound the 
 bottle. Real 1812 , Mathews, fine vintage! (Draw¬ 
 ing the cork.) Hope to see you well, Mr. Rally. I’ll 
 have your neck off, but I’ll conquer you.”—At length 
 he succeeded, and we soon found ourselves at the 
 dinner-table, but what was my surprise to see eight 
 small knives and forks placed around it, and after a 
 
24 
 
 mathews’ invitations. 
 
 short notice, the little large family were again intro¬ 
 duced. First I heard a rattling of feet on the stairs, 
 something after this style; and, in a discordant noise 
 of laughing and crying, tW\s well-regulated little com¬ 
 pany entered the room, Master George bellowing in a 
 key above any note I ever heard. 
 
 “ Hush ! Hush !” cried his little sister, “ don’t you 
 see there’s company ?” 
 
 “Here’s Mr. Mathew’s, my dear,” exclaimed his 
 mamma. 
 
 “ I don’t care for Mr. Mathews—that I don’t! Em¬ 
 ma shoved me down stairs.” 
 
 “ No, I did’nt, mamma! he fell over Shummy.” 
 
 The storm being a little appeased, Mrs. Dilberry 
 suddenly recollected that the children had not made 
 their congees, and a full half hour was taken up in ad¬ 
 miring their different graces. This being concluded, 
 we af length sat down to dinner, and Mrs. Dilberry 
 offered her civilities to me, which I thought would be 
 far better honoured in the breach than the observance. 
 “ Really, Mr. Mathews, I am sorry to trouble you, but 
 will you take upon you to carve the leg of mutton. I 
 always like the little dears to be served first. No fat 
 for George, if you please, sir. A small piece of un¬ 
 derdone for Emma, and a large piece of well done 
 for William. Thank you, sir.” 
 
 “La, mamma, Shummy hasn’t made his bow yet.” 
 
 Another stoppage for Mr. Shummy. Then Miss 
 Eliza dropped her meat on the floor; Shummy run 
 away with William’s bone, and I had to help Miss 
 Polly on her seat. Many looks were exchanged be¬ 
 tween Rally and myself; but dinner concluded, and 
 Mr. Dilberry having great science in music, and un¬ 
 derstanding a variety of keys, unscrewed his mouth 
 from its usual position, and informed us, that he had 
 always a great labour in finding out a key adapted to 
 his voice, but having taken a great fancy to a new air 
 he had heard in the street, he would, if we pleased? 
 favour us with a 
 
mathews’ invitations. 
 
 25 
 
 Song.—BUNCH OF KEYS. 
 
 Air—“ The Legacy .” 
 
 A lover, one night serenaded his mistress, 
 
 And wish’d very much the fair lady to see, 
 
 But some how or other his mind was in distress, 
 
 For she was locked up, and he hadn’t the key. 
 
 She sung and he sung, but his lot it ne’er hast’ned, 
 For Cupid resolved his blind foe just to be ; 
 
 The girl didn’t hear him, the door remained fast’ned, 
 And he was quite mad to be out of the key. 
 
 His note it soon fell, and his heart was despairing; 
 
 He swore he would die, and he’d then be laid low ; 
 But his strain at that moment the fair lady hearing, 
 From out at the window a key she did throw. 
 
 His voice rose on high, as he snatched at the treasure, 
 And he was delighted,—yes, very like me, 
 
 For, resembling the horn—I say it with pleasure, 
 
 My voice it has pitch’d, and I’ve found out the key. 
 
 After thanking Mr. Dilberry, his eldest daughter 
 was led to the piano, and regaled our ears for half an 
 hour with a brilliant sonata, something after this style ; 
 (he plays one of the first lessons in a most curious 
 manner) —and this was succeeded by Master P. Bil¬ 
 berry’s excellent performance of the bacchanalian 
 song from Der Frieschutz, accompanied by the 
 praises of his mamma. (Here Mr. Mathews retires 
 behind a curtain, and the stuffed body of Master P. 
 appears. Mr. Mathews gives the figure a head , and 
 action to the body , during the performance of“R osy 
 Wine.” 
 
 On Friday I was invited to a u rouge et noir ” table 
 a" one of the fashionable gambling-houses, called 
 Hells, at the west end of the town ; and, though I ab¬ 
 hor the system, still curiosity impelled me to go, and 
 I accepted the invitation. What a medley did it con¬ 
 tain : within its petty space there was exhibited, at one 
 view, the glance of exultation and the frown of disap- 
 
26 
 
 mathews’ invitations. 
 
 pointment. Many a heavy heart beat under a gilded 
 uniform, and many a smile mocked the tears ready to 
 intrude from the sunken eyelids of despair. 
 
 I remember one instance in particular ; ’twas that 
 of a young man from the North, named Harry Ar- 
 dourly, born to a good estate, and possessed of all the 
 attributes of an Englishman. Fortune led him, by 
 some unaccountable freak to quit the bosom of his 
 family, and seek the air of London. I met him at this 
 gambling-house ; he sat down, his bosom expanding 
 with hilarity, and his heart opened to enjoyment by 
 the sweets of independence. His Yorkshire accent 
 was a gilded bit to lure the unoffending victim to his 
 ruin. Game after game was won by the unsuspect¬ 
 ing youth. I never saw him look handsomer. The 
 elegant wines had even given his complexion a rud¬ 
 dier glow, and he sat in the plenitude of his good for¬ 
 tune, snatching up the sovereigns as dross merely 
 offered for his pleasure. Bets were taken and given, 
 still he won. (Here Mr. Mathews gives an imitation 
 of Harry at the gaming-table , giving, taking , win¬ 
 ning , and then he bursts out into a view hallo ! The 
 party try to quiet him , and remind him of the police . 
 He don't mind the police — he's ready with another five 
 hundred or a thousand.) 
 
 At length, Harry Ardourly wins seventeen hundred 
 pounds, and in the same boisterous strain of ecstacy 
 leaves the place, overjoyed at his success, to seek his 
 pillow, and dream of honour, wealth, and power. 
 
 I am sorry to change the scene ; still the truth must 
 appear. I met our young Yorkshireman once more; 
 but good heavens! how altered! his cheeks were 
 pallid, his form was withered, and his accent was all I 
 could recognise of the once happy, genuine, and 
 good-hearted Harry Ardourly, Surprised, I modestly 
 asked the cause of this sad reverse, when he simply 
 answered me thus 
 
 Ah ! Mr. Mathews, that night—that fatal night you 
 met me at the gaming-house has stamped me as a 
 villain, andl live—I live a memento of what I was ! 
 
MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS. 
 
 2 ? 
 
 O! sir, this perturbed conscience can never meet with 
 rest except within the grave ! 
 
 Mr. M. But your estates- 
 
 Ard. My estates are gone—all gone to pay what 
 they termed my debts of honour! But tell me, tell 
 me, Mr. Mathews, can it be honour to drive an aged 
 mother into grief and beggary ?— Can it be honour to 
 deprive two darling sisters of their fortune, and rob 
 them of happiness for ever ? Mr. Mathews, I am mise¬ 
 rable ; and this breaking heart is all I can offer to 
 atone for my villany and their unjust distress! 
 
 I bade him farewell, feeling as every man should, a 
 detestation for the authors of his ruin. My heart bled 
 for his sufferings; indeed—indeed I pitied him. 
 
 The last time I saw him was in a receptacle for lu¬ 
 natics. His sufferings had driven him mad: the 
 glance of a maniac shot from his eye, and his poor 
 disfigureo body showed the misery that was ravaging 
 within. He raved, gnashed his teeth, and exclaimed, 
 as on the fatal night that first began his woes, ‘Yes, 
 yes, I take thee—two hundred on the red. Ha! Ha ! 
 —ye change them ! ’Tis mine!—’tis mine ! But stop, 
 my mother beckons!—my poor mother beckons! I 
 come—I come! Do not die, mother! Sisters, dear 
 sisters! we must be rich. No no,—see, all is swept 
 away, and I am left a beggar! Ha ! ha ! ha '.'—{Lay¬ 
 ing his head upon the table , weeping , and drying the 
 tears with his pocket-handkerchief.) 
 
 If I have deviated from my common line for a few 
 minutes, and have succeeded in drawing a sigh from 
 the bosom of sympathy, my hopes are repaid ; and I 
 trust that few, very few, youths of the present day 
 may prove as unfortunate as poor Harry Ardourly. 
 
 After this, according to invitation, I made one in a 
 party to visit the entertaining scene of supporting can¬ 
 didates under the ordeal of becoming Members of 
 k Parliament. One of our poets says, that the time of 
 an election is madman’s holyday ; and I cannot better 
 explain it than by introducing you to the clamour 
 and small talk of an election. 
 
28 
 
 mAthews’ invitations. 
 
 Song. —GENERAL ELECTION. 
 
 Air— 4 The Downfall of Paris.' 
 
 Now’s the time for fun and jollity, 
 
 Flaming speeches and frivolity ; 
 
 Great and small, 
 
 They one and all 
 
 Are to the hustings straying. 
 
 There’s our man—give him a cheering ; 
 
 That’s his friend—give him a hearing! 
 
 Come, make a fuss,— 
 
 Why, he’s for us. 
 
 Don’t be noisy in the middle there; 
 
 Silence, that man that’s got the fiddle there! 
 Pray be quiet, 
 
 No more riot,— 
 
 Have done, have done huzzaing. 
 
 (Spoken.) ‘Here’s a bill! here’s a bill!’—‘What’s 
 the title of it ?’—‘Blood and beef.’—‘Why, what’s 
 the meaning of that ?’—‘ I don’t know, but it’s a good 
 title.’—‘ Look here, gentlemen, look here : blood and 
 beef—no Larkins!—Humdrum forever!’ ( Man ivith 
 a cracked voice.) ‘Read it, if your’e able.’—‘Liberty 
 and independence !’—‘ Order, gentlemen, and hear 
 this bill.— (Elector reads.) Who would keep the poor 
 in the workhouse on no more than a shilling a day ? 
 Larkins! Who monopolizes all the table-beer ? Lar¬ 
 kins ! Who shuts up his cellar-doors that nobody may 
 go there but himself? Larkins!’—‘No Larkins!’— 
 ‘Mr. High Bailiff, there’s a dead cat thrown upon the 
 hustings.’—‘ Pray, sir, what must we consider that?’ 
 6 A poll cat, sir.’—‘ Here’s a new bill—where’s the 
 printer ?’—‘ He’s gone to press for votes.’—‘Where’s 
 his boy ?’—‘ I saw the devil upon the hustings not a 
 moment since.’—‘Where the devil has he gone?’— 
 ‘ He’s gone to see that nobody picks his master’s 
 pocket.’—-‘ How shall we have this bill printed—No 
 small beer?’—‘On pot.’—‘No; foolscap won’t be 
 wasted on our cause. Supppose we have some red 
 lines round it?’—‘ Why so ?’—‘ To show that we keep 
 every thing within compass.’—‘Now let’s have a show 
 
MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS, 
 
 29 
 
 of hands.’—( Voices.) ‘ A show of hands ! a show of 
 handsl’—‘There, there’s a show of hands! Did you 
 ever see such a show of hands?’—‘I never saw such 
 a show of dirty hands.’—‘ Larkins must stand. Yes, 
 yes, we like Larkins.’—‘No Larkins! Humdrum for 
 ever! Huzza!’ 
 
