The Drama.

Billy Boots.

For the Table Book.

On January 6th, 1815, died at Lynn, Norfolk, at an advanced age, (supposedabout seventy,) this eccentric individual, whose proper name, William Monson, had become nearly obliterated by his professional appellation ofBilly Boots; having followed the humble employment of shoeblack for a longer period than the greater part of the inhabitants could remember. He was reported, (and he always professed himself to be,) the illegitimate son of a nobleman, whose name he bore, by a Miss Cracroft. Of his early days little is known, except from the reminiscences of conversation which the writer of this article at times held with him. From thence it appears, that having received a respectable education, soon after leaving school, he quitted his maternal home in Lincolnshire, and threw himself upon the world, from whence he was sought out by some of his paternal brothers, with the intention of providing and fixing him in comfortable circumstances; but this dependent life he abhorred, and the wide world was again his element. After experiencing many vicissitudes, (though possessing defects never to be overcome,—a diminutive person,—a shuffling, slip-shod gait,—and a weak, whining voice,) he joined a company of strolling players, and used to boast of having performed “Trueman,” in “George Barnwell:” from this he imbibed an ardent histrioniccacoethes, which never left him, but occupied many of his leisure moments, to the latest period of his life. Tired of rambling, he fixed his residence at Lynn, and adopting the useful vocation of shoe-black, became conspicuous as a sober, inoffensive, and industrious individual. Having, by these means, saved a few guineas, in a luckless hour, and when verging towards his fiftieth year, he took to himself a wife, a dashing female of more favourable appearance than reputation. In a few days from the tying of the gordian knot, his precious metal and his precious rib took flight together, never to return; and forsaken Billy whined away his disaster, to every pitying inquirer, and continued to brush and spout till time had blunted the keen edge of sorrow.

Notwithstanding this misfortune, Billy made no rash vow of forswearing the sex, but ogled every mop-squeezer in the town, who would listen to his captivating eloquence, and whenever a roguish Blousalinoa consented to encourage his addresses, he was seen early and late, like a true devotee snuffing a pilgrimage to the shrine of his devotions. In a summer evening after the labour of the day, on these occasions, and on these occasions only, he used to clean himself and spruce up, in his best suit, which was not improperly termed his courting suit—a worn-out scarlet coat, reaching to his heels, with buttons of the largest dimensions—the other part of his dress corresponding. When tired of the joke, his faithless inamorata, on some frivolous pretence, contrived to discard him, leaving him to “fight his battles o’er again,” and seek some other bewitching fair one, who in the end served him as the former; another and another succeeded, but still poor Billy was ever jilted, and still lived a devoted victim to the tender passion.

Passionately fond of play-books, of which he had a small collection—as uninviting to the look as himself in his working dress—and possessing a retentive memory, he would recite, not merely the single character, but whole scenes, with all the dramatis personæ. His favourite character, however, was “Shylock;” and here, when soothed and flattered, he exhibited a rich treat to his risible auditors in the celebrated trial scene, giving the entire dialogue, suiting the action and attitude to the words, in a style of the most perfect caricatural originality. At other times, he would select “The Waterman,” and, as “Tom Tug,” warble forth, “Then farewell my trim-built wherry,” in strains of exquisitely whining melody. But, alas! luckless wight! his only reward was ridicule, and for applause he had jokes and quizzing sarcasms.

Like most of nature’s neglected eccentrics, Billy was a public mark of derision, at which every urchin delighted to aim. When charges of “setting the river Thames on fire!” and “roasting his wife on a gridiron!” were vociferated in his ears, proudly conscious of his innocence of such heinous crimes, his noble soul would swell with rage and indignation; and sometimes stones, at other times his brushes, and oftentimes his pot of blacking, were aimed at the ruthless offender, who frequently escaped, while the unwary passer-by received the marks of his vengeance. When unmolested, he was harmless and inoffensive.

Several attempts, it is said, were made towards the latter part of his life to settle an annuity on him; but Billy scorned such independence, and maintained himself till death by praiseworthy industry. After a few days’ illness, he sank into the grave, unhonoured and unnoticed, except by the following tribute to his memory, written by a literary and agricultural gentleman in the neighbourhood of Lynn, and inserted in the “Norwich Mercury” newspaper of that period.

