  Put out the light!” exclaimed Mr. Bonassus Bigstick, with a lugubrio-comic expression of countenance that might convulse a Trappist, to a pigeon-toed property-man and a duck-legged drummer, who were snuffing two farthing rushlights in the Proscenium. “Put out the light!” and straightway he pocketed the extinguished perquisite. We were retiring from the scene of Mr. Bigstick's glory in company with two lingering chimney-sweeps, who had left their brushes and brooms at the box door, when our progress was arrested by a tap on the shoulder from Uncle Timothy. “If you would explore the 'secrets of the prison-house,' I can gratify your curiosity, having an engagement with the great Tragedian to crush a mug of mum with him behind the scenes.” We were too happy to enjoy so novel a treat not to embrace the offer with alacrity. Mr. Big-stick welcomed us with a tragic hauteur, and carrying an inch of candle stuck at the extremity of Prospero's magic wand, lighted his party to the Green Room. As we passed along, the great Tragedian, who had the knack of looking everything into nothing, scowled an armoury of daggers at Harlequin, and Harlequin, if possible, looked more black than the Moor. On entering the sanctum sanctorum, Mr. Bigstick, striking an attitude and exclaiming “Cara Sposa! Idol mio!” introduced us to Teresa, the High-Dumptiness of St. Bartlemy, whom he dangled after like a note of admiration, he all mast, she all hulk; and when they parted, (with a Dolly Bull curtsy exquisitely fussy and fumy the Tumbletuzzy made her exit,) it was odd to see the steeple separated from the chancel. “Ten thousand times ten thousand pardons, most divine bard! but having sunned myself in the optics of Teresa, my own became eclipsed to every object less refulgent. Gentlemen,”—pulling forward a pipe-flourishing, porter-swigging personage who belonged quite as much to Bagfair as to St. Bartlemy, and looked as if he lived in everlasting apprehension of sibillations technically called, “Goose”—“Mr. Pegasus Bubangrub the Bartholomew Fair Poet, who may challenge all the Toby Philpots in Christendom to leap up to the chin into a barrel of beer, drink it down to his foot, and then dance a jig upon the top of it! Mr. Bubangrub edits a penny weekly; reports queer trials; does our Caravan libretto; answers my challenges; roasts my rivals, puffs his pipe—and Me! At present he is a mere dab-chick of literature; but let him start a rum name, and he shall cut the genteel caper, cut, too, his sky parlour, penny-a-lining and old pals; wonder, with amiable simplicity! what 'shooting the moon' can be, and diving for a dinner; and casting off his Toady's skin for the lion's, be feasted, flattered, paragraphed—'Purge, eat cleanly, and live like a gentleman!” Mr. Bubangrub bowed, and respectfully hinted that every kingdom has its cabals, not excepting the realm of actors and actresses. That to soothe their petty jealousies; check the too-aspiring ambition of one, tickle the self-complacency of another—to be grave with the tragic; funny with the comic; patient with the ignorant and presuming, and on terms of eternal friendship with all—to come off victorious on that slippery ground “Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry, Where infant punks their tender voices try, And little Maximins the Gods defy,” are difficulties that none but dramatic politicians of experience and discretion can surmount; and he advised every author to whom appetite offered a more powerful stimulant than genius, to make haste and possess himself of the important secret. Mine host of the Ram now entered with a curiously compounded mug of mum, in which the great Tragedian (who was not particular from Clos Vougeot to Old Tom) drank the Stage that goes with and without wheels. Mr. Bosky, who had got scent of our “Whereabouts,” arrived in time to propose the memory of Shakspere, and Mr. Bubangrub's longevity; Uncle Timothy gave Bonassus Bigstick and Bartlemy Fair; and Pegasus toasted the Tragic Muse and Teresa Tumbletuzzy. The Tragedian unbent by degrees; his adust countenance warmed into flesh and blood, and he grew facetious and festive. “Bubangrub, my Brother of the Sun and Moon! my Nutmeg of