 Thus their noise and clamour hearing, 
 
 One condemns, another cheering ; 
 
 One would shout 
 The other out,— 
 
 O! the joys of electioneering! 
 
 Now electors fast are coming here,— 
 
 Some are fifing, others drumming here ;• 
 Ribands shaking, 
 
 Speeches making, 
 
 Folks stamp themselves notorious. 
 
 Now the hustings has a bumper ; 
 
 See, they’re bringing many a plumper. 
 
 I’m bang up tight, 
 
 Each tax is right; 
 
 Don’t you wish that your’s were settled so ? 
 Silence, sir, I ne’er was nettled so; 
 
 You’d some friend 
 His aid to lend, 
 
 That makes you so uproarious. 
 
 (Spoken—(Child) “If you please, sir, my father 
 says he’d come to vote for Mr. Larkin’s; but he’s 
 got no hat.”-—“ No hat! What shall we do ?—can 
 any body lend him one.”—“ Here, my little boy, take 
 my hat.”—“Thank’ee sir (Gentleman) “Mr. 
 Larkins, I saw that hat; there’s something in it I 
 don’t like; but I shall notice it at a proper time, and 
 in a proper place .”—(Irish Barrister Botherem ap¬ 
 pears )—“ Silence for Botherem! he knows how to 
 speak ! Silence for Botherem!”—“ Gentlemen, I 
 gaze upon you as the children of re-animated nature, 
 breathing the divine breezes of the odoriferous hea¬ 
 vens that surround the constellations ! Ye are not like 
 Che cold-blooded regicides that overran revolutionary 
 C 2 
 
MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS. 
 
 30 
 
 and revolutionized France, with the region-like blasts 
 of tempestuous whirlwinds, nor the fire-engendered 
 war-brands that threw the snows of Russia into a 
 thaw, and levelled Moscow in the imperceptible ruin 
 that must amalgate the wonder-stricken senses of 
 admiring nations, from Constantinople to the Peak 
 of TenerifTe! I cannot indulge in high-flown lucu¬ 
 brations, when I am speaking to men who know all 
 the glorious refulgences of indescribable humanity 
 in a more classical and legislative capacity than any 
 that ever graced the Medes, the Persians, the Scan¬ 
 dinavians, or the Phoenicians ; therefore I will with 
 modesty confine myself to this glorious consumma¬ 
 tion, that every natural generation should live with¬ 
 out aggravation, under every deprivation, and never 
 suffer themselves tobe annihilated by the simultaneous 
 obnoxious, deteriorating, and abominable combination 
 of incendiaries,who accumulate but to separate and de¬ 
 generate those who should never be inanimate.(J5rai;o.) 
 —And, my countrymen! hear me, and don’t be 
 blind! If I could mount the winged horse Pegasus, 
 I would fly over mount Helicon, and travel the land 
 of Egypt, to emancipate and elucidate all that can 
 reverberate to substantiate the emaculation of all that 
 puts you dt present in a consternation. So, gentle¬ 
 men, as our immortal poet says, brevity is the soul of 
 wit, I’ll give you a quotation : 
 
 “Vote for Larkins!” 
 
 “ Bravo, Larkins! what a clever fellow ! Huzza ?” 
 —“ I say, Mr. Botherem, you told me this morning 
 you would vote for Humdrum.”—“ Well, sir, surely a 
 man has a right to change his mind once a day if he 
 pleases.”— 1 “ I suppose, sir, you never received a pre¬ 
 sent of game from Mr. Larkins “ Sir, I never 
 received the most trifling favour from Mr. Larkins, 
 with the exception of one little hare, and that was so 
 high I could not eat it.” “ Bribery and corruption !” 
 
 This their noise, &c. 
 
MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS, Sfl 
 
 Carts and cabriolets they’re rolling it; 
 
 See, the freemen now are polling it; 
 
 All is flurry, 
 
 Hurry, scurry, 
 
 Squeezing, shouting, fighting. 
 
 Some aie speaking up for freedom ; 
 
 Others bawl, and will not heed ’em. 
 
 ’Tis honour’s cause, 
 
 The king and laws. 
 
 I’ll be stanch against the minister, 
 
 For my motives are not sinister. 
 
 This scene to-day, 
 
 I’m sure you’ll say, 
 
 It is, it is delighting. 
 
 (Spoken) ‘Now, now read Humdrum’s bill,’—~ 
 ( Elector reads) ‘ No bullock’s liver !—there’s an 
 elegant title.’ ‘No Humdrum?’—( Continues to 
 read) ‘Who monopolizes all the salt?’—‘ Hum¬ 
 drum !’—‘ Who has set up in opposition to the wash- 
 erwemen ?,—‘ Humdrum ! No Humdrum !’—‘ Who 
 sat in the house, and never made no speech for six 
 years ?—Humdrum 1’—‘ No Humdrum !’—‘ I say, 
 Mr. Poll Clerk, I shall not promise to vote for Mr. 
 Humdrum, unless he promises to say, ‘No,’when¬ 
 ever the ministers say ‘ Yes.’—( Gets a blow on the ear.) 
 ---Somebody has given me a cracker.’—‘No, sir; 
 it’s only an electioneering squib.’—‘ Silence! Si¬ 
 lence for Mr. Boreen.’—( Boreen speaks) ‘ Gentle¬ 
 men, I rise up for the purpose of depiessing upon 
 your minds that I am standing up in the most manful- 
 like manner that an Englisman slibuld stand. You 
 all know that you are Englishmen, because you was 
 born in England. Oh! then look at your children, 
 and transplant them in your imaginary imaginations, 
 for they are the tender plants that intercede all the 
 dry substances of your souls, and moisten all the 
 horizontal heats that burn in your bosoms, like the 
 raging ackenox in North America. Look at this, 
 and be me! I don’t come here not to say nothing, 
 as a great many other people dbes, that’s always a 
 
MATHfcWS* INVITATIONS* 
 
 talking. I likes to say little, and to no purpose ne¬ 
 vertheless ; but look to your wives; I know you’re 
 in the habits of dressing ’em as I is my wife—(voice, 
 no insinuations)— and it’s right every man should 
 dress his wife with proper indiscretion, whether he can 
 or no. I loves my wife; every body loves my wife, 
 and I say woman is the most innocuUte being on 
 the face of the earth or any other country. I live at 
 my country house. Stick to the laws, for the laws 
 are the bullocks of our country, and there was never 
 no man what din’t understand the laws, that knew 
 nothing about ’em ; so, if you wish to be independent, 
 vote for Humdrum, and it will be better nor £10,000 
 a year for you all ; for if we were all to be members of 
 Parliament in the House of Commons and the House 
 of Lords, what a number of speakers we should 
 have, and the house would be too large to contain us 
 all. So vote for Humdrum, the friend of Mie people 
 and strong beer.’—‘Bravo! Bravo!’—‘I say, who 
 has won ?’—‘ I don’t know—do you, sir ?’—‘ Yes, 
 both, so they’re going to try ii over again, to find out 
 the conqueror.’—‘And who pays for the hustings?’ 
 —‘ Those who can find most money ; but if the can¬ 
 didates don’t, John Bull must.’ 
 
 Thus their noise, &lc. 
 
 On Saturday I received my last invitation for the 
 week, to join an aquatic expedition on the Thames. 
 And, as monopoly is the general order of the day, I 
 will myself endeavour to monopolize a little of your 
 attentions, by describing my excursion in a little en¬ 
 tertainment I shall lay before you, when the loves of 
 Miss Georgina Gritts, combined with that, and the 
 jealousy of Mr. Gibletts and Mr. Sassafras, will form 
 the principal features in the performance ; therefore, 
 for a few moments, I shall take my leave in a— 
 FINALE. 
 
 Adieu, kind friends, I’m your’s the same, 
 
 Ah ! yes, the same as ever; 
 
 Old death must leave me but the name, 
 
 If 1 forget you ever. 
 
MATHEWS’ INVITATIONS. 
 
 S3 
 
 SHAKELT. 
 
 I’ve got a pain across my back. 
 
 SIR B. BLANCMANGE. 
 
 My very heart is on the rack. 
 
 With die away, sigh away, 
 
 So horrible horrible, and terrible terrible. 
 But never mind what Pain may say, 
 
 And all her sad relations, 
 
 I’ll smile if you’ll agree to pay 
 And see my u Invitations.” 
 
 SKELTER. 
 
 I’ve wandered over ev’ry land, 
 
 But found my hopes disjointed » 
 
 I never yet could understand 
 Why I’in so disappointed. 
 
 DILBERRT. 
 
 I’m Dilberry, who dried the cork. 
 
 PETER. 
 
 And I am Peter come from York. 
 
 We’re drearily, wearily, cherrily, merrily. 
 But never mind, fee. 
 
 POPPER. 
 
 Oh, if you please, I’ll only say, 
 
 That I am Mr. Popper: 
 
 I always s^out false tales away, 
 
 And tell you what is proper. 
 
 But now I say, my friends, adieu, 
 
 I’m very much obliged to you 5 
 Though we’re wearily, he. 
 
YATES* REMINISCENCES 
 
 You most of you know what it is to be at free- 
 school; a life of sky-blue, red knuckles, and black 
 eyes; much of that dangerous thing, a little learning ; 
 and much pecuniary difficulty in the apple-market. I 
 did as most others did, I tore the covers off my Virgil, 
 and borrowed a shilling of Mother Clayton, with a 
 promise to pay the next holidays. Here I became 
 acquainted with a character, Old Nathaniel, a literary 
 cobbler, who always described himself as 4 belonging 
 to the Charter-house.’—but his appearance and man¬ 
 ners are so eccentric, that I must shew him to you as 
 he was, [Presses as the old cobbler] he was something 
 like this, and thus he sat. 4 Hey well, what is school 
 over eh ? come my boys, ah Master Y. how do, Mas¬ 
 ter Y. P young Yates, wipe your nose my dear boy, 
 stand out of my light Master Y. your left sole is much 
 degenerated towards the heel, master Y.’ 4 That’s 
 
 because I have not stood upon my right leg since I 
 came to the Charter-house.’ 4 Eh, what ? Charter 
 —that’s wrong, Carter-house , from the great Magna 
 Charta ; Master Traveller, stand out of my light.’ 
 4 Ah Nathaniel, do you use bristles in making shoes?’ 
 "Yes, Mast. T., Caterhouse shoes. Mast. T. Mast. 
 V. Mast. G. Mast. R. Mast. S. take your five heads 
 out of the aper-to-ry, and make darkness visible, as 
 Mr. Milton the oyster-man has it; put down the 
 hammer will you, Mast. Y. what do you tease me so 
 for eh ? Such was old Nathaniel, of the Charter¬ 
 house, a thorough marskman at Grammar ; but he is 
 gone,—peace to this ashes. 
 