Elegiac Lines on William Monson, late of Lynn, an eccentric Character; commonly y’clept Billy Boots.Imperial Fate, who, with promiscuous course,Exerts o’er high and low his influence dread;Impell’d his shaft with unrelenting force,And laid thee,Billy, ’mongst the mighty dead!Yet ’though, when borne to thy sepulchral home,No pomp funereal grac’d thy poor remains,Some “frail memorial” should adorn thy tomb,Some trifling tribute from the Muse’s strains.Full fifty years, poorBilly!hast thou budg’d,A care-worn shoe-black, up and down the streets;From house to house, with slip-shod step hast trudg’d,’Midst summer’s rays, and winter’s driving sleets.Report allied thee to patrician blood,Yet, whilst thy life to drudg’ry was confin’d,Thy firmness each dependent thought withstood,And prov’d,—thy true nobility of mind.With shuffling, lagging gait, with visage queer,Which seem’d a stranger to ablution’s pow’r,In tatter’d garb, well suited to thy sphere,Thou o’er life’s stage didst strut thy fretful hour.O’er boots and shoes, to spread the jetty hue,And give the gloss,—thouBilly, wert the man,No boasting rivals could thy skill outdo—Not “Day and Martin,” with their fam’d japan.On men well-bred and perfectly refin’d,An extra polish could thine art bestow;At feast or ball, thy varnish’d honours shin’d,Made spruce the trader, and adorn’d the beau.When taunting boys, whom no reproof could tame,On thee their scoffs at cautious distance shed,A shoe or brush, impetuous wouldst thou aim,Wing’d with resentment, at some urchin’s head.With rage theatric often didst thou glow,(Though ill adapted for the scenic art;)As Denmark’s prince soliloquiz’d in woe,Or else rehears’d vindictiveShylock’spart.Brushing and spouting, emulous of fame,Oft pocketing affronts instead of cash,InIago’sphrase, sometimes thou might’st exclaimWith too much truth,—“who steals my purse steals trash.”Peace to thine ashes! harmless in thy way,Long wert thouemp’rorof the shoe-black train,And with thy fav’rite Shakspeare we may say,We “ne’er shall look upon thy like again.”

Elegiac Lines on William Monson, late of Lynn, an eccentric Character; commonly y’clept Billy Boots.

Imperial Fate, who, with promiscuous course,Exerts o’er high and low his influence dread;Impell’d his shaft with unrelenting force,And laid thee,Billy, ’mongst the mighty dead!Yet ’though, when borne to thy sepulchral home,No pomp funereal grac’d thy poor remains,Some “frail memorial” should adorn thy tomb,Some trifling tribute from the Muse’s strains.Full fifty years, poorBilly!hast thou budg’d,A care-worn shoe-black, up and down the streets;From house to house, with slip-shod step hast trudg’d,’Midst summer’s rays, and winter’s driving sleets.Report allied thee to patrician blood,Yet, whilst thy life to drudg’ry was confin’d,Thy firmness each dependent thought withstood,And prov’d,—thy true nobility of mind.With shuffling, lagging gait, with visage queer,Which seem’d a stranger to ablution’s pow’r,In tatter’d garb, well suited to thy sphere,Thou o’er life’s stage didst strut thy fretful hour.O’er boots and shoes, to spread the jetty hue,And give the gloss,—thouBilly, wert the man,No boasting rivals could thy skill outdo—Not “Day and Martin,” with their fam’d japan.On men well-bred and perfectly refin’d,An extra polish could thine art bestow;At feast or ball, thy varnish’d honours shin’d,Made spruce the trader, and adorn’d the beau.When taunting boys, whom no reproof could tame,On thee their scoffs at cautious distance shed,A shoe or brush, impetuous wouldst thou aim,Wing’d with resentment, at some urchin’s head.With rage theatric often didst thou glow,(Though ill adapted for the scenic art;)As Denmark’s prince soliloquiz’d in woe,Or else rehears’d vindictiveShylock’spart.Brushing and spouting, emulous of fame,Oft pocketing affronts instead of cash,InIago’sphrase, sometimes thou might’st exclaimWith too much truth,—“who steals my purse steals trash.”Peace to thine ashes! harmless in thy way,Long wert thouemp’rorof the shoe-black train,And with thy fav’rite Shakspeare we may say,We “ne’er shall look upon thy like again.”

Imperial Fate, who, with promiscuous course,Exerts o’er high and low his influence dread;Impell’d his shaft with unrelenting force,And laid thee,Billy, ’mongst the mighty dead!

Yet ’though, when borne to thy sepulchral home,No pomp funereal grac’d thy poor remains,Some “frail memorial” should adorn thy tomb,Some trifling tribute from the Muse’s strains.

Full fifty years, poorBilly!hast thou budg’d,A care-worn shoe-black, up and down the streets;From house to house, with slip-shod step hast trudg’d,’Midst summer’s rays, and winter’s driving sleets.

Report allied thee to patrician blood,Yet, whilst thy life to drudg’ry was confin’d,Thy firmness each dependent thought withstood,And prov’d,—thy true nobility of mind.

With shuffling, lagging gait, with visage queer,Which seem’d a stranger to ablution’s pow’r,In tatter’d garb, well suited to thy sphere,Thou o’er life’s stage didst strut thy fretful hour.

O’er boots and shoes, to spread the jetty hue,And give the gloss,—thouBilly, wert the man,No boasting rivals could thy skill outdo—Not “Day and Martin,” with their fam’d japan.

On men well-bred and perfectly refin’d,An extra polish could thine art bestow;At feast or ball, thy varnish’d honours shin’d,Made spruce the trader, and adorn’d the beau.

When taunting boys, whom no reproof could tame,On thee their scoffs at cautious distance shed,A shoe or brush, impetuous wouldst thou aim,Wing’d with resentment, at some urchin’s head.

With rage theatric often didst thou glow,(Though ill adapted for the scenic art;)As Denmark’s prince soliloquiz’d in woe,Or else rehears’d vindictiveShylock’spart.