delight! give us a song!” The call was a command. To pitch the tune Pegasus twanged from his Jew's-harp a chord, and apologizing for being “a little ropy,” began, in a voice between a whistle and a wheeze, Ye snuff-takers of England Who sniff your pinch at ease, How very seldom you enjoy The pleasures of a sneeze! Give ear unto us smoking gents * And we will plainly shew All the joys, my brave boys! When we a cloud do blow. * In 1585, the English first saw pipes made of clay, among the native Indians of Virginia; which was at that time discovered by Richard Greenville. Soon after they fabricated the first clay tobacco-pipes in Europe. In 1604, James the First endeavoured, by means of heavy imposts, to abolish the use of tobacco; and, in 1619, wrote his “Counterblast” against what he accounted a noxious weed, and ordered that no planter in Virginia should cultivate more than one hundred pounds. In 1610, the smoking of tobacco was known at Constantinople. To render the custom ridiculous, a Turk, who had been found smoking, was conducted about the streets with a pipe transfixed through his nose! And in 1653, when smoking tobacco was first introduced into the Canton of Appenzell, in Switzerland, the children ran after the Smokers in the streets; the Council likewise punished them, and ordered the innkeepers to inform against such as should smoke in their houses.—In 1724, Pope Benedict XIV. revoked the bull of excommunication, published by Innocent, because he himself had acquired the habit of taking snuff!= The snuffer, buffer! raps his mull, His nose it cries out “Snuff!” The Smoker, Joker! puffs his full In this queer world of puff! The lawyer's gout is soon smok'd out;— If in the parsons toe It ends in smoke, say simple folk, Just ends his sermon so! The tippler loves his swanky, swipe; The prince, the peer, the beau, A pipe of wine—give me my pipe Of Backy for to blow! No pinch or draught drive care abaft From folks a cup too low, Like the joys, my brave boys! When we a cloud do blow. A penny-postman-like rap at the caravan door was answered by the great Tragedian with “'Open locks whoever knocks!'” And, as the unexpected visitor became visible, he added, “Tom Titlepage! as thou art Tom, welcome; but as thou art Tom and a boon companion, ten times welcome!” The Publisher's compromised dignity looked a trifle offended. He did not half relish being treated so familiarly. “An infernal business this, Mr. Bigstick! The devil waits—the press stands still!” “And why Tom, don't you? Here's a joint stool; sit down and quaff out of Lady Macbeth's gilt goblet. Egad you and the devil are in the nick of time to listen to and carry away such a Chapter of—” Mr. Titlepage. Draw it mild! Mr. Bigstick. As the moonbeams!—Gentlemen, lend me your ears; which, perhaps, you would rather do than your purses! Who steals mine, steals—what he will not grow inconveniently corpulent upon! The Tragedian began to rummage an ancient hair-trunk that looked as raggedly bald as his own scalp; dislodging sceptres, daggers, crowns, spangled robes and stage wigs. In Dicky Gossip's bob * he discovered what he sought for; a dirty, torn, dog's-eared disjecti membra. * Suett boasted a recherchÉ and extensive collection of stage wigs, comprising every variety, from the full-bottom, to the Tyburn bob; which unique assortment was unfortunately burned in a fire that happened at the Birmingham Theatre, on Friday, August 13, 1792. This loss gave rise to several smart epigrams, among which were the following. “'Twas sure some upstart Tory in his rigs, Who fir'd poor Suett's long-tail'd race of Wigs; Ah! cruel Tory, thus his all to take, Nor leave him one e'en for a hair-breadth 'scape.” “Raise your subscriptions, every free-born soul— Stript of his wigs—behold a suffering Pole” Dicky answered the doggrel, in a jingle of his own. “Well—well may you joke, who perhaps have a wig, But my loss is severe tho', for all this here gig; For if spouse is dispos'd or to wrangle or box, Alas! what will keep her from combing my locks? My fortune's too ruin'd, as well as renown, For in losing my wigs—I am stripp'd to a crown!” Opening the bundle, and selecting at random, he bespoke the company's attention to a fragment of “THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF BONASSUS, OR THE BIGSTICK MEMOIRS.”“All the world's a caravan! and all the gentlemen and ladies Lions and Tigresses! For if a man be neither dwarf nor giant, but an unhappy medium between the two—if he be not upon boxing terms with a whole menagerie, and will not fisty-cuff-it and roar for an engagement, dam'me! he may whistle for one!” Mr. Bigstick paused, glared ghastly terrible and ghostly grim. “Yes, I'm too tall for a wonderful monkey, and too good-natured for an intelligent bull-dog. I can't drink sangaree out of my father's skull, nor beat the big drum with the bones of my grandmother!” He then, after taking a deep draught at the mum, resumed his narrative. “I was articled to the law, and Pump Court was the pabulum where I began to qualify myself for Lord Chancellor. But fearful is the dramatic furor of attorney's clerks. My passion was not for bills of costs, but for bills of the play; I longed to draw, not leases, but audiences; as for pleas, my ambition was to please the town; and I cared nothing for Coke, while Shakspere's muse of fire warmed my imagination! Counsellor Cumming soon found his clerk going. I quitted the Court, leaving my solitary competitor the Pump to spout alone.” A personable fellow * (for whom any lady might be proud to jump into the Serpentine, the jury finding a verdict of manslaughter against my good looks, with a deodand of five shillings on my whiskers! ) 'I left my father's house, and took with me'—as much wardrobe as I could conveniently carry ow, and behind my back. * A very different looking personage to Mr. Bigstick must have been the unhappy young gentleman, aged twenty-two, (see the “Times” 21st March, 1835,) who killed himself by poison, and left this letter upon his table:— “I die a Catholic—I leave my mortal remains to my father and mother, regretting that they should have allowed the growth and development of a creature of so disagreeable a conformation as their son. Endowed with the most exquisite feelings, my face has always frightened the fair sex. I go to seek in Heaven a society which my aspect will not annoy; for I imagine that, freed from its carnal covering, my spirit will not dismay the inhabitants of the other world.” My first professional bow was in the Poor Gentleman, * and Raising the Wind, in a barn at Leighton Buzzard, where the Gods clambered up to the gallery by a ladder, through which many of the tippling deities could hardly see a hole! * Another link in the dramatic chain is broken. Arthur Griffinhoof has joined the jocund spirits of Garrick, Hoadly, and the elder George. Rejoice, ye witlings! for the lamp that dimmed your little farthing rushlights, Death, the universal extinguisher, has eclipsed for ever! Retailers of small talk, who fattened on the unctuous crumbs of conceit that fell from the merry man's table, make the most of your legacy: your master hath carried his Broad Grins to Elysium. Ye select few, who admired the wit and loved the man, mourn! Thanks to the ghastly monarch! for he hath been a forbearing creditor:—So large an amount of fun payable at sight, and George a septuagenarian! Three days' grace—three score and ten! A day of mirth will it be on Styx, when the ferryman rows over Mr. Merryman. Faith, Mr. Colman, you're a very droll man! What a coil attends the new comer! Churchill, Lloyd, Thornton, Garrick, all inquiring about the modern Dram. Pers.—“Ye jovial goblins,” quoth George, “a Dram, per se!” Whereupon Sam—not the lexicographer—marching forth his wooden leg, accepts, with an approving chuckle, the pun as Foote-ing, or garnish; they are hail spirit well met, and become as merry as ghosts. Life's a Jest; and a merrier one than thine, facetious George, Time shall not crack till the crack of doom. The stalls (the cart-horses having been temporally ejected) sparkled with the elite—sixpenny-worth of coppers being paid for sitting apart in aristocratical exclusiveness. My declamation might have electrified Gog and Magog, and made the Men in Armour start from their spears! The barn rang with applause, my success was triumphant, and my fate decided. “I next joined Mr. Dunderhead, the Dunstable