Let the four first acts be taken up with tears and pocket-handkerchiefs; but, in act fifth, let the scene be a prison, no matter where---time, no matter what. Let your hero be seen pacing the floor of his prison; and, above all, let the chains clank. After this, let the door grate on its rusty hinges (the hinges should always be rusty), and the heroine turn in to the hero, like Coleridge's Christabelle, with three paces and a stride.' Moreover, let her faint in his arms, as it will save much valuable conversation, which may be transferred to your next farce. After this, you may let her recover, and acquaint the audience (at least those who are awake) that she has come to die with her lover. Then let the scene change to a gallows, with gong-bells, muffled drums, war-hoops, Jews'-harps, &c. &c. all roaring away, like a fish-woman. Then enter Jack Ketch, with a song, followed by two lictors, the Reis effendi, and an executioner, with an axe sticking out of his coat-pocket. This consistency of character will have an electrical effect, on the well-known principle of omne ignotum pro magnifico.' After this procession has passed three times across the stage, let the hero station himself on the scaffold, and Jack Ketch approach him with the white night-cap. At this insult, the hero will, of course, rouse himself---tip Jack a blackeye---kiss the heroine, till the whole theatre rings with the smack---and then die, as many a tragedy has died before him---still-born and sentimental." TOBIAS. Our eighth correspondent, Gentlemen, signs himself "Damon,” and has dropped into our box a pastoral, which the two first lines will, I think, sufficiently condemn : "How beautiful the country do appear ALLEYN. Really, Mr. President, this last poetical morceau is too touching, too overpowering---I must digest it with a glass. Here, Jonathan, a fresh bottle from the lower bin; and mind, whatever you do, keep it steady. The last was too much shaken. OMNES. Hear him---hear him! (exit Jonathan.) TOBIAS. Gentlemen, I must once more request your attention; but as our contributions are numerous, pouring in from all parts of the country, I shall content myself with simply repeating their titles. To begin then here are "Lines on a dead Jack-Ass, by Sterne Redivivus." "Thoughts suggested by a Dish-clout." "Stanzas on a Post-boy, by Vindex." "Impromptu on seeing a cup of Coffee thrown into a Lady's Work-bag." "Meditations on a Tooth-brush." "Stanzas, by Juvenis." "The Adventures of a Rambler." 66 'Highways and Byeways, or Tales of Newgate, by a Foot-pad." "Cursory Reflections on a Gnat-bite." "Ditch-water, a didactic Poem." "Tales of "" OMNES. Stop, for God' ssake! or we shall all expire under this infliction. TOBIAS. As you please; but here comes Jonathan (Enter JONATHAN with a cobwebbed bottle, and a cork-screw in his hand); so avec permission, Gentlemen, I will just dictate polite dismissals to these unsuccessful correspondents, with compliments to the authors of "Life in the City," and " Receipt for brewing a Tragedy," and then---Hey for the lower bin, and the "Round Table" for ever. OMNES. Huzza! the Literary Magnet (bless its sweet face) and the Round Table for ever! (Scene closes with the President dictating circulars to JONATHAN, in the background; CLUTTERBUCK quizzing ALLEYN, in the front; and OAKLEY just waked from a nap by certain hissing sounds symptomatic of a rush or gushing forth of something-probably of Port wine.) SUBJECT OF THE PLATE, FROM LORD BYRON'S CORSAIR. STANZA XII. He slept in calmest seeming-for his breath Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace? Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, And once unclosed---but once may close again. That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided With shape of fairy lightness---naked foot, mute. THE ALBUM. No. I. THE Album! Well: what Album? Why, Sir, My Aunt's Album. And, pray Sir, what has your, or any other man's, Aunt's Album to do with the Literary Magnet? Ay, "there's the rub," that is the very question I expected. You editors are such inquisitive gentlemen, that you are never satisfied until you have got at the bottom of every thing. Well, well, you shall be told the history of MY AUNT'S ALBUM. You must know then, Sir, that there is, as there are many others about one-and-twenty miles from London, on the great north road, just at the rising of one hill and at the foot of another, a long dirty lane hedged on both sides, and with deep cart-rucks in the middle; the course of which lane, trodden with due caution through all its windings, will, after an hour and a half's good (I should say bad) walking, bring you out to a sweetsmelling clover-field: across which are two foot-paths, one of which leads to a certain village. At the extremity of this village, enclosed in a green paling with a pair of modern gates, surrounded by a garden, or, as my aunt loves to term it, a fine plantation, stands my uncle's house-named from the colour of the palisades Verd Cottage; though in exact opposition to the will of my uncle, who had set his heart upon christening it Corinth House, from a merchandise to which he owed a considerable part of his wealth. My uncle is a plain sensible man, verging towards 60-not over troubled with politeness (his share of which, as he jocosely observes, is the worse for the wear); clear at accounts, having some knowledge of the stocks, and good at back-gammon. My aunt, who is