OCCASIONAL ADDRESS.

Insolence genuine springs from nature's parts,
But Managers must court the finer arts.

Hence sprung new innovations, and from hence
That taste which immolates, for sound, good sense;
Dance, music, painting, pageantry, parade,"
And all that could the cause of nonsense aid.
Harris from Taylor "caught the spark;" the plan
Has turn'd the brain of that advent'rous man.
Our scene no longer, as in former years,
Shall call forth smiles or tributary tears
By British acting-Oh no! give way all

(Save when I play)-[Aside. ]-to Catalani's squall;
And when I die, Shakspeare, that scribbling elf,
Shall rest for ever ou the prompter's shelf.

For an Italian banish we to-night
Each British sentiment as weak or trite;
Let no contempt for an outlandish strain,-
Stale and worn out, be heard-'t will all be vain
"No naked truism be cloak'd anew

To tell"-you'll ever give" the devil his due!"
No-for this actor we applause bespeak,
Her voice is strong, although her cause is weak.
We know what should please best, what is
And this fine actress we 've engag'd for you

your

Το
pay; "while zealous as yourselves we stand,
To guard the staple genius of our land *."

due;

Firm our engagement, heavy our expense,
We rest our hopes upon your lack of sense;
What we bring forward, be it what it may,
Th' expense your extra shillings will defray:
So, if we should fall short, you'll sure be willing,
Another year, to add another shilling.

245

*This may appear somewhat inconsistent. Probably by "staple genius of our land," we are merely to understand Messrs. John and Charles Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. But inconsistency is of no consequence in an Address.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING
CHRONICLE.

SIR,

YESTERDAY evening, having taken my usual place in a much-frequented public room, not far from Covent Garden, I was a good deal amused by the conversation of the surrounding company, which consisted of more than twenty persons of different ages, and apparently such as are commonly called Gentlemen; that is to say, lawyers' clerks, shopkeepers, naval and military men on half-pay, a squire or two from the country, some five or six collectors of intelligence for the daily papers, and a few of such as are said to live by their wits. Among the latter, Mr. Editor, I class myself; and could you behold my threadbare coat and meagre limbs, you would scarcely dispute my title to the rank I assume.

At my entrance, and while I remained, a most astonishing variety of topics underwent discussion, at one and the same time, in voices equally loud, and each speaker seemingly addressing his observations to all

the rest..

This reminded me of a very pleasant paper in some part of Goldsmith's works, and suggested the thought of supplying your numerous readers with as accurate a report of this instructive conversazione, as it is in my power to give; in the humble hope, not only of contributing to their entertainment, but of transmitting to future generations (through the medium of a paper which will surely reach their hands), a sketch of the leading subjects that at present engage our attention in the capital of this enlightened country. "Upon my soul and oyster sauce-I cannot possibly conceive Catalani be d--d-a brown bitch-and a bad peace, which is worse than no peace at all-Lord Castlereagh, Mr. Canning, and Mr. Perceval-three th.....-an union of virtue-Castile soap-bad grammar, and

Tal

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.

247

Tal-Talleyrand-the Devil on Two Sticks written by-Sir Richard-who never eats any thing, exceptpale ink, and bluish paper-with mustard and a leetle Cayenne-Sir Williani Curtis-sailed-in a basin of turtle soup-like the man in the play-shadowed with laurels of which to my certain knowledge there are two kinds-in the Island of Walcheren-cursed-hard running-a famous cure for a bone-spavin-Lord Wellington-look in the Racing Calendar-neck and neck, by the Lord Harry-from Talavera-at the wrong side of the Morning Post-and Mrs. Clarke-turned tailon-at least one half of the Officers of the Guards-His Royal Highness-never struck a stroke-stakes downwill not do the scene of the highwaymen-when Lord Chatham came back-got in at Pit price with his finger in his mouth-along Pall Mall-and nothing but cries of, Off, off--turn him out-poor Mrs. Liston -as broad as it's long-sound sense-in the King'sa pretty period to talk of Merino sheep with brown hats on-pantaloons and pipes in their mouths-Bonaparte will play hell with such a Cabinet-of curiosities -fools-and an army of pickpockets-Heaven deliver us from-Ministers-and the property-tax."