manager, on whose boards I had the supreme felicity of beholding, for the first time, the Tum-bletuzzy. She danced with the castanets (le Pantomime de Vamour); my heart beat to her fairy footsteps; the long sixes capered before my eyes, my pulse thumped a hundred and twenty per minute—I wooed, and had well nigh won her—when our Harlequin, a ci-devant, ubiquitous, iniquitous barber, all but dashed the nectared cup from my lip. I did not horsewhip him, 'for that were poor revenge,'—no! I shewed him up on my benefit night in a patter song.” “Bravo!” cried Mr. Bosky, “Let us, Mr. Bigstick, have the song by all means.” The great Tragedian, screwing, À la Mathews, his mouth a-jar, condescendingly complied. Stolen or stray'd my beautiful maid! Unlucky my ducky has met a decoy— As brown as a berry, as plump as a cherry, And rosy-cheek'd, very! and Jenny-so-coy! Baggage and bagging the Dunstable waggin Were popp'd by a wag in, hight Harlequin Lun— They, honey-moon hot, shot the moon like a shot; But I'll shoot the rascal as sure as a gun! She sings like a linnet, she plays on the spinnet, A day's like a minute when she is in doors; My aunt in the attic, my uncle extatic! Encore the chromatique my Philomel pours! I lov'd her so dearly and truly, for really She cuts a mug * queerly, as Arthur's Queen Doll; She beats the tol lol O of Molly Brown hollow, And sings like Apollo in Gay's pretty Poll. I told her a rebus, I gave her a wee buss; She call'd me her Phoebus, her hero of pith; Her caraway comfit, her prime sugar plumb, fit For lady's lip, rum fit! her Lollypop Smith! * The Mugs out of which the violent politicians of Charles the Second's time drank their beer, were fashioned into the resemblance of Shaftsbury's face. Hence the common phrase, “Ugly Mug!” No more thought Teresa small tipple of me, sir, Than pretty Miss P., sir, our premiere danseuse, lightsome, lenitive! philoprogenitive! Sukey with bouquet and white satin shoes! To be, or not to be? is it a shot to be? Is it a knot to be, tied to a beam? Death's but a caper, life's but a taper, A vision, a vapour, a shadow, a dream. Hang melancholy! grieving's a folly! Laugh and be jolly! there's nothing like fun! I 'll make Miss Terese cry “Yes if you please!” And down on his knees shall Harlequin Lun.” “But the 'beautified Ophelia!' fickle, not false, and far less fickle than freakish! in all the tender distraction of Cranbourn Alley white muslin and myrtle, implored my forgiveness. Were her three-quarters' music and dancing to be thrown away upon a base barber? 'O ye, whose adamantine sorrows know The iron agonies of copper woe!'” Here the great Tragedian became overpowered, and cried a flood of stage tears very naturally. “Encore! encore!” shouted Uncle Timothy. Othello was at a loss whether or not to take this as a compliment, and weep a second brewing. He rubbed his eyes—but the Noes had it— “Bigstick's himself again!” “On the disbanding of our troop, we hied to Stoke-Pogeis with a letter of introduction to the manager. Mr. Truncheon (his wig 'in most admired disorder,') started and exclaimed, 'What the deuce could Dunderhead have been about to send you here?' The other night Dowager Mucklethrift bespoke 'Too late for Dinner,' I speculated on one upon the strength of it, and treated the company (who were as thin as our houses,) to a gallon of 'intermediate,' when, lo! and behold! in she tottered with her retinue (a rush of two!) to the boxes, and her deaf butler Diggory, esquiring some half-dozen lady patronesses, hobbled up to the threepenny gallery to grin down upon us! “A man may as well bob for whale in the river Thames; for live turtle in the City Basin; for white-bait in the Red Sea; expect to escape choking after having bolted a grape-shot, or to elicit a divine spark from the genius of a mud volcano, as hope not to be ruined and rolled up among such sublime intelligences! There's a hole in the kettle, sir, and we are half starved!” Surrounded by Short's Gardens and dwelling in Queer Street, Teresa and myself began to diet on our superfluities. My Romeo last-rose-of-summer pantaloons were diluted into a quart of hot pea-soup, and Bobadil's superannuated cocked hat and Justice Midas's wig were stewed down in the shape of a mutton scrag, Juliet's Flanders' lace flounce furnishing the trimmings! At this extremity, when Mrs. Heidelburg's embroidered satin petticoat of my aunt's had gone to “my uncle's” for a breakfast, my friend Dennis O'Doddipool, * whose success at Cork had enabled him to draw one, and enjoy his bottle, invited us to Ballina-muck. * An Hibernian member of a strolling company of comedians, in the north of England, lately advertised for his benefit, “An occasional Address, to be spoken by a new actor” This excited great expectation among the towns-people. On his benefit night Paddy Roscius stepped forward, and in a rich brogue thus addressed the audience: “To-night a new actor appears on the stage, To claim your protection, and your patron-oge; Now, who do you think this new actor may be? Why, turn round your eyes, and look full upon me, And then you 'll be sure this new actor to see.” Qy.—Could this new actor be Mr. O'Doddipool? We showered down as many benedictions upon Dennis as would stand between Temple Bar and Westminster, bundled up our 'shreds and patches,' levied tribute on the farmers' poultry, and when a goose fell in our way, made him so wise as never to be taken for a goose again! and arrived by short stages, in a long caravan, at Holyhead. Hey for Ireland! straight we bent our way to the land of praties and Paddies! O'Doddipool welcomed us with all the huggings and screechings of a German salutation; danced like Mr. Moses at the feast of Purim, * and cried— * The feast of Purim, an ancient Jewish festival, held yearly on the 7th of March, is in commemoration of the fall of Hainan and his ten sons. This feast is generally spent in public rejoicing, such as masked balls, letting off fireworks, &c. At one time a Fair was held in the vicinity of Duke's Place; but which the authorities of the City of London have put down for several years past. Amongst the more respectable order, family parties are kept up to a very late hour. The tables are generally adorned with hung beef, to commemorate the hanging of Haman. On the evening of this feast, the Jews attend their synagogues, where the Reader chants the Book of Esther in the Hebrew language; and at one time, (the practice is now partially abolished,) whenever the Reader repeated the name of Haman, the younger branches of the congregation beat the seats, and otherwise created a noise, with small wooden hammers, which were designated Haman-clappers. —like the French butcher, * for joy! I played first comedy before the lamps and second fiddle behind'em,—walking gentlemen and running footmen,—bravos and bishops, ** —swept the boards with Tragedy's sweeping pall, and a birch-broom,— * A Slaughter-man, in the interval of killing, strolled from a neighbouring abattoir to PÈre la Chaise. Shedding tears like rain, and clasping his blood-stained hands, he stood before the tomb of Abelard and Eloisa; while ever and anon he blubbered out, “Oh! l'amour, l'amour!” He then wiped his eyes with his professional apron, and returned to business! This is truly French. ** Garrick was in the habit of employing a whimsical fellow whose name was Stone, to procure him theatrical supernumeraries. The following correspondence passed between the “Sir, Thursday Noon. “Mr. Lacy turned me out of the lobby yesterday, and behaved very ill to me. I only ax'd for my two guineas for the last Bishop, and he swore I shouldn't have a farthing. I can't live upon air. I have a few Cupids you may have cheap, as they belong to a poor journeyman shoemaker, who I drink with now and then. “Your humble sarvant, “Wm. Stone.” “Stone, Friday Morn. “You are the best fellow in the world. Bring the Cupids to the theatre to-morrow. If they are under six, and well made, you shall have a guinea a piece for them. If you can get me two good murderers, I will pay you handsomely, particularly the spouting fellow who keeps the apple-stand on Tower-hill; the cut in his face is quite the thing. Pick me up an Alderman or two, for Richard, if you can; and I have no objection to treat with you for a comely Mayor. The barber will not do for Brutus, although I think he will succeed in Mat. “D. G.” The person here designated