Brushing and spouting, emulous of fame,Oft pocketing affronts instead of cash,InIago’sphrase, sometimes thou might’st exclaimWith too much truth,—“who steals my purse steals trash.”

Peace to thine ashes! harmless in thy way,Long wert thouemp’rorof the shoe-black train,And with thy fav’rite Shakspeare we may say,We “ne’er shall look upon thy like again.”

Friday the 23d of February, 1827, is to be regarded as remarkable, because on that day “The Great Unknown” confessed himself. The disclosure was made at the first annual dinner of the “Edinburgh Theatrical Fund,” then held in the Assembly Rooms, Edinburgh—SirWalter Scottin the chair.

SirWalter Scott, after the usual toasts to the King and the Royal Family, requested, that gentlemen would fill a bumper as full as it would hold, while he would say only a few words. He was in the habit of hearing speeches, and he knew the feeling with which long ones were regarded. He was sure that it was perfectly unnecessary for him to enter into any vindication of the dramatic art, which they had come here to support. This, however, he considered to be the proper time and proper occasion for him to say a few words on that love of representation which was an innate feeling in human nature. It was the first amusement that the child had—it grew greater as he grew up; and, even in the decline of life, nothing amused so much as when a common tale is well told. The first thing a child does is to ape his schoolmaster, by flogging a chair. It was an enjoyment natural to humanity. It was implanted in our very nature, to take pleasure from such representations, at proper times, and on proper occasions. In all ages the theatrical art had kept pace with the improvement of mankind, and with the progress of letters and the fine arts. As he had advanced from the ruder stages of society, the love of dramatic representations had increased, and all works of this nature had been improved in character and in structure. They had only to turn their eyes to the history of ancient Greece, although he did not pretend to be very deeply versed in ancient history. Its first tragic poet commanded a body of troops at Marathon. The second and next, were men who shook Athens with their discourses, as their theatrical works shock the theatre itself. If they turned to France, in the time of Louis XIV., that era in the classical history of that country, they would find that it was referred to by all Frenchmen as the golden age of the drama there. And also in England, in the time of queen Elizabeth, the drama began to mingle deeply and wisely in the general politics of Europe, not only not receivinglaws from others, but giving laws to the world, and vindicating the rights of mankind. (Cheers.) There had been various times when the dramatic art subsequently fell into disrepute. Its professors had been stigmatized: and laws had been passed against them, less dishonourable to them than to the statesmen by whom they were proposed, and to the legislators by whom they were passed. What were the times in which these laws were passed? Was it not when virtue was seldom inculcated as a moral duty, that we were required to relinquish the most rational of all our amusements, when the clergy were enjoined celibacy, and when the laity were denied the right to read their Bibles? He thought that it must have been from a notion of penance that they erected the drama into an ideal place of profaneness, and the tent of sin. He did not mean to dispute, that there were many excellent persons who thought differently from him, and they were entitled to assume that they were not guilty of any hypocrisy in doing so. He gave them full credit for their tender consciences, in making these objections, which did not appear to him relevant to those persons, if they were what they usurped themselves to be; and if they were persons of worth and piety, he should crave the liberty to tell them, that the first part of their duty was charity, and that if they did not choose to go to the theatre, they at least could not deny that they might give away, from their superfluity, what was required for the relief of the sick, the support of the aged, and the comfort of the afflicted. These were duties enjoined by our religion itself. (Loud cheers.) The performers were in a particular manner entitled to the support or regard, when in old age or distress, of those who had partaken of the amusements of those places which they rendered an ornament to society. Their art was of a peculiarly delicate and precarious nature. They had to serve a long apprenticeship. It was very long before even the first-rate geniuses could acquire the mechanical knowledge of the stage business. They must languish long in obscurity before they could avail themselves of their natural talents; and after that, they had but a short space of time, during which they were fortunate if they could provide the means of comfort in the decline of life. That came late, and lasted but a short time; after which they were left dependent. Their limbs failed, their teeth were loosened, their voice was lost, and they were left, after giving happiness to others, in a most disconsolate state. The public were liberal and generous to those deserving their protection. It was a sad thing to be dependant on the favour, or, he might say, in plain terms, on the caprice of the public; and this more particularly for a class of persons of whom extreme prudence was not the character. There might be instances of opportunities being neglected; but let them tax themselves, and consider the opportunities they had neglected, and the sums of money they had wasted; let every gentleman look into his own bosom, and say whether these were circumstances which would soften his own feeling, were he to be plunged into distress. He put it to every generous bosom—to every better feeling—to say what consolation was it to old age to be told that you might have made provision at a time which had been neglected—(loud cheers)—and to find it objected, that if you had pleased you might have been wealthy. He had hitherto been speaking of what, in theatrical language, was called “stars,” but they were sometimes fallen ones. There were another class of sufferers naturally and necessarily connected with the theatre, without whom it was impossible to go on. The sailors had a saying, “every man cannot be a boatswain.” If there must be persons to actHamlet, there must also be people to actLaertes, theKing,Rosencