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The mansion was an ancient-looking ruin, A lone, unshapely, moss-clad, tottering tower;

And, certes, ne'er romantic artist drew one Half so expressive of time's awful power. The lady ne'er could think upon a new one, Though many a hint she got from wind

and shower,

And though the garret seem'd inclin'd to pitch in

Some sudden visit to the inviting kitchen.

No wish had he to hunt the fox or hare, He thought, with me, that there was something rude in't;

But, when he got his lands, another care His mind pursued, more rational and prudent:

In short (though you may laugh) he did repair

Back to his native town-became a student

And fagged as hard as if he meant to purchase

The pulpit of the richest of our churches.

He studied at the King's, or Alton, College, To which, for certain reasons, he was partial;

Not that it whets, with better hone, the

dull age

Of nature's witty weapon than the Marischal :

In both, the file-like discipline of know

ledge,

To fine poetic feelings must be harshall:
However, as I took degrees in neither,
I shall not venture to enlarge on either.
Soon was his mind imbued with classic
learning,

And soon he scann'd the page of Greek and Latin,

For which his bowels ay began a yearning Whene'er the cock proclaim'd the winter matin.

Think well of this, Collegians! whose discerning

Is bounded to the skill of silk and satin.— I've known, in En'bro', students leave a lecture,

Wise as the daws that build in th' architecture.

In mathematics he fell very deep,
And could have written lemma well, or
scholium ;

He had, besides, a philosophic heap
Of instruments, as compass-quadrant-

column.

He knew if tides would turn out spring

or neap,

Without applying to that annual volume Hight Almanack, and sometimes Paddy's Watch,

In which the times, before they come, we catch.

Moreover, he'd some inkling of astrology. And used, at times, a powerful logic ham

mer ;

He read the arguments upon theology, And echoed each polemic's noisy clamour; He could repeat the table of chronology, Without one hesitation, stop, or stammer: In short, his knowledge was a mental olio, Whose very index would fill up a folio.

But oft his wits would go to gather wool; Sometimes his wisdom was obscure and hazy;

The first would make him blunder like a fool,

The second made most people think him crazy;

Too busy now to let his dinner cool, And then to eat it, while 'twas warm, too lazy

Mistaking for a mushroom some large fungus,

And calling good tobacco-mere mundungus!

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Time now had plough'd some furrows

o'er his forehead,

And from his cheeks had stol'n the youth

ful roses;

Yet there was nothing in his aspect horrid, As maybe some young lady now supposes. The promontory of his face not torrid, Like those who smear with claret their

red noses.

Gaunt, though athletic-muscular, though

meagre,

With sharp, grey eyes—expressive, quick, and eager.

Full forty years he kept beneath his tiles, His study being as a cell or prison is, And seldom walking farther than two miles,

So much was he immured in musty busi

ness.

At length, one night, seduced by Luna's smiles,

His brain was seiz'd with some romantic dizziness;

And he resolv'd to quit his hermit desk, And wander forth to view the picturesque!

There's no accounting for the whims of people,

Especially at sixty; when the mind, Though creeking like the vane upon a steeple,

Turns with the various shiftings of the wind.

Dan Duffe, upon the thought of this, did sleep ill,

Until he had resolv'd what he design'd; To visit town and city—plain and mountain

Church, palace, ruin, cataract, and fountain.

For this, he dress'd himself from top to toe, More spruce and sprig than any far or

near;

His shirt-a little whiter then the snow, With a fine ruff that reach'd from ear to

ear;

His hat had been a new one long ago;
Its shape and colour making it appear
Of such a fashion as we now make sport on,
But famous in the days of Regent Morton.

His jerken was of velvet, richly garnished
With very fine embroidery of gold;
Grand in its day, though now a little tar-
nished,

Because it really was a little old:

His velvet vest had buttons finely varnished

By his old aunt (if we believe what's told :)

Besides, his knees were nicely trimm'd with buckles,

And frills reach'd from his wristband to his knuckles.

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Though fading mem'ry may have fail'd, or trick'd your

Ideas into error.-He, amaz'd, Stood for a moment, and, with careless stricture,

Beheld the varied scene of calm and bustle, And in a grin half-rais'd his labial muscle.

He pass'd the old cathedral, in whose yard

His parents lay :-he walk'd round to the portal

He shook its iron ribs-in vain-'twas barr'd,

As if it would not ope to living mortal. Between the balustrades he studied hard To see the epitaphs, much of a sort all: He read his parents-aunt-and then"Here lies"

Bless me! his mistress!-sorrow, groans, and sighs.