five years younger, and does her best to appear twenty, is the youngest daughter of the youngest son of a half-pay colonel, supposed to be descended from a gentle (if not noble) family; and whenever my uncle has ventured to hint his disapprobation of certain riotous assemblages held in his house at Austin Friars, termed balls, where his least inconvenience has been the replacing three or four pannels to the hall-door and divers baluster rails-not to mention the total loss (for the time) of all right of possession in his own house ---elbowed and sneered at by all the coxcombs from Tower Hill to Fleet Street,--when he has gently hinted his dislike to such goings on, this pride of birth, like Teucer's shield, has stood her in excellent stead. ""Tis not for us (meaning herself and daughters), 'tis not for us, Mr. Cinnamon, who have gentle blood in our veins, to do things like common citizens' wives: if you are getting too old to relish life, that is no reason why we, that are young, should be tired of it." This and such-like speeches, if they did not convince by their reason, at least vanquished by mere force and volubility of delivery. 'Twas an occasion like this that gave rise to the subject of this paper. My uncle being what lean ensigns and half-pay captains call "devilish warm in the buck-skin ;" and the wealthier cit, in snug circumstances; felt as elderly gentlemen, who have spent the first fifty years of their lives in trade, generally do---that it was time he had left the bustle of the city to live in quiet. He hinted as much to Mrs. C: who entered warmly into the idea, and proposed a house at the West End,---Old Brook Street or Cornwall Terrace; or, at the least, the lower end of Harley Street: she saw no reason---(not she)—why they might not support as handsome an establishment as Mrs. W- the proctor's lady. But my uncle, who saw VOL. III.-PART XVII. F to what all this tended, and who was as anxious to get rid of card-parties as of business, was determined (for once) to follow the bent of his own inclinations and, notwithstanding the entreaties, the scoldings, and the "What will the R.s say to it ?" together with the glum looks of the young ladies, he, after a fortnight's survey, pitched upon the spot, the way to which I have just described; and in another fortnight, maugre all the aforesaid and greater obstructions, my uncle found himself seated very comfortably in his easy arm-chair at the right-hand side of the fire-place in the kitchen, smoking his afternoon's pipe---my aunt having strictly interdicted the incense of tobacco from forming any part in the fumigation of her upper apartments. It was a Saturday evening---I had just entered on an errand from my aunt-the old gentleman was knocking out the ashes from his pipe preparatory to a fresh charge, when the post-boy's horn and a ring at the gate announced the arrival of a package from town. My uncle laid down his pipe, and after the ladies had disencumbered the box of its chief treasures---dresses and the newest fashions, &c. he proceeded to open a portentous-looking package for himself: it was no other than a journal, intended to be made after his own fashion, for a faithful entry of his domestic expenditure-Mr. Cinnamon understanding it was not genteel for people of quality to trouble themselves with those affairs. But too soon he discovered that the book in question was every thing but the thing he wanted; it was neither a journal nor a waste-book---neither fit for a counting-house nor kitchen---'twas neither so high as his counting-house roof, nor so wide as his ware-room door: but 'twas enough, it would not answer the purpose for which it was intended: and as it was paid for, from a bad debt, the question to be considered was, to what use it could be applied.---We all hazarded an opinion. My uncle, who heartily wished both the book and the man that made it at the devil, thought it would do famously for the coach-office: Miss Susan hinted curl-papers, to which Miss Amelia satisfied herself with objecting my aunt thought it served him right, and she should vote for burning it at once, that we might have the covers to roof in the new washhouse. 'Twas my ill fortune in jest to drop something about an album. An Album! (my aunt caught up the word)---an Album! why Mrs. W-- has an Album: an excellent thought! we'll have it covered with morocco and gold. Mr. C------, who loved peace, and was glad to find any use for his bargain, that might stay the motion of his wife's pendulum, gave up the contest after a few words indistinctly heard: among which were "ridiculous ward-mote book---register of folly ;" and this Goliath of Albums is to be installed with all the ceremony of a "Book of the Church:" myself having the honour of the first autograph---my aunt being at length convinced, from my lines on her birth-day, that I really possess more ability than she had been aware of. Now, Sir, as I have the least possible inkling for the honour she intends me, I have chosen your Magazine as the best calculated (it being read by the young ladies) to assist me in this my perilous situation, by rallying her from her ridiculous notion. You have nothing to do, Mr. Editor, but to tell her that it is vulgar---preposterously outre---and that she will do well to drop it before the W.s, who not keeping any but city company are ignorant of the movements of the ton. And I shall have to sign myself your debtor for ever. J. A. G. |