 It happened to me, as I dare say it does to many 
 here, to have a second cousin, whose relationship is 
 
36 
 
 yates’ reminiscences. 
 
 allowed or not, according to circumstances; our family 
 always called him Mr. Damper Yates, our second cou¬ 
 sin ; he was rather inclined to years, the only thing 
 he ever did incline to; he had something considera¬ 
 ble in the old Fours, was unmarried and unincum¬ 
 bered ; he wore his own hair, naturally white, full 
 charged with powder, and tied with a black ribbon, 
 along tail hanging down his back like an ebony pump 
 handle tipt with silver ; and a stock tight enough 
 round his neck to give him a ruddy complexion : 
 he had a habit of shutting his eyes to see the worst of 
 a thing. Being left together one evening, the fol¬ 
 lowing bit of life was hit off between us. [ dresses 
 as Mr. Damper] ‘Well, young Yates, well, what 
 are you thinking of as to life, eh ? you are shockingly 
 grown up.’ ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’ ‘Eh, 
 I suppose you think you are always to go to school.’ 
 ‘Why sir, what profession would you advise?’ ‘No 
 sir ; Profession indeed ! hate’m all three— preaching , 
 persecuting , and poisoning; that will never do, sir.’ 
 ‘ Well sir, what do you think of the sea ? ‘ The sea, 
 
 sir—the d—1, sir, oh, no, no, Midshipman at 40.’ 
 ‘ The army, sir ?’ ‘ Worse and worse; long duels, black 
 stock all the morning, carrying a flag when you are 
 grey—oh no, sir, eh !’ ‘ Well sir, what do you think 
 of a Commissary, sir?’ ‘A Drommedary , sir, carry¬ 
 ing other people’s provision ; pots and pans, no sir, 
 eh ?’ ‘Well sir, what shall I take to, shall I take to 
 nothing !’ ‘ No sir, that market’s overstocked already 
 —nothing—^no I see nothing in nothing.’ ‘Well, 
 therb is but one thing more sir, what think you of— 
 of—’ ‘ Of what, sir ?’ ‘ The stage, sir.’ ‘ The stage, 
 sir, what a cad—drive the Kensington ? no sir, no 
 sir, no, eh!’ ‘No sir, not the coach, the theatrical 
 line, sir.’ ‘The pickpocket line, sir—the gallows— 
 doing the deceitful at 85 . per week—plenty of paint 
 and no pay, making a cork model of yourself, sir— 
 half starved without having the consolation of know¬ 
 ing which half.’ 
 
 He was always called upon to decide, yet never 
 
YATES’ REMINISCENCES. 
 
 37 
 
 did decide, but quietly threw his little bucket of cold 
 water on every thing proposed. His remarks had the 
 same effect on me, that a parish engine has on a 
 large fire, served to make it blaze the fiercer. 
 
 At this time I entered into the Commissariat; but 
 previous to going abroad, I was invited by a kind 
 friend to go to masquerade, and it was settled that I 
 should do so in the character of Somno: got my 
 dress all ready, went properly equipt, candle in hand, 
 night-capon head, cloth on my arm, quite complete ; 
 at first I ran myself into a little disgrace by ramming 
 my candle into the face of a Harlequin, and treading 
 upon the train of the Muses, but I got on tolerably 
 well, till at length the real Somno came, ‘ in the habit 
 as he lived.’—iWe were inseparable for the remainder 
 of the evening, enjoying the variegated pleasures of 
 the scene together, which allow me to describe to you 
 in a song: 
 
 MASQUERADING. 
 
 Come now my merry men, 
 
 We may never meet again, 
 
 The Masquerade’s begun, 
 
 We shall lose half the fun ; 
 
 Those who feel a passion 
 To be in tip-top fashion, 
 
 They should not want much persuading. 
 
 Slack rope—there’s a Pope, 
 
 Queen of hearts—flames and darts, 
 Skeletons—Spanish Dons-*- 
 Ladies free—drinking tea, 
 
 Light \n sockets—hands in pockets, 
 
 All’s right—what a night, 
 
 Push on, drive on through th : s motley scene of fun, 
 Who on earth would’nt go Masquerading, 
 
 Come stroll along with me, 
 
 We’ll see who we can see ; 
 
 No one his neighbour knows, 
 
 Tho’ he treads upon his toes ; 
 
 D 
 
38 
 
 YATES’ REMINISCENCES. 
 
 E’en your tailor there can’t tell 
 You from another swell, 
 
 When in domino or character parading. 
 
 Man m armour—blushing charmer, 
 
 Pan and Pinto—eating fruit O, 
 
 Apollo Nisa-— taking ice a, 
 
 Prosperoso—drinking so-so, 
 
 Noise and Riot—nothing quiet, 
 
 Pushing, driving—ail a striving, 
 Running, falling—ladies squalling, 
 
 Push on, drive on, in this motley scene of fun, 
 Who on earth would’nt go Masquerading. 
 
 Now let us go to supper, 
 
 In the lower room or tipper ; 
 
 Nothing’s here, I tell ye, 
 
 But oranges and jelly ; 
 
 I think I am a ninny, 
 
 To be giving half a guinea, 
 
 Such a supper as this is degrading. 
 
 Knife and fork—draw the cork, 
 
 Beauty bright—candle light, 
 
 Charley Wright—a merry wight, 
 Sandwich nice—Vauxhall slice, 
 
 Supper o’er—what a bore, 
 
 Pay the score—wish for more, 
 
 Cash runs low—forc’d to go, 
 
 Push on, drive on, in this motley scene of fun, 
 
 Sure the actors are all Masquerading. 
 
 The Masquerade had the usual effect upon me, and 
 as I was sitting next morning at a late breakfast, who 
 should walk in but the Sumno of the previous evening. 
 He came in light of heart and restless in his person ; 
 a little fidgetty, but not a little humerous; little, in¬ 
 deed, did I think, that my future plans of life would 
 be affected by this very visit; he was kind and spoke 
 flattering; dangerous flattery to me. You have seen 
 my friend, you know him, you must have seen him, 
 he is taller than I am, yet the world have said I am 
 
YATES’ REMINISCENCES. 
 
 39 
 
 occasionally like him. (Imitation of Mathews) 4 How 
 do—glad to see you—-pretty well, hey; I was very 
 much amused with you last night, very much. Your 
 imitations were very good, very good indeed, they 
 were, ’pon my life—Fawcett was very like; Kembie 
 very good ; but there was one thing in which you 
 failed, yes, you did, total failure.’ 4 What was that, 
 sir?’ 4 Your imitation of me : I know I’m a difficult 
 study ; no man in the world can imitate me.’ 4 Well, 
 then, (said I) it is well for me that I don’t intend go¬ 
 ing on the stage.’ 4 Mi! if is all very well for you to 
 say you don’t intend; take my word for it, you’ll be 
 an actor—take my word for it, you will, one of these 
 days, come to the theatrical drop; you will, you may 
 depend.’ 4 You are mistaken indeed, said I; lam 
 going to join the Commissariat.’ 4 Ah ! it’s all very 
 well for yon to say so ; but depend upon it, you will 
 leave feeding starved soldiers, to enlist yourself into 
 a starving company. Adieu ; remember what I say, 
 you’ll be an actor. 
 
 I shortly after this joined the army ; where I was, 
 as my cousin Damper would always call it, a drome¬ 
 dary for the space of three years. I was at the Battle 
 of Waterloo, and I would that I could relate to you 
 some anecdotes of that great and glorious triumph ; 
 but as we are not met here to be melancholy, 4 if you 
 have tears’ you need not prepare to shed them now. 
 Soon after my return home, I agreed to accompany 
 my friend on an expedition to France to try the effect 
 of an entertainment, for the first time, something si¬ 
 milar to the one I have now the honour to perform. 
 Previous, however, to my trip, 1 became acquainted 
 with a character, Mr. Felix Fa*'t; he was something 
 like Tilburina’s papa in the Critic , always understood 
 every thing literally as spoken : he always wore a lit¬ 
 tle brown wig, under which his/ little round cosy face 
 was reposing in a state of unmeaning vacancy : when¬ 
 ever a metaphor on a word of three syllables was 
 started, he would stare in a state of utter amazement 
 and incomprehension. Romances he said he Gould 
 
40 
 
 YATES’ REMINISCENCES. 
 
 not understand; he had read Gay’s Fables and did 
 not believe them. He was the very man who said he 
 was glad to hear they were going to canvass the Boro’ 
 because he had been twice wet through) between Too- 
 ley-street and the Town-hall ; and having once read 
 in the newspapers that a fleet of Indiamen had got 
 out of dock and had dropt down the river, he said it 
 was a great pity, and hoped that by the diving bells 
 their cargoes would he saved : he never ventured to 
 come near the Stock Exchange, for fear of the bulls 
 and the bears,and wondered the Lord Mayor allowed 
 such wild beasts in the city* He was now at Dover) 
 Hvhere he had gone to see whether there really was a 
 sea, and whether it was salt. (Imitation of Fact 
 tasting the water and picking up a large pebble.) 
 
 Mr. Fact returned to the inn and dined with us: 
 next morning, on the Dover coach driving up, I ex¬ 
 claimed, 4 What on earth can he be about ? what can 
 have brought him here ?’ 4 Him, who f? 4 Why that 
 
 original there, next to the little black boy on the roof*’ 
 4 A black boy on the roof, I should like to see him ; 
 oh, a young chimney sweeper tumbled out of the pot, 
 I suppose.’ 4 No, I mean that Valentine and Orson 
 looking man, with a white plush jacket and fur cap 
 on ; do you know we went to school together.’ 4 No ! 
 he never went to school, I’m sure ; he was bred upon 
 Highgate Common, and fed upon white mustard seed.’ 
 4 ^True, I assure you ; he studied Robinson Crusoe, 
 and was long boat mad before he was 16 years of age. 
 What, Tom Traveller ?’ 4 Ah ! my Fred, how are 
 
 you, where are you going ?’ 4 I’m going to Paris, 
 
 said l.’ 4 So am T; I’m outward bound too; going 
 
 abroad in search of a desert island.’ 4 What, Robin¬ 
 son Crusoe yet Tom, eh P’ 4 Yes, fur shoes in my 
 trunk, and a large umbrella ; all for the island ; see, 
 here’s a Dolland, a real good one ; there’s a glass.’ 
 
 4 Why, what’s that for ?’ 4 Don’t you know ? why to 
 
 look at the natives ; see’em eat a Good Friday.’ 
 
 4 Eat a Good Friday ! well, I declare I should like to 
 know how that is done.’ 
 
YATES’ BEMINISCENCES. 
 
 41 
 
 Fact and Traveller both offered to join the party, 
 which, of course, we of the Drams. Pers. did not 
 object to, as we were now attended by our Fact and 
 our Fiction , the two grahd requisites for romance. 
 
 As we were going to the Packet, Tom regretted 
 he had not been able to meet with a second hand Ca¬ 
 noe, altho’ he had searched all Brokers’-row. On 
 board my attention was attracted to one of the very 
 few hands on board, a fine old Jack tar in his blues, 
 with the seams nicely pitched against the weather, 
 with a liberal display of bronze, wrist and throat; 
 who was hauling in a rope, and ejaculating at every 
 haul ; Mr. Fact placed his thumbs behind him, and 
 stared with stupid astonishment. Tom admired his 
 fur cap, it would do capital, he said for the Island. 
 (palling in the rope.) Yoe ! ho, come along wid 
 you, yeo ! ho, you devil, you want more pulling than 
 you are worth—there’s no end to you, like Doyle’s 
 Lectures. Yeo! ho, faith I think the other end of 
 you is tied to the North Pole—ah ! you great sea sar- 
 pent, has your mother any more of you—oh ! you de¬ 
 vil, I’ve found you out, some one has cut off the other 
 end of ye. On the deck were two gentlemen walk¬ 
 ing backwards, pretending not to be sick, the rest of 
 the company were below, like rich old noblemen, 
 casting up their accounts and settling with the stew¬ 
 ard. At length we took in our Pilot, not Ttrry, and 
 shortly landed at Boulogne, and commenced our en¬ 
 tertainment; I say we , on the principle of the organ 
 blower, as I took the money at the doors, and played 
 Fustian in Sylvester Daggerwood, being my first ap¬ 
 pearance on the stage in character. Traveller wish¬ 
 ed us to get up Robinson Crusoe, because, as he 
 said, Fact would make an excellent old Canibal, but 
 he protested “ he had never made one in all his life.” 
 While we were at Boulogne, we made up a party to 
 visit old Joe Kelly, jovial Joe, whom, many here no 
 doubt knew ; he was at that time suffering a martyr¬ 
 dom to his old complaint the gout; we knocked at 
 the door, was admitted to his bed-room, myself first; 
 
 F) 2 
 
At VATES* REMINISCENCES* 
 
 the rest following with ludicrous tip-toe caution, 
 (Imitation of Irish Joe Kelly) Walk in gentlemen ; 
 Worry git out you divil: this was addressed to a little 
 shaggy dog, a tiny little thing, like a child’s muff, 
 With short legs, and two blear eyes, of different co¬ 
 lors, who at every motion in the room would jump 
 backwards and forwards over Kelly’s great toe, much 
 to his annoyance. i Walk in, gentlemen, why by the 
 powers there is four of ye—you’d make a nice rub¬ 
 ber—Josephine, Josephine—No, no, said I, Joe, we 
 have only called to see how you did—-Why, what’s 
 the matter with yotir side, said I, yon seem to have 
 lost an eye! ‘Lost what! no divil a thing have I 
 lost; I have not touched a card these (bur days the 
 streets being strewed with bricks and tiles, the effects 
 of last night’s storm ; I remarked, your friend the 
 devil, Joe, has been very busy during the night, my 
 boy. “ Faith I’ll tell you how it is, the devil has mar* 
 ried his daughter to a bricklayer, and not having, any 
 ready monby by him, he is raising the wind on some 
 of his houses. 
 
 We left Joe Kelly a victim to the gout, wine, and 
 music, and took our departure for England: we 
 shortly came in sight of Dover, ships riding at an* 
 chor; and in the joy of the moment, we both ex* 
 claimed, huzza for the wooden walls of England.—* 
 Tom Traveller, we left on his way to Paris, in search 
 of his infernal Desert Island ; Mr. Fact’s, adieus 
 wet'e worthy of himself. “ Good bye—I’ve been 
 highly delighted—very pleasant trip—adieu; but I 
 have been much disappointed this morning in look¬ 
 ing for the wooden walls of old England, I can’t 
 find them, but I suppose they have been pulled 
 down*” 
 
 Arrived in London, I parted with my kind friend ; 
 his last words to me were “ adieu, Fred, you’ll be an 
 actor, lake my word for It ; remember me, adieu.” I 
 shortly after came out at Covent Garden Theatre, 
 and the following summer was engaged to give an 
 entertainment at Vauxhall Gardens 5 but unfortu* 
 
YATES* REMINISCENCES. 43 
 
 v 
 
 nately, one morning as 1 was rehearsing it, to Mr. 
 Fact who had come to town on purpose, and a full 
 meeting of untrimmed lamps, one of the boards of 
 the temporary stage broke down, and my leg follow¬ 
 ed the example, and I was borne away, not on the tide 
 of popular favour^ but on a shutter: but as I brought 
 away a brief description of the Gardens, I shall now 
 take the liberty of repeating them. 
 
 EVENING AT VAUXHALL. 
 
 Hey for Vauxhall! the moon is rising bright to* 
 night, 
 
 The water now is smooth, and all is clear: 
 
 Now is your time, if you wish to see a glorious sight; 
 
 A sight for three and sixpence you can’t think dear. 
 From London Bridge to Vauxhall, the watermen are 
 pulling O, 
 
 From Richmond, too, there’s not a few, now the boats 
 they’re filling O ! 
 
 Row brothers row, the bridges soon are left behind, 
 Now’s your time to pull away, the entrances arc ra* 
 ther dark 
 
 That’s leading to this show, this wonderful this bril¬ 
 liant place ; 
 
 Such a place as this was never known. 
 
 Now Mr. D. my love, as we have orders, if we are 
 to enjoy the evening, let us get there before the doors 
 are open, and perhaps Mr. Fact will accompany us-— 
 With all my heart, if there’s room for one. Suppose, 
 my love, as there is seven of us all together, that we 
 have a chariot. No, my dear, a boat, a boat as the 
 tide is running up to Vauxhall, that will be just the 
 thing, won’t it Mr. Fact- 1 —Running up, why as I am 
 not much of a pedestrian, I can’t say. Well, come, 
 come along now. Where’s my cocked hat P I al¬ 
 ways wears my cocked hat when I goes to Vauxhall. 
 Now my love, where’s your thin shoes? tight; now 
 the opera glass, right; now the paper of sandwiches, 
 right; now the key of the door, right; now the oran¬ 
 ges, right; now the orders, all right—no\y then come 
 
44 
 
 YATES 7 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 along. Boat your honour—Boat, sir, mine’s a wery 
 nice wherry your honour. My dear love, do oblige 
 me by taking that good looking young man, with a 
 brass badge on his arm, and his coat gathered full 
 round the flaps; he seems quite superior to his race 
 —Ihope we shall have no racing— (Child) Be quiet 
 Keziah, controul yourself my son ; what’s the matter 
 —Only I’m s-o happy—Goon Waterman—Jem, help 
 the deputy in.—Yes ; he’s like an elephant stepping 
 into a butteiboat. What’s that place—Cumberland 
 gardens, inarm. Bless me its quite a ruin. Yes 
 rnarm, there’s been a shocking fire, and all the Sun¬ 
 day crockery was barnt to the ground. Any thing 
 else. No marm, mtre-ly a barrel horgan. What a 
 pity, I suppose the engines did not know how to play 
 upon it. Now then pay here, pay here. No sir, we 
 
 don’t pay here, for I have got-( feeling in his 
 
 pocket, agitated) why surely I have forgot- 
 
 What, my love ; the oranges ? Worse than that. 
 The sandwiches ? Worse. The key of the door? 
 Worse than that, I have forgot the orders; why you 
 must have them Mr. Fact. No, I have nothing in my 
 pocket but a last year’s almanac, a pocket handker¬ 
 chief, and one glove. Well, what’s to be done ? Why 
 we must pay, I suppose ; how many are there, 1, 2, 
 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 of us; I say Mr. Moueytaker, do you 
 charge full price for the little ones? Yes, sir. Well 
 that’s very odd, for they are not grown up; never 
 mind, there’s the money and now go on. How dark 
 it is—I don’t see any thing. Turn to the right. I 
 can’t see. Now to the left. Oh cri ! now I see, how 
 beautiful ; what a seven wonders of the world, lamps, 
 music, boxes, ladies and all. 
 
 All in this show, this wonderful, this brilliant 
 place, 
 
 Such a place, &c. 
 
 Sure such a night, so brilliant and so shining O, 
 
 Such a night as this was never seen ; 
 
 Things are so gay, beyond all arts designing O, 
 
YATES’ REMINISCENCES. 
 
 45 
 
 All nature seems to be enchanted round about. 
 
 The illuminations in ail stations, so bright to the sight 
 that is; 
 
 While the rockets from their sockets, round about 
 your head do rise ; 
 
 Rotunda’s gardens, and dark walk where ladies may 
 retire in ; 
 
 Shades so dark, with a young spark, if they be afraid 
 of firing. 
 
 Well I’m so happy, sure this must be a paradise in 
 miniature. - No macro, in Kennington lane.—Father, 
 what’s that place up there ?—That’s the orchestra: 
 now come keep all together.—My dear, who is that 
 reading the newspaper by lamp light?—That’s 
 Charles Taylor—what an interesting young man.-- 
 My love, I wish you would wear your cocked hat 
 longways and not broadways, at present one end is in 
 my eye, and the other in Mrs. Carry ways.—Well, 
 my love, any thing to be agreeable, (bell) What’s 
 that.—That’s the Indian juggler. Well, I declare, I 
 should like to see him, it is astonishing the dexterity 
 he handles the three golden balls with.—Pooh! it’s 
 only a pawnbroker unbending himself. Come my 
 love, go on, here’s Needle the tailor coming. Which 
 is he.—That’s him, with one eye, that’s needle.— 
 Come now, Mr, Needle, I don’t like walking out 
 here, I wants to walk under the yawning .—Well, 
 my dear, but will that be quite correct our mixing 
 with superfine? To be sure it will, an’t you tailor 
 and habit maker to the king’s own tallow chandler? 
 Yes, my love.—And wasn’t you in the Bunhill 
 Fields volunteers, all the last peace?—So I vas my 
 dear; ah ! there’s general Gormand, I’ll bow him, be 
 knows me very well.—Now Needle mind your eye. 
 (bows) He didn’t see me my love.—No how could 
 he, you din’t bow till he was two yards past you.— 
 How do. .How do, eh. .A-h ! any thing to do.—No, 
 no, nothing to do, no nothing at all.—Ah ! any per¬ 
 son outside, eh ? No. no, no person outside, no per- 
 
46 
 
 YATES'* REMINISCENCES. 
 
 son at all.—Curst stupid.—Yes, very—curst stupid. 
 Good night.—Good night. My love, give me my 
 thick shoes, my thin ones are wet, it’s a very damp 
 night. Why, it rains.—Rains.— Yes, I have my ap¬ 
 prehensions. —And I have my umbrella. 
 
 All in this show, &,c. 
 
 Hatk, how it rains ! a hackney-coach a treasure is; 
 
 For satin shoes and silk stockings—here’s a night! 
 Pit, pat—slip, slop,—this a night for pleasure is, 
 
 I wish that I was not now so far from home. 
 Whizzing crouds and dizzy lamps—nothing now 
 but dreariness ; 
 
 Some a drinking, others sinking, with nothing else 
 but weariness. 
 
 Come let us take a box, and call for what will throw 
 a light on it. 
 
 And as ’tis so, before we go, why let us make a 
 night of it. 
 
 Here’s a night! this is pleasure! How shall w^ 
 get home, my dear?—Why, as we came, I suppose? 
 by water. Now I propose that we stay late, and go 
 home by one of the Kennington stages.—Bless me, 
 how it does rain and blow, father! it has quite blown 
 out the I in Wellington.—Well, that’s a circumstance 
 I did not know before ; T was not aware that the duke 
 had lost an eye. (bell) There’s the bell for the fire¬ 
 works! why, the people rush like a shower of rain. 
 Like a shower of rain ; why ’tis a shower of rain.— 
 Well, my dear, we must go with the stream. —There’s 
 no other way of going such a night as this. There, 
 do you see that dark place ? Yes, what is it ?—That’s 
 the fire-works.—I can’t see nothing. Now for a 
 rocket (whush) Come, that’s not so bad; ’twas al¬ 
 most as high as the trees. Now for a Roman-candle. 
 —Papa, why do they call ’em Roman-candles? Why, 
 my dear, because—because, there’s no Greece in ’em. 
 Mv love, will you ask that Naval Marine gentleman, 
 to move on one side, I can’t see at all. It’s no use 
 asking hiita my love; don’t you see his wooden leg 
 
YATES 1 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 4 7 
 
 has sunk up to the calf in the wet gravel.—Come, 
 let’s sit down and enjoy ourselves; Waiter! do you 
 call this a slice of ham? why, I can see every indi¬ 
 vidual lamp in the gardens through it. Now to finish 
 the evening with a song, (sings God save the King.) 
 Pa, how it comes down at ‘ rains over us.’ 
 
 Ail in this show, Sic. 
 
 In a few short years, short indeed to the hey-day 
 of youth, I was engaged to perforin my budget at the 
 Liverpool Theatre, for I had frequently been At 
 Home on various occasions in the Country, as it is the 
 custom of London Performers to go into the Coun¬ 
 try occasionally as stars; Mr. Baitley is the only 
 gentleman who stars it in London. 
 
 Arriving at Liverpool, I found by one of these 
 strange casualties, that the real proprietor of the 
 Mail Coach Adventures had just arrived piping hot 
 from America, and we were both advertised to play 
 alone in the same Theatre, on the same night; of 
 course I gave up my seat in the “Mail,” to the 
 “Great Original:” for some time we conjointly or 
 singly, got good houses on alternate evenings; ’till 
 one day, we thought it would not be unpleasing to the 
 good people of Liverpool, certainly not to ourselves, 
 if we gave them a specimen of our tragedy. My 
 friend had a good opinion of his tragic powers, and I 
 had an equally good one of mine. Indeed most 
 Comedians have had the same idea; Munden thinks 
 himself a fine Macbeth, wasted ; and the comical 
 Liston sits himself down as an ill used Qctavian ; 
 Othello was announced, my friend, the “gentleman 
 in Black,” myself the cunning Iago ; having dressed 
 myself on the night of performance, I went to the 
 dressing room of my friend, “what, sa> 1, not 
 dress’d yet, do you know the first hell has rung?”— 
 “ Has it ?”—J (ound him before a large glass, with a 
 book of the tragedy on one side of him, learning the 
 jealousy by heart; and on the other a bottle of match¬ 
 less, with which he was making the darkness visible 
 on his countenance, 4 Did you ever see such a cursed 
 
YATES’ reminiscences. 
 
 4 $ 
 
 climbing boy as I am making myself, loo£ very like 
 the blac& man who sweeps the crossings at the coiner 
 of Fleet Market; / look like a genuine sample of 
 Day and Martin, without the polish. / say Fred. / 
 wish you would do it for me.” u I took his face in 
 hand, and advocated the cause of the blacks ; the 
 curtain rang up, and we got on capitally until we 
 carne to the third act, when as we got most serious, 
 the audienee thought we were most in joke, and the 
 dialogue proceeded something in this way : 
 
 Yates.--*- My Noble Lord. Mathews.— What does 
 say /ago? F.—Did Cassio, when you wooed my 
 lady, know of your love? M. —He did, (they don’t 
 la&e it) from first to last ; why do you as k? there’s a 
 bit of orange peel.) F«-|-But for the satisfaction of 
 my thought. M.—W 7 by of thy thought, /ago? (we 
 are beginning to move ’em.) F.—/did not thin& he 
 
 had been acquanted with her. (there’s several 
 going out of the Pit.) M.-~ (they are certainly 
 laughing.) O! yes, and went between us very oft. 
 F.---/ndeed ! M.— Indeed ! discernest thou ought in 
 that, (its more than they do,) is he not honest ? F.— 
 Honest, my lord ? M.~ -Honest, ay ! honest? (they’re 
 laughing infernally) F—My lord, for aught I know. 
 M.~ -What dost thou thinA:? (I can’t stand this, I 
 must be off.) F.—Tiling, my lord, (that I must fol¬ 
 low ;) we have neither of us had any thing to do w ith 
 Tragedy since. 
 
 While I was at Lwerpool, I dined with a gentle¬ 
 man, who vvas particular in his beef, he wished much 
 to hear of our Christmas show of cattle ; as I was the 
 only one present who had witnessed such a sight, I 
 described it to them as well as I could in the follow¬ 
 ing manner : 
 
 SMITHFIELD CATTLE SHOW. 
 
 Off, I’m off for the Goswell-street cattle show, 
 Being determined to be in good time; 
 
YATES* REMINISCENCES. 49 
 
 If you are coming pray don’t stand to prattle now, 
 For I’m told that the beasts are all prime. 
 
 Yout togs now on, pull Cox, 
 
 To see the fat bullocks. 
 
 There’s lots of pushing and driving T /mow ; 
 
 If we are first there, I trust that we must there 
 
 Stand a good chance for to get the first row. 
 
 I say, vich is it. Vhy that ere von by the ebay 
 carts. Littel boys, ta/ce your eyes away from the 
 hinges, you can’t see no fat through them ’ere crac/cs. 
 Let the poor boys alone, it can’t be any injury to the 
 proprietors. Vhy you see sir, we are ordered not to 
 let no one see vot has not paid. Room, room, for 
 Lord Stuffington. Well! good shew, eh? good shew 
 this year. Yes my lord, tolerable. I say, blow me 
 but he’s a whopper. Bill, open the big gate for his 
 lordship. Sure he needn’t leave his own fireside to 
 see a prize ox, No, to look at him, I should thinfc 
 he fcnowed what oil ca&es vas. Ma&e way for the 
 Duchess of Dumplingfed. Vich is she. Why she 
 on the galloway. Vot she with the habit. No, she 
 with the hastma. Room there, let that gentleman 
 pass. Veil I’m blowed if he an’t a fat ’un—who is 
 lie ? He’s steward to Lord Stuffington, and he’s got 
 t wo porters here as is the wtry moral of him. 
 
 So I’m off, &c. 
 
 Come, brush on, while we’ve strength to be moving 
 here, 
 
 I wish for to make the best use of the day; 
 
 I find that the crowd is hourly improving here, 
 
 If longer we stop, why we shan’t get away. 
 
 Let’s hear how they bar& it now 
 In the cow market now. 
 
 Pm all of a broil like a steak on the fire, 
 
 And as I am toasting, I may as well roast in 
 
 The flames of what some call a foolish desire. 
 
 How excessively crowded, how intensely hot, Mr. 
 Keeper, have you any ventilators. No sir, we have 
 E 
 
50 
 
 yates ; reminiscences. 
 
 several heifers. Pray what are those? Sheep sir. 
 Sheep! poor things. I say Bill, he calls these sheep 
 poor tilings. Very oppressive ; I say sir, as you have 
 just come in, how’s-the weather ? Very I at sir, very 
 fat. There’s an answer now. Yes sir, that’s a re- 
 posi-to-ry answer. What a strange smell, how suf¬ 
 focating. Pray who is that gentleman? Lavender 
 sir. Pm srtre they want lavender here, oh! Look 
 here, here’s nafur , what an ogg. Prodigious! arn’t 
 it., James, my child, take hold of my hand-, and 
 we’l! walk round it. No, no, you don’t recollect the 
 child has got to walk home. So Pm off, 
 
 Such a show of fat oxen was never seen, 
 
 The demand tor oil cakes must be great; 
 
 And the proprietors all look as they had been 
 Grazing along with their cattle of late. 
 
 Now’s the time-, push and drive 
 To see,’em all alive ! 
 
 Those who have money should pull it out now, 
 
 If you mean to buy now, don’t you be shy now; 
 
 In London, of Cattle there’s not such a show. 
 
 My good man, will you just stand on one side ? 
 I’m no good man, I’m a butc-her. Well I declare I 
 
 never would- there it is again—I never would 
 
 have come if I had thought it had been like this ; I 
 have had nothing but ox tails whisking round my 
 eyes this half hour, it is like walking blindfold through 
 a belfry. Take care of yom pockets. I arn’t got 
 no money. I say sir, I ’a bin a vatehing you this 
 half hour, you have been twisting that pig’s tail 
 about till it nearly amounts to tor-tur . I say, that’s 
 a fine beast; what do they call him? you have got 
 the catalogue. Oh here it is, The Rev. Alfred Clay¬ 
 ton, Pooh ! nonsense. I say it is, the Rev. Alfred 
 Clayton, short in the body, long in the hindlegs, 
 poodle head, and thick in the quarters. Well, so it 
 is I declare*, how very odd. Take care of that ox, he 
 is just going to kick. No he isn’t sir, he is merely 
 
YATeS* REMINISCENCES. 
 
 51 
 
 going to rest his other leg. He’s a fine creature, how 
 pacific ; pray Mr. Shewman is he always so. No sir, 
 he sometimes lies down. So Pm off, &.C. 
 
 FART II. 
 
 A short time after mv engagement at Covent Gar¬ 
 den, 1 was introduced to a gentleman, Mr. Prosper 
 Sanguine; he was happy in disappointment, laughed 
 at the hardness of the times, and gloried in what 
 would follow ; and who to use his own expression, 
 never gave up. ‘Funds down at 60, so much the 
 better, buy in.—I se it all, never give up—get up like 
 a skyrocket to 90—1 see it ail—30 per cent the bet¬ 
 ter.’ I was introduced to him before dinner: Mr. 
 Sanguine, Mr. Yates; Mr. Yates, Mr. Sanguine, (at 
 this time it was thought the Gas company would 
 never answer) ‘ Pho, not answer—must answer—I 
 see it all—buy shares—shop blown out, what then? 
 house / blown down, so much the better, make room 
 for the new streets and light it afterwards. A Scotch 
 gentleman remarked, ‘ Sir, you see Macpdannzation 
 will never do for a great city like London ; it is. too 
 dry in the Summer, and too wet in the winter.’ ‘Pho, 
 nonsense, must answer—dry in the summer, so much 
 the better—Lundy foot for nothing—never give up— 
 wet in' winter, what then ? navigable streets, Mac¬ 
 adamize every thing from Gros. Square to your hack 
 parlour: I went to the plav the other night, 30 in the 
 pit, none in the boxes, so much the better, more to 
 come—dare say they were all in the gallery—never 
 give up.’ Thus did he tower above misfortune and 
 mishap, for his life seemed to be insured in the 
 Hope. 
 
 About this time I was a thin single gentleman, and 
 occupied apartments close to the theatre, where I 
 could step and do Moses in the School for Scandal, 
 and hack again to tea : an ac quaintance of my house¬ 
 keeper’s frequently called to see her; a perfoa 
 
52 
 
 Yates’ reminiscfnces. 
 
 Snake in petticoats; she said she had just called in 
 to see her, nothing more; a n ost singular character, 
 and nearly allied to a very celebrated personage. 
 Mrs. Paulina Pry was quite a character; she just 
 called in upon her friends, nothing more—would de~ 
 licately surmise a misfortune with her eyes, or dip¬ 
 ping into domestic difficulties with her chin: I have 
 seen her scatter ruin round her acquaintance with 
 ‘nods ant^ becks, and wreathed smiles;* her eyee 
 would be every where at once, in the tea-caddies, the 
 areas, the gravy spoons of her acquaintances; most 
 particularly anxious after any absentees ; she actually 
 seemed to possess the power of shooting out her eyes 
 after an article, like a snail’s horn ; her conversation 
 I will endeavour to etch , she never did engrave it her¬ 
 self: ‘ I called on the Jones’s—the bronze inkstand 
 is gone, eh !—up stairs, I suppose, eh! they have 
 only five of these chairs, eh! the parlour chairs, eh ! 
 five ! they had eight, and two elbows, eh!—-Just 
 called in at Mrs. Lofty’s she was out, eh 1 met her af¬ 
 terwards with a small basket reticule on her arm, 
 couldn’t see in it, eh!—called at dinner afterwards; 
 tea-spoons with the pie, eh ! she had her deserts once 
 —just popt in at Mrs. Baker’s; what a sweet guard 
 ring you have on, my love; you had another eh! 
 well, I don’t ask, times are hard, times are hard, eh l 
 my dear love, what’s gone with your ebony tea- 
 caddy, eh ? taken up stairs I suppose, eh ? only you 
 know it always used to stand under the cheffonier.—* 
 I wonder what takes Mrs. Brown so often to the 
 Obelisk, eh ? her husband’s out of town they say, eh ? 
 may people come out by the act ?’ But as I once 
 met her at a pawnbroker’s window, and heard her 
 mutter her thoughts, I put them into a lyrical shape^ 
 nearly thus: 
 
 PAWNBROKER’S SHOP. 
 
 The three golden balls are above me, 
 
 I see the green door up the court; 
 
 Take these six spoons, and quickly shove me 
 Up the spout, for I’m rather short: 
 
yates’ reminiscences. 53 
 
 &omego in and I’ll wait at the window, 
 
 I don’t wish to wait in the shop ; 
 
 ’Till you brine out the money, Miss Blindo, 
 
 ’Tis here I would much rather stop. 
 
 My neighbours may talk, if they eye me ; 
 
 Let ’em prate then as much as they please; 
 
 They cannot unless they are by me, 
 
 For most folks come in at the squeeze* 
 
 Miss Cumm n* has left off her earings, 
 
 Miss Pop 4 m’s fine bracelets are gone, 
 
 Mrs. Traces has laid by her laces, 
 
 And these ladies look rather forlorn. 
 
 So here is Sophia’s best coral, 
 
 But I long have thought she was poor ; 
 
 It’s no use with fortune to qucuy^l, 
 
 While your uncle will open his door. 
 
 Mrs. White’s emblem of wedding, 
 
 Is here in the window secure ; 
 
 But I’d part with my bed and my bedding, 
 Before I’d pawn that ring, I am sure. 
 
 Oh, Ellinor Rogers your caddy 
 Is ticketed here, sure enough ; 
 
 Since your pledges your uncle has had, he 
 Has kept you in plenty of snuff. 
 
 And that cypher C. B. I well know it, 
 
 Which on that gold seal I espy, 
 
 How aggravating to show it 
 
 Just under the poor owner’s eye. 
 
 This window, my friends are all in it— 
 
 Here stands the 4 Whol# Duty of Man 
 
 For some men before they begin it, 
 
 Will shrink to this shop if they can. 
 
 The prices, you see they do mark on 
 Each article here that they place, 
 
 A warranted gun made by Manton— 
 
 John Bunyan—and three yards of lace. 
 
 I can see here that people now labours 
 To put all their care on the shelf; 
 
54 
 
 yates’ reminiscences. 
 
 And I’ve found out that most of my neighbo^ 
 
 Are no better off than myself, 
 
 One relation, when you are sunk—ill, 
 
 Tho’ on them you can’t always rely, 
 
 I find a good friend in my Uncle, 
 
 On Saturday night to apply. 
 
 Previous to my leaving town, to fulfil my engage* 
 ments in the country,! dined with a gentleman who was 
 tormented with a bad cook: on setting down to din¬ 
 ner, every thing was spoilt; the first act was bad the 
 second worse, and the third spoilt the entertainment; 
 the fish was cold, the meat raw, the vegetables not 
 done, and the potatoes, as the footman said, had met 
 with an accident —here I met Mr. M‘Fin a gentle¬ 
 man who had an utter dislike to fish ; * What’s fish r* 
 a parcel of trashtfiot fit to swim,—Roach, what is it ? 
 a parcel of jsmmming bones.—Soles, pho ! under** 
 leathers fried^detest Brill — workhouse turbot—Sal* 
 mon, pho! only the middle cut good, and you can’t 
 make head nor tail of that.’ 
 
 As I had never had a thoro’ taste of a strolling life, 
 I attached myself to a respectable company of co*> 
 medians, and with them performed at most of the prin* 
 cipal towns in Devonshire. The company were all as 
 careless as myself, and merry were the days we pass* 
 ed: I recollect once, we played Macbeth in two acts, 
 and with only one witch. We had in the company a 
 respectable old actor, who had been on the stage 
 nearly half a century,yet so singular were his ideas, 
 that he always fancied his appearance much too ju¬ 
 venile for every part he happened to be cast in ; one 
 evening I went into his dressing room, and found him 
 busily employed in preparing for King Henry, for 
 which part, as usual, he thought his appearance much 
 too juvenile ; I found him making wrinkles round 
 his already wrinkled face;— 4 eh ! can’t please myself, 
 eh! much too young.’—at last he threw down his 
 paint, saying, 4 ’fore gad, I’ll not make an old man of 
 him, I’ll play him as a young man. J 
 
YATES ? REMINISCENCES. 
 
 55 
 
 At the Dartmouth theatre, the hack of the stage 
 was enclosed by a couple of folding doors, for when 
 not used as a theatre, it was converted into a ware" 
 house for goods. I remember the first time I played, 
 we had a very thin audience, very thin indeed, in fact, 
 for why should I disguise it before friends, we had 
 but one pound seventeen shillings and three pence 
 in the warehouse, pit, boxes, and gallery, and three¬ 
 pence beams. The play was Wild Oats, I played 
 Rover, and very well I did it for the money. We 
 none of us knew our parts, but said what came first, 
 from Speed the Plough, the Humorous Lieutenant, 
 or Othello; we got on very well till the end of the 
 fourth act, when I was on the stage as Rover, and 
 there was John Dory (Sir George Thunder ought to 
 enter;) we stood staring at each other; the audience 
 four in the front, began to murmur; c.all Sir George 
 'Thunder, said I to the prompter— 4 Sit-George Thun¬ 
 der!’ but no, Sir George couldn’t be found; 4 Mr. 
 Weston, Mr. Weston!’—I rushed off the stage like 
 lightning in search of Thunder . The back of the 
 <age opened on to the pier, and it was no uncommon 
 thing for an actor to take a turn there on a fine even- 
 betweeu the acts—and there I discovered Sir 
 wge Thunder, sitting down in his admiral’s dress, 
 line^ hat and sword complete with a large rod and 
 are | > ^Hng and struggling with a huge horse-mack* 
 
 10 town > 1 found on m y table a card 
 
 m ' <ul ' l ler, and the next morning he called 
 l am Zl ‘"nredy, Friday, it is all one,-here 
 c mi ^ - e ,havn t it yet.’ ‘Found what?’ 
 
 Jt 1 t« d 7 be J e " t0 ,he V-vVe-been to St. Cloud, 
 but can t find a desert island-tried to be cast away, 
 
 ihrew Fren u Ch b o 0dt w «' dd "’t go to pieces-I 
 
 t« ?r 'r t0the Seine ’ whe " 1 was Paris, 
 sink I ° Up e ° f ! U11S 0,1 my arrn 5 but as I could’nt 
 coac’hmln ’ CUrse,i F 'ench hackney 
 
 Dfl Ville’s tr. We ’ saK VV|11 you go with me to 
 vs vtiles to see some casts?’ ‘Do you think he 
 
56 ~ 
 
 YATES'* REMINISCENCES. 
 
 has got a cast away V ‘ No, said I, I do not think he 
 has.’ 4 1 shan’t go, i hate the French, all of ’em.’— 
 4 But he is not a Frenchman.’ 4 Yes he is.’ ‘No, I 
 assure you he is not.’ 4 Weil, it’s ail the same, he is 
 of French extraction ; I’ve noticed ’em all, theie’s 
 De la Cour, Delatanville, Destampes, Decamp, all 
 begin with a D.’ 6 So they do,’ said I. 4 Yes, I know 
 it all, every thing’s French that begins with D.’— 
 1 Then how do you get over Dumpling,’ said Mr. 
 Fact. 
 
 We strolled into the public Office, Bow-street, 
 when a case came on, vvheie a fireman claimed the 
 reward for being first at a chimney taking fire ; the 
 proprietor of the house had brought a sweep, a senti¬ 
 mental Yorick of the soot-bag who gave his evidence 
 thus: 4 She take fire your honor—bless you, she 
 wouldn’t do such a thing, I liked her ever since I w ent 
 into the profession, your honour she made me fond 
 of the business—she take fire! oh! no—she’s a 
 strait as an arrow—no chimbly in Lunnon has suchr 
 look out as she has—not a brick in her but knoy* 
 my foot, your honor—she has such winning ways— 
 she made me fond of the business—she take fire—sj^ 
 
 couldn’t do it, or Pd never trust a chimbly more_ 
 
 she is fined, the next time I look out I should ^ 
 
 ve*p,veep. election, I 
 
 Having shortly afterwards visited an scene of 
 
 shall endeavour to pourtray that shall gain 
 
 whim, humour, and confusion, and | 
 
 rc . i .nvseif a caiicUuaus 
 
 your suffrages, when 1 propose * J v 
 
 P HUMOURS OF AN FLECTION. 
 
 Broken heads a^e l ^ e * U!1 
 
 Pushing, tearing, driving ; 
 
 Thousands into danger run* 
 
 For candidates all striving. 
 
 Come take that favour from your hat.; 
 
 Cries one upon inspection, 
 ff your for them, why I’m for that; 
 
 All’s fair at an Election'. 
 
Dates’ reminiscences. 67 
 
 Huzza! every body for ever—-Pat-riot ism for ever. 
 I say, which are the Pat-rioters. Here we are your 
 honor, and I hope you’ll allow us bludgeons, that we 
 may appear dacent. Now, my boys, keep all togeth¬ 
 er, and go in different compartments to the Poll. 
 That’s O’Flim, he disarranges the processions—Mr. 
 Stone, pray what is your colour? Blue, sir. Ah! 
 stone blue, I suppose. Pray, sir, what’s your colour ? 
 Why, sir, I have not made-up my mmd yet, but as far 
 as my nose goes, it inclines to purple. I say, where’s 
 your cockade—in my hat. I don’t see it. No, it’s 
 inside, Pm not going to have my ribbons torn to rib + 
 bons . You can’t go by here. Vy not. Because I’m 
 a ^officer. Then where’s your ftautority? Here. 
 Yell, you’ve no-occasion to shove it in my hye. (To 
 a drunken man,) Sir, sir, get up ; do exert yourself x 
 how long‘have you been here ? For Ever ! Come, 
 sir, rouse yourself: how long do you mean to stop 
 here ? For Ev-e-r. He’s quite overtaken. Yes, he ’3 
 cotcht it. Who do you vote for, sir ? For Ever. 
 That’s Doldrum, the committee man. How do sir ? 
 is the committee sitting. Yes, they are sitting at the 
 Rose and Compasses; but they had’nt chairs enough, 
 so I walked out. That’s as independent a u?oter as 
 any here. Him as is bawling Combe and Delafield 
 for ever. No, no, him as has a bunch of ingyons in 
 his hand, next to the u>oter in toelweteens. Push on 
 —Pm for liberty of opinion. Well, sir, and Pm for* 
 liberty of opinion too. Well, sir, and what’s your 
 opinion ? Why, sir, my opinion is that my pocket fs 
 picked. O, broken heads, ho. 
 
 Now’s the time and now’s the hour* 
 
 To hear ’em all harranguing; 
 
 If you have a plumper got, 
 
 Come push your way bang in. 
 
 Come poll away my bought up votes^ 
 
 I do not fear detection; 
 
 Who wouldn’t keep in pay turn coatj£ 
 
 Itlst losing their election. 
 
5$ VATES* reminiscences* 
 
 Well I must say, a set of honest people gathered 
 together is a gratifying sight. I say iny honest man, 
 will you take care of my horse and gig, while I go 
 Up to vote. Yes sartainee your honour ; I say Jem, 
 off with the cushions. A plumper for Sir D.'lherry 
 JDiddle. That man can’t vote. Why not ? He iias 
 been bribed, they have given him something for him¬ 
 self. I’ll do as much for you when I come down.— 
 What is that ragged rascal come to vote ? Yes, sir, 
 he is a house-holder. What house? The House of 
 Correction, I should think. Silence for a speech.— 
 
 Gentlemen electors, I have the honour to-curse 
 
 that fellow he has hit me in the eye with a cabbage 
 stump. Here take the book in your hand. I’m sor¬ 
 ry to say as how T can’t. Why not ? J’ve only got 
 an iron hook. Well, what’s to be done, Counsellor 
 Bother what’s to be done? Oh, he can’t vote. Its 
 cast iron, sir. f£ell, he can only give a casting vote, 
 then. Here’s Mr. Finnikin he is quite a character, 
 and affects to hate affectation, now mark him. So 
 your name is Finnikin, sir. Yes, sir, Finnikin is my 
 name.—How do you vote Mr. Finniftin ? As you 
 please, sir, I’m not at all particular. Some give ’em 
 plumpers, sir. fi ith all my soul, sir ; I’ll give’em 
 all plumpers, sir. Can’t do that, sir, you must split 
 ’em, and give one to one, and one to another. With 
 all my soul sir ; split ’em all, as most agreeable ! give 
 *em some split and some unsplil as you please sir. 
 
 O broken heads are all the fun, &g. 
 
 Uproar and noise are the true joys 
 Of the rabble round ye ; 
 
 They roar so loud, in this great crowd, 
 
 The noise does soon confound ye. 
 
 And when the losing parties rise, 
 
 To as k for your protection, 
 
 Then drown their voice with yells and crie$, 
 For that’s a pure Election. 
 
 There, that’s our candidate. Y^s, he’s a nice man 
 of foo words, but they are to the pint. lie’s going 
 
YATE3’ REMINISCENCES.’ 
 
 59 
 
 speafc.—Gentlemen —I beg to say, that— T mean— 
 
 purity of election-Huzza, huzza. Be quiet* 
 
 Spooney, will you, he arn’t come to the liberty of the 
 subject yet that’s the time. Gentlemen—if you re¬ 
 turn me—no taxes —beer at 3d. a pot. Huzza* 
 
 huzza, there’s a voice to represent us.-Yes^ 
 
 he’s a very pretty speaker, arn’t he?-Viet) is 
 
 the man as is addressing us, him as is a play¬ 
 ing with two yellow gloves? No him as is standing 
 uprightly and independantly with his two hands in 
 his breeches pockets? He’s bowing, arn’t lie ? No, 
 he is merely stooping to avoid the cabbage stumps. 
 Vich is the one as we support ; him in powder ? No, 
 him as stands up like an .Englishman, in a white 
 waiscoat, with a hegg a trickling down his bussum . 
 All, I’ll give him my vote ; he looks the uncompro¬ 
 mising advocate of our haggricultural hinterest. You 
 can’t vote sir. Why not sir ? I have been waiting all 
 day. Can’t help it sir, the Poll’s closed. All! that’s 
 the reason, them here gemmen beldw have thought 
 proper to lay mine open. 
 
 O broken heads, etc, 
 
 Those who are behind the scenes, sometimes wit¬ 
 ness some droll anecdotes ; and as you all know, I 
 occasionally have been behind the scenes myself, I 
 will relate an anecdote that occurred at one of our 
 I Winter Theatres. The play advertised, was Richard ; 
 1 the Manager was in extacy ! ‘ What a glorious rush 
 there’ll be to my establishment to-night—a fine house 
 I shall have—fourteen little boys at the gallery doors 
 already—about half-past four, a messenger arrived 
 with a letter—‘eh ! what’s this—a letter—immediate 
 —let me see—beautiful house I shall have—eh! 
 what’s here—ill—can’t act for a few nights—eh! 
 run, run, all the establishment, every one of you, 
 scour the country round ; yet stay, I have it, I’ll 
 write to him. Messenger the second, was despatched 
 l after messenger the first; the house was rapidly fill* 
 
60 
 
 YATES’ REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ing; the box doors thundered with—fifty-first com¬ 
 panies. At last, messenger the second arrived, in a 
 hackney coach, and with him the Great Alternative. 
 ‘My dear sir, pretty situation I’m in, here’s a fine 
 house, you will play Richard, won’t you?’ ‘Pray, 
 sir, why have I been sent for in this manner—-lead 
 the way to my dressing room: (Imitation of Mac- 
 ready) the Manager followed, you will play Richard 
 to-night, wont you; there’s an excellent house?’ ‘I 
 can’t.’ ‘You could if you would.’ ‘I cannot, I’ll 
 play Hamlet, if you like; ‘Angels and ministers of 
 grace!’ I cannot do it, why did you send for me, I 
 have not got a dress.’ ‘ A dress, oh ! run all the es¬ 
 tablishment, send ’em all; carpenters, scene-shifters, 
 down to the fireman, run for a dress.’ ‘ A messenger 
 was instantly despatched for the dress, and shortly 
 made his appearance with a bundle.’ ‘Ah! here’s 
 iny crook-leg, my back—Now is the winter,’—you 
 are making me too crooked behind; ‘Made glorious 
 summer by this son of York.’ ‘Beautiful! bravo! 
 you’ll play it finely, I know you will.’ ‘Unless that 
 madman leaves the room, I will not dress.’ ‘Well, 
 my dear sir, I’m going, but you’ll play it well, you 
 will indeed.’ ‘ Shut the door, is he gone ; now let’s 
 see—ah! there’s my Garter—there’s my George— 
 where’s my—oh ! merciful powers, where’s my wig! 
 he has forgot my wig.’ The Manager rushed in and 
 caught him round the neck, saying, ‘ play the first 
 act without a wig.’ 
 
 I cannot resist my inclination to tell you a little 
 anecdote, that occurred to me, on a visit to Paris, 
 some time since. A friend of mine requested me to 
 bring her a Queen’s metal tea-pot, an article that 
 could not be procured, on that side the water, for 
 ‘ love or money.’ I purchased one, however ; took 
 my place in the Mail, from the Angel Inn, and ar¬ 
 rived at Dover; old Wright said, at seeing it—s*r, 
 you will never be able to get that over, it’s prohibited ; 
 and, old Wright was seldom ivrong; however, a 
 thought struck me, which I determined to put in 
 
YATES’ REMINISCENCES* 
 
 61 
 
 tice. Upon going on board the Packet, a French¬ 
 man, who had come in the Mail with me from Lon¬ 
 don, and who was taking notes every five minutes, 
 stared at me with astonishment. Arrived at Calais, 
 I debarked, tea-pot in hand. ‘Messieur, it is impos¬ 
 sible you to land that tea-pot.’ 4 Sir, I’m very ill, if 
 you take this from me, you kill me.’ 4 Ah ! Mes¬ 
 sieur, I am sorry, but I must take your tea of de pot.’ 
 4 Ah ! Monsieur, if you take this from me, you take 
 my life, it is my antidote, my arsnic, my hellabore.’ 
 4 Ah ! pauvre man, I dare say you eat it, you are very 
 much ill-looking man ; I believe you, I ’tink you live 
 upon de poison, I pity you very mosh ; you shall go, 
 Monsieur, and drink your hell-of-a-bore;’ So l got 
 clear off with my pot, and conveyed it safe to inM 
 friend at Paris, who, I make no doubt, has it sale® 
 this day. JH 
 
 Whilst in Paris I was much amused ; about a'H; 
 afterwards, on going into a Coffee-house, by a Fr^H 
 man, who the moment he saw me, jumpt up,^B 
 catching me by the hand, exclaimed, 4 Ah ! mon di<® 
 how glad I have found you, mon ami, my dear frier® 
 how much happy I am to see you again.’ ‘Indeed, 
 sir, you do me honour, but I don’t recollect you.’— 
 4 Ah ! a ! you don’t recollect, ha ! you have been at 
 Calais?’ 4 Yes, sir, several times.’ 4 Ah! ha! se¬ 
 veral times; oh! mon dieu, what Calumels I have 
 suffered upon your account; you shall recollect me; 
 you travel with tpa-pot, eh ! Monsieur.’ I now recol¬ 
 lected my companion in the Mail and in the Packet. 
 4 When I travel widg you, I was taking note, for 
 make a book, and I put down Englishman so very 
 fond of tea, he always travel widg tea-pot in his hand, 
 and nobody believe me.’ 
 