He pass'd the College, with its pretty towers;

"Twas silent, dull, and drear, beyond expression :

In various seasons we have various flowers, And buds of science bloom not till the

session :

And, though your pilgrims often chose a

cavern,

Ours, near the bridge of Dee, sits in a

tavern.

Next Canto shall be rife with scenes of beauty,

He pass'd his father's house, where youth. Sublimity, and grandeur; mountains,

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All these he pass'd; yet no one human face

Saw he, remembering to have seen before! Nor word spoke he, since he began to trace

His pilgrim journey from his castle door. Alas! how soon the men of dust give place

To their own frail epitomes! fourscore Is foreign in the town of its nativityWho then would wish for wearisome longevity?

What is our life? some call it a poor play, Fill'd with strange scenes of happiness and sorrow :

Methinks 'tis but a short and varied day, Begirt by yesterday and by to-morrow. This thing I know; we're always made repay

To Mem❜ry, what from Hope we beg and borrow;

We ask the time before it is our own, And never know its presence-till 'tis

flown.

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plains,

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Which we've collected for our future strains;

Meantime, we think it our especial duty To thank the reader for his patient pains: The muse is tir'd and jaded; so I'll stop her,

And you may do whatever you think proper.

LONDON THEATRICAL CORRESPONDENCE.

London, 1st January.

I DARE say, Mr Editor, some of your readers, from my late taciturnity, fancy I am dead. Two months without a theatrical letter from one who seems to have so much pleasure in writing about plays, play-houses, and players! Nothing but the silence of the grave could have made him silent! Then, as to the mode and manner of my death, the conjectures will have been various, no doubt: perhaps dead of disappointment, having taken to the stage myself, and finding I can do no better than Mr Barnard or Mr Penley: perhaps squeezed to death in the crowd, on the re-opening of Drury-Lane Theatre; or perhaps shot in a duel with my friend (or rather enemy) Mr Atkins, of nose notoriety, and who, it may be remembered, (as I take all responsibility upon myself, and thereby lighten the burden of the Editor,) sent me a challenge, because I compared him, in this respect only, to Lord Monboddo and Tom Paine. knew very well that Mr Atkins had been entrusted by the Manager of Covent-Garden with a pistol, when he played one of Macheath's companions in the " Beggars' Opera ;" but I did not know that he would entrust himself with one in a duel, recollecting what an unmissable mark his nose must be, especially in profile. I almost wish I had accepted his " daring to the field," for since

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my refusal, I find that he threatens lustily, and I am of Seneca's opinion in Thyestes,

Pejor est bello timor ipsc belli. In the mean time, whatever course Mr Atkins may think fit to take, let him console himself with the follow ing stanza, from the Opere Burlesche of Berni, one of the merriest fellows of his day, and who thus answered a man who found fault with his "nasal promontory:"

"I have a nose, you say, and very true it is;

A glorious, hook'd, capacious kind of one! Many would give me very large annuities But for a quarter of it-for they've none. I own myself, that bigger far than two it is; But all that you can say when you have done,

Is like a hollow drum, that I can thump it; And for my fame I need no other trumpet!"

I would give the original, but I doubt if Mr A. understands Italian. For his benefit, (not his theatrical benefit,) and because it is in English, I will transcribe here a curious passage from an old play, called "Ram Alley," written more than two hundred years ago, by one Barrey.

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His chops of mutton in his dish of por: ridge."

I leave Mr A. to apply this quotation, and to determine whether his be a Tuscan nose," much like a goose," or a "valiant, generous nose." If I were to decide, I should certainly say the latter;-whichever it be, he may truly say with the parodist of King David

"My nose, the glory of my face," &c. However, I have now pretty nearly run my friend's nose off its legs, (for Mr A.'s are not so much the legs of his body as his nose), and for the present I must quit this very exten

sive subject. How I shall be able to pacify Mr Atkins I know not, especially if it be true, according to the Latin epigrammatist, that Nasus est sedes ira.

Let it satisfy the reader, then, to learn, that I am yet in the land of the living, and it satisfies me to know, that, during the interval in which I have been silent, very little has been gone at either of our great theatres worth saying much about. At Covent-Garden, indeed, the Manager has produced two new pieces, and one new performer. The first of these was a comic opera, called "Maid Marian," founded upon a novel of the same name, and got up, as is asserted, by the same author. There was nothing new in it, but ingenuity in the adaptation to the stage and the music, by which it was set off to great advantage. We might just as well criticise the novel as the play, there was so little difference between them; and the novel

has been some time in the hands of all

There was certainly a good deal of readers of productions of that kind. life and entertainment in the piece, and the acting and singing of Miss M. Tree (in breeches, as usual,) made it go off very pleasantly. C. Kemble also accomplished much for it: when he does not go out of his way, and strive to attain what is beyond his power and capacity, he is more than a respectable actor. I am his attempting Coriolanus, Brutus, glad to hear nothing further about Cato, Hamlet, Macbeth, &c.; parts which, it was threatened at the opening of the winter theatres, he would assume: indeed he tried Hamlet once, and only once.

This reminds me of an anecdote told of another of my theatrical friends, Mr Claremont. "Well, Mr Claremont," said John Kemble to him one day, "where have you been during the summer?" "I have been performing in the country."

"Where, pray, Mr Claremont, and what parts?" "Why, Sir," replied Claremont, advancing, as on the stage, one manly leg, "at Oakhampton I played Macbeth

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at Dunstable, Coriolanus-and at Spinham-Lane, Hamlet, twice.""What! Mr Claremont," cried John, "Hamlet twice-twice in one place?"

After this incident it was that Kemble advanced Mr Claremont to the rank of the Duke in Romeo and Juliet, a character he has always since represented with great applause.

A tragedy, under the title of "The Huguenot," was also brought out at Covent-Garden. The style of the language may be instantly guessed from the fact, that it was written by Mr Shiel, an Irish young gentleman, who had the advantage, in his former productions, to be assisted by the rare talents of Miss O'Neil. Her place was now supplied by Miss F. H. Kelly, (I beg her pardon if I do not give her initials correctly,) the new actress to whom I alluded. She is a young lady of very considerable ability; but in the London papers and magazines, she has been injudiciously over-rated. She first came out with great success as Juliet; then she played a part in "The Huguenot," and, lastly, she appeared as Rutland in "The Earl of Essex." The last character did not please the public as much as was expected, and Mr Shiel's tragedy is already among the dead, though it had the good fortune to escape being among the damned. The story was romantic, more fit for a melo-drama than a tragedy; but some of the incidents were offensive, though a good deal knowledge of stage-effect was displayed in the situations. Mr Shiel would write much better could he once be persuaded that highly-wrought, but common-place similes do not belong to dramatic poetry, if indeed they belong to any poetry at all. Mr Macready (who was announced as "from a tour in Italy") supported the principal male character very ably: he has since done very little.

The head Manager and "sole Lessee of the Theatre-Royal DruryLane," has brought out no new piece, excepting an Opera, the title of which is of little importance, (though quite as important as either the dialogue or music,) and a farce, for the purpose of introducing Miss Clara Fisher," the infant prodigy," to the audience of a winter house. Of her I have before spoken, and it is judiciously stated in the bills, that she is only engaged "for children's parts." Braham sung in the Opera, but he could not do every thing.

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Of the respective merits of Kean and Young, who have at length appeared on the London boards together, I should be inclined to say more, if my sheet were not so nearly filled. It is the less necessary, however, not only because they are both so well known, but because I have seen no criticism upon them, from the penny "Theatrical Observer," up to the three and six-penny "New Monthly," that is not, in general, very judicious: the styles of these two actors are extremely different, and the distiuctions obvious. Othello is the only tragedy in which they have been pitted against each other, and there they can hardly be said to have been fairly pitted in "fearful opposition," because the leading characters are so totally dissimilar. Kean has played Othello, and Young only lago, whereas if they had changed parts on alternate nights, a judgment might have been better formed on their respective talents. I freely admit with, I believe, the public at large, the superiority of Kean; but I think undue fault has been found, in some quarters, with Young's lago, on the score that he makes the villany too glaring and obtrusive. Shakespeare clearly meant these two persons to be contrasted; the generosity and openness of Othello was to be set off by the low-mindedness and wilyness of lago; and on our stages, as at present constructed, the distinction must be made broadly, or it will not be perceived at all. The error is, when a clumsy actor makes the character of Iago appear so hideously deformed, that even Othello could not mistake it. I deny that Mr Young went so far as this, though perhaps, to one or two of the questions he put to Othello, he gave rather too much emphasis. On the whole, his may be pronounced the best Iago on the stage, excepting Kean's, and it is a real treat to see their strength combined in the support of so magnificent a tragedy.

Ben vi siete accoppiate, io giurerci.“
London, 6th January.

The following most important bulletin has just been published in all the newspapers. The subject to which it relates is of such deep interest, that I cannot omit it: it is en

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