If you like this specimen, and will please to insert shall have more another time from

it, you

Swan Tavern, near

St. Martin's Lane, Sept. 20.

SIR,

IT

PETER PUNCH.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.

T was with no small surprise that I read an Address in your paper of Tuesday last, stated to have been spoken on the preceding night. I have been very credibly informed, that, instead of any Address spoken, Mr. Kemble actually sung the following stanzas: and, from some of them being very appropriate to the pre

sent state of the Drama, I am inclined to think that my information is more correct than yours.

To the tune of“ When I was a servant in Rosemary Lane."
In Greece, we are told, that their barbarous actors
At first on a tumbrel perform'd their characters,
While the Muse, luckless damsel! beheld it with shame,
Vex'd to see her sons seeking such by-roads to fame.
Ful de rol, rol, &c.

Then Eschylus rose, Sir, and made a great pother,
With his sword in one hand, and his pen in the other;
And while from the former his enemies shrunk,
With the latter he scribbled his friends in a funk.

Yet this militant Poet so mended the age,

Fol de rol, &c.

That the tumbrel and cart soon gave place to the stage, Which, rear'd of rude planks, overspread the bare ground, Like a huge kitchen table, in midst of a pound.

Fol de rol, &c.

But not till old Sophocles rais'd up his head,
Had the Muse of the Drama a house or a shed;
For then first the builders a playhouse erected,
And poor devils of Greeks from the weather protected.
Fol de rol, &c.
The wiseacre Poets then first did discover,
That Punch would beat Poetry all the world over;
And therefore resolv'd, that their players should be
Dress'd spruce as a carrot, and lac'd cap-a-pee.

Fol de rol, &c.

Then scenes were invented, and painted with skill,
And every art courted the playhouse to fill;

Till, at length, these same Arts were so powerful grown,
That they up with their fists, and they knock'd Nature down.

Fol de rol, &c.

In England, old Shakspeare, that foolish Art-hater,
Succeeded in giving new life to poor Nature;

But our age of taste her authority spura'd,
Till, enrag'd at neglect, she our theatre burn'd.

Foi de rol, &c.

But

SONG AND CHORUS.

But we'll have revenge, and, out of pure spite,
We'll tip her a piece of her fav'rite's to-night;
And to show her our pow'r, if she does not now know it,
I'll warrant we'll murder both her and her Poet.

Fol de rol, &c.

To complete the dame's downfall, if there should be any
Strength wanting in us, we've engag'd Catalani;

249

Whose notes, so piano, o'er the old beldame's grave-o,
Shall sound through our house, till our house echo "Bravo!"
Fol de rol, &c.

But now, that John Bull to John Bull may speak plain,
Our house is expensive, and small is our gain.
Then is there among you one Briton not willing,
To see Nature murder'd, and pay the odd shilling?
Sept. 21.

BY

Fol de rol, &c.

SONG AND CHORUS,

MESSRS. HARRIS AND KEMBLE, AT
THEATRE, COVENT GARDEN.

[From the Morning Chronicle, Sept. 23.]

J

OHN Bull, don't huff,
You've had enough

Of Shakspeare's stuff

You must learn of th' Italiani;

Nor reason nor rhyme
You shall have next time,
But the squalls sublime

Of the great

Cat-Cat-Catalani.

Chorus-John Bull, 't is not fit

You should come to the pit
To bawl for wit,

And such-like vulgar blarney-
We'll have in these walls,
No more cat-calls,"

But the tuneful squalls

Of the great Cat-Cat-Catalani.

M 5

THE NEW

John