 A few days after this, as Fact and myself were 
 walking down the Strand, and under his arm a rich 
 silk umbrella, which I believe he purchased for Mr. 
 Damper, as it did not rain, I saw come out of the 
 Chelsea Stage, which had just stopped, that careful 
 actor, on and off the stage, the original Crack, the 
 
YATES* REMINISCENCES. 
 
 m 
 
 only Old Dornton ; there he was, with his old cottcn 
 umbrella, which I again beheld for the hundredth 
 time : the moment I saw him, I said to Fact, ‘there 
 he is, don’t you know him?’ ‘Why, bless my sdul, 
 yes; how I am disappointed, I never saw him out of 
 his blue and silver.’ ‘ Yes, (said I) but he has quitted 
 the stage.’ ‘Yes, I know it, I saw him get out and 
 pay the fare.—How do you do, sir, (said Fact, address¬ 
 ing the veteran) as you have* quitted the stage, a * 
 should like to have some token, some small article as 
 a f einernbrance of you, as a kind of memento.’ The'" 
 eccentric comedian, with that expressive roll of the ?f) 
 eye, which is so peculiar to himself, seeing Fact’s tim- 
 ella, immediately struck the balance between siik 
 d cotton, and replied, ‘ Well, sir, suppose we ex- 
 ge umbrellas.’ 
 
 ng once in company with several of our first- 
 actors, some of w hom spoke in degradation of 
 ktion, I ventured to say that every actor was more 
 less an imitator, and their best study was nature.— 
 conversation then took the following turn :—A 
 
 gentleman, a public character, spoke to me as fol¬ 
 
 lows : (Imitating Young) £ I say, my dear fellow, 
 think your imitation of me is good, very good ; amaz¬ 
 ingly like at times, but you fall into an error; you re¬ 
 present me as having a lisp, now I have no lisp, have 
 I, Charles?’ (Imitating Macready) ‘ I have no ob¬ 
 jection to your imitating me, 1 think it is tolerably 
 good ; but you always depict me as a mannerist; 
 now, if there is any thing l despise more than one 
 thing else, it is mannerism—Oh ! I detest it.’ 
 
 THEATRICAL FUND DINNER. 
 
 The Theatiical Fund, is the Fund for me, 
 
 Where all brother Actors are meeting ; 
 
 I’m at home with my friends, when I’m there d’ye see, 
 I am fond, yes, I’m fond of good eating. 
 
 The bottles and glasses we too push about, 
 
 Good Burgundy, Champaigne, and Claiet; 
 
TATES* REMINISCENCES. 
 
 We drain, yes, we drain the bottles clean out, 
 
 ♦Till the spirit mounts up in our garret. 
 
 Theatrical Fund—Theatrical Fund Dinner ? Turn 
 to the right ? Waiter! take my hat and coat, and 
 mind and keep them distinct from the chairman. I 
 say, sir, do you know who that was ? No, sir. Who 
 is that ? Claremont, Well, there is some people one 
 longs to see—Who is that, sir P ^ Jones. That. 
 Blanchard. That? Yates. Who’s that, sir? That s 
 the Anaconda, sir. Dear me, I heard it was drowned, 
 Ah! in the Serpentine of course; nevermind, sir. 
 Claremont can play it next season. Why, sir. Be¬ 
 cause he is so very great in Snake . Well, I have 
 !ooked into two hundred and two plates, and can’t sec 
 my name. Have you looked into the tureens ? No, 
 sir, I’d advise you to go round again. I beg your 
 pardon, sir, but I’m a country gentleman, from the 
 other side of Harford ; I’d thank you to point me out 
 King Lear. I will, sir, the moment he enters the 
 room, depend upon it. Hang those clarionets, they 
 almost stun one. Yes, sir, they are the loudest we 
 could get, we’ve tried all London for’em. Indeed S 
 pray what are they playing now. Sweet Isabel!, sir. 
 Sweet as-a-bell! I’m sure it’s enough to crack one’s 
 
 rs—Fray, sir, who is that fat happy looking man. 
 ne, sir. Who is that dismal, melancholy looking 
 man. He’s a composer, sir, his name is Jolly. It’s 
 half past seven, I wish the chairman would come; I 
 jread peremptory in the 4 Herald'—“he was sure to 
 come—-I’m very hungry—I’ve eat all my bread. Yes, 
 sir, and the greatest part of mine. The chairman ! 
 chairman ! strike up. Those clarionets again. Pray^ 
 sir, is this what you call a Shakspeare Jubilee. No, 
 sir, it’s a mere charity. Oh! and I suppose those 
 gentlemen with white wands, have been beating the 
 bounds. Now then—get your plates ready—here’s 
 the soup—the moment the chairman is down, I’ll 
 help you—now then, is he down ? No, not yet now 
 S *~now he’s down—here, sir, soup—take some of those 
 
tates’ reminiscences. 
 
 *4 
 
 balls—I beg your pardon, stop a minute—I will thank 
 you to let me get my elbows in, then I can eat to— 
 
 At the real Theatrical Funu, sir. 
 The song it goes round, and round d’ye see, 
 
 ’Till our patrons, o’erjoyed with pleasure ; 
 
 Drink a health to the sons of true harmony, 
 
 In a full, in an o’erflowing measure. 
 
 Mr. Broadhurst joins Mr, Pyne in a glee, 
 
 Mr. Fawcett in black, Duruset in blue; 
 
 That’s Taylor there, if clear I can see, 
 
 And Sinclair the next but two. 
 
 Quite delighted to see all Shakspeare’s children 
 collected together in black silk stockings and small 
 clothes ; there’s not a branch of the Theatrical Tree 
 wanting. Yes, sir, every stick of an Actor is here. 
 Silence ! for a toast from the chair. The King, with 
 three; hip, hip, hip, huzza—Now for a song—now 
 you’ll hear Broadhurst sing Gdd save the King for the 
 first time. What! did he never sing it before.— 
 Waiter! ask that gentleman to take wine with me. 
 This, sir? No. This? No—Yes, (bows, etc .)— 
 There’s the ladies, bless’em, up in the gallery—ele¬ 
 vated above us. Never mind, we shall be elevated 
 enough after dinner. There, that’s Dignum. In¬ 
 deed ! what is he doing. Doing-—what he always is 
 doing—singing i Sally in our Alley’ to his own White 
 Waistcoat. Here they come for the subscriptions. 
 Well, I don’t care, I’m ready. Will you allow me, 
 
 sir, to put you down for-Yes, sir, a guinea. What 
 
 name, sir ? D., plain D., sir, no pomp. Will you 
 
 allow me-Yes, sir, I have no objection to decorous 
 
 hilarity. What name, sir ? Give me the pencil, I’ll 
 set it down myself. What on earth has he written. 
 I’ll read it you : one who has no objection to go to a 
 play that has been in the hands of the Licenser, but 
 would dij in defence of a Jumper, 10s. 6 d. Pray, sir, 
 is this what you call a full meeting? Yes, sir, I 
 should think so, if you had seen tnem eat— 
 
 At the real Theatrical Fund, sir 
 
tATES* REMINISCENCES* 
 
 What a pleasure it is to be seated with those, 
 
 Who applaud you for eating and drinking .; 
 
 At least I think so, and every one knows, 
 
 There can be no harm in thinking. 
 
 When the tables are spread, for dinner, you see 
 Good humour in faces abound ; 
 
 The Actor he smiles, and he shows by his glee, 
 
 That his heart is now jocund. 
 
 Silence ! for a speech from Mr. Fawcett—What 
 is that Fawcett ? well, I always thought he wore a 
 red waistcoat. A red waistcoat ? Yes, I saw him 
 once play Thornbury , and he made a great piece 
 o’work about his waistcoat. Silence! for Fawcett. 
 Waiters! leave the room. Mr. Chairman, and gen¬ 
 tlemen! Before the Ark, plays were by no means 
 common ; in the dark ages there were no stage lights; 
 in Oliver Cromwell’s time the soldiers were actors to 
 a man ; Serjeant Higgins was great in Corporal Foss ; 
 at the time of the Reformation, the scene began to 
 mend, and I have the honour to announce a donation 
 of fifty pounds from General Smallshot, and to pro¬ 
 pose the health of the proprietors. Very well, bravo, 
 Fawcett. I rise, gents., to propose the health of the 
 stewards, who have so handsomely provided for us on 
 this occasion. Hip, hip, hip, hurra. Sir, the next 
 time you hip, hip, I’d thank you to do it with an 
 empty glass; look at my white waistcoat, all over 
 Port Wine, like a ship at a christening. Who*s to re¬ 
 turn thanks for the stewards ? Dignum must. No I 
 can’t, I’m one of the musical brethren, you know.— 
 Mathews must. Me, no I can’t do it. Yes you must. 
 Well, if I must, gents., unused as I am to public speak¬ 
 ing-Ha, ha, come, tha’t will do, Charles-you 
 
 must take the will for the deed, and all I^can say is, 
 that my heart is as full as my glass, both bumpers, 
 with which I’ll do myself the honour of drinking the 
 health of the present company. Well, if I had been 
 called upon to return thanks, I should merely say, 
 Pm glad to see you all, God bless you. (Imitatioifc 
 
 F 2 
 
m 
 
 YATES* REMINISCENCES. 
 
 vf Blanchard, Young, Macready, Braham, awc/Mun- 
 den.) I say it is rather late, Lady Pattypan’s gone, 
 she always goes out the moment Mathews has sung. 
 What, sir, has Mathews sung ? Yes, he sung when 
 you went out to ma&e interest for another bottle of 
 Claret. Psha! Pve missed it again, came on pur¬ 
 pose to hear him sing ; it happened the same to me 
 last year, I never am to hear him sing; I leave Eng¬ 
 land to-morrow. Well, I have been quite delighted 
 *—seen Chapman without his spectacles, and Clare¬ 
 mont vyithout a wig—I’ll come again next year.-- 
 
 Waiter, my accoutrements, No. 38—a hat, a great 
 coat, a pair of Goloshes, and a riding whip. Wh y, 
 that gentleman ought to have his luggage weighed. 
 
 Such are my etchings—such my reminiscences—* 
 upon telling my friends that / intended to bring them 
 before you, Mr. Damper said he had his apprehen¬ 
 sions ; Mrs. Pry said she had heard of me, nothing 
 more, eh?—the Adelphi—-reduced to one actor— 
 Terry and Yates have sold off the rest, eh ? Mr. Fact 
 said, what! sold off the actors,/never heard of that 
 before. Mr. Sanguine was sanguine indeed, he en¬ 
 couraged me—to be sure, my hoy, never give up—see 
 it all—one on the stage, many before it—see it all— 
 must answer—never give up. Nor will /ever give up, 
 while encouraged by you ; lor let me hope you will 
 receive in good nature, what was etched in good na^ 
 tore—and, rely upon it, while honoured with your 
 approbation, my study will he to render my etchings, 
 finished engravings in your good opinion .—[Curtain 
 falls.] 
 
 FINIS: 
 
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