the Bishop was procured by Stone, and had often rehearsed the Bishop of Winchester in the play of Henry VIIIth, with such singular Éclat, that Garrick addressed him at the rehearsal, as “Cousin of Winchester The fellow, however, never played the part, although advertised more than once to come out in it. The reason will soon be guessed from the two following letters that passed between Garrick and Stone on the very evening the Prelate was to make his dÉbut. “Sir, “The Bishop of Winchester is getting drunk at the Bear, and swears he won't play to-night. “I am, yours, “Wm, Stone.” “Stone, “The Bishop may go to the devil. I do not know a greater rascal, except yourself. “D. G” —hissed in the centre region of a fiery dragon in some diabolical Jewiow-stration of dramatic diablerie, brandished a wooden sword,—gallanted Columbine,—blushed blue flame and brickdust in Frankenstein,—plastered my head over with chalk for want of a Lord Ogleby white wig,—and bellowed myself hoarse with tawdry configurations and claptrap vulgarities! And (Punch has no feelings'!) what my reward? A magnificent banquet of dry bread and ditch-water from O'Doddipool, ('Think on that, Master Brook!') peels, not of applause, but oranges! from the pit; and showers of peas (not boiled!) from the Olympus of disorderly gods. * * The custom of pelting actors and authors upon the stage is very ancient. Hegemon of Thasos, a writer of the old comedy, upon the first representation of one of his plays, came upon the stage with a large parcel of pebbles in the skirt of his gown, and laying them down on the edge of the orchestra, gravely informed the spectators that whoever desired to pelt him might take them up and begin the attack; but if, on the contrary, they chose to hear with patience, and judge with candour, he had done his best to amuse them! The audience were so delighted with his play, that though its performance was interrupted by the arrival of very unfortunate news from Sicily, viz. the destruction of the Athenian Fleet, it was suffered to proceed; not one of them quitting the theatre, though almost every individual had lost a relation or friend in the action. The unfortunate Athenians could not refrain from shedding tears on the occasion; but such was their delicacy and honour with respect to the foreigners then present, that they concealed their weakness by muffling their faces in their mantles. So finding, though in Ireland, my capital wasn't doubling, I gave the bog-trotters the “Glass of Fashion” (they never gave me a glass of anything!) to a sausage-maker's Polonius; took my leave and two and six-pence; bolted to Ballinamuck; (my Farce of Ducks and Green Peas never had such a run?) starred it from Ballinamuck to Bartlemy, and engaged with the man that lets devils out to hire, and deals in giants of the first enormity. My crack parts are Othello and Jim Crow; so that between the two, the lamp black never gets washed off my face, and I fear I shall die a Negro— “Thus far,” added the great Tragedian, rolling up the papers into a bundle and tossing them over to Mr. Titlepage, “the Autobiography of Bonassus! From Smithfield we march to the Metropolitans. 'The Garden' is sadly in want of a fine high comedy figure at a low one; and Drury, of a Tragedy Queen who can do Dollallolla. I smother a new debutante, Miss Barbara Bug-gins; beat Liston * hollow in Moll Flaggon; and put out of joint the noses of all preceding Mac-beths. The Tumbletuzzy opens in Queen Katherine (which she plays quite in a different style to Siddons).” * Of an actor so extensively popular, let us indulge a few reminiscenees. We remember his first entrÉe upon the boards of old Covent Garden, in Jacob Gawky; but his present amplitude of face and rotundity of person were then wanting to heighten the picture; and flesh, like wine, does wonders. His voice, too, has Avaxed more fat and unctuous; and broader (like his figure) has grown his fun. The stage became possessed of a new character, such as humourist had never before conceived, or player played—Mr. Liston!