OCCASIONAL ADDRESS. Insolence genuine springs from nature's parts, Hence sprung new innovations, and from hence (Save when I play)-[Aside. ]-to Catalani's squall; For an Italian banish we to-night To tell"-you'll ever give" the devil his due!" your Το due; Firm our engagement, heavy our expense, 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 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." Then Eschylus rose, Sir, and made a great pother, 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, Fol de rol, &c. Then scenes were invented, and painted with skill, Till, at length, these same Arts were so powerful grown, Fol de rol, &c. In England, old Shakspeare, that foolish Art-hater, But our age of taste her authority spura'd, Foi de rol, &c. But SONG AND CHORUS. But we'll have revenge, and, out of pure spite, Fol de rol, &c. To complete the dame's downfall, if there should be any 249 Whose notes, so piano, o'er the old beldame's grave-o, But now, that John Bull to John Bull may speak plain, BY Fol de rol, &c. SONG AND CHORUS, MESSRS. HARRIS AND KEMBLE, AT [From the Morning Chronicle, Sept. 23.] J OHN Bull, don't huff, Of Shakspeare's stuff You must learn of th' Italiani; Nor reason nor rhyme Of the great Cat-Cat-Catalani. Chorus-John Bull, 't is not fit You should come to the pit And such-like vulgar blarney- But the tuneful squalls Of the great Cat-Cat-Catalani. M 5 THE NEW John |