—The town roared with laughter; actors split their sides at his deepening gravity; caricaturists, in despair, cast off invention, and trusted solely to his unique lineaments; our signs bore aloft his physiognomical wonders; and walking- sticks, tobacco-stoppers, snuff-boxes, owned the queer impeachment. Liston! the Knight of the comieal countenance, where Momus sits enthroned in every dimple, crying aloof to the sons of care and melancholy! He is the very individual oddity described in the epigram— “Here, Hermes” says Jove, who with nectar was mellow, “Go, fetch me some clay, I will make an odd fellow.” And forth sprang Liston, a figure of fun! Not for the amusement of gods, but of men! To Suett Ave owe our first impression of drollery, but his glimmering spark was soon extinct. The sun of Liston has been before us from its rising to its setting. We hailed its grotesque ascension, basked in its-broad meridian, and now (when time has somewhat sobered down its comet-like eccentricities) sorrowfully contemplate its going down. Liston's last season! and the cruel old boy looks so provokingly hale and comical! What years of future laughter are in his face, scored over with quips and cranks! drawn up in farcical festoons! furrowed with fun! Liston's last season!—Why should he retire? Are not the times sad enough?—How will the world wag, wanting its merriest one? To this the satirical nosed gentleman nodded assent. “With fifteen new readings to electrify the diurnal critics of Petticoat Alley and Blow-bladder Lane!” Mr. Bubangrub guaranteed for the brethren. One new reading he would take the liberty of suggesting to Mr. Bigstick. John Kemble had entirely mistaken Shakspere's meaning. “Birnam Wood” comes not to “Dunsinane” a town; but to “Dunce inane” Macbeth! who was blockhead enough to put his trust in the witches. The great Tragedian danced with ecstasy at this “palpable hit,” and promised pipes and purl for the critical party after the performance. “Egg-hot,” said he, “is not my ordinary tipple; but on this occasion (pardon egotism!) I will be an egg-hot-ist! And now, to the Queen's Arms for a supper, and then to Somnus's for a snooze!” With a patronising air he conducted us down the ladder. To Uncle Timothy he said a few words in private, and our ears deceived us, if “gratitude” was not among the number. We fancied that the jovial spirit of the good Prior, on a three days' furlough from Elysium, hovered over the holiday scene; and that a shadowy black robe and cowl, half concealing his portly figure and ruddy features, flitted in the moonlight, and disappeared under the antique low-arched door that leads to his mausoleum! * * Each of the monks that kneel beside the effigy of Rahere has a Bible before him, open at the fifty-first chapter of Isaiah. The third verse is peculiarly applicable to his holy work. And as it was the Star that guided him to convert an unhealthy marsh, “dunge and fenny” on the only dry part of which was erected “the gallows of thieves,” into a temple and a “garden of the Lord so it was his divine assurance that he would live to see, in his own case, the prophecy fulfilled; and hear the “voice of melody” echo through the sacred walls his piety had raised. “The Lord shall comfort Zion: he will comfort all her waste places; and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the Lord; joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving, and the voice of melody.” “Dreams are the children of an idle brain.” Yet ours was a busy one through the live-long night. The grotesque scene acted itself over again, with those fantastical additions that belong to “Death's counterfeit.” Legions of Anthropophagi; giants o'ertopping Pelion and Ossa; hideous abortions; grinning nondescripts; the miniature, mischievous court of Queen Mab, and the fiddling, dancing troop of Tam O'Shanter passed before us in every variety of unearthly combination. Clouds of incense arose, and the vision, growing dim, gradually melted away,—a low, solemn chant leaving its dying notes upon the ear. Let gratitude's chorus arise, If gratitude dwell upon earth, To hymn thy return to the skies, Benevolent spirit of mirth! Long flourish thy frolicsome fair, Where many odd bargains are driven; And may peccadilloes done there, For thy merry sake be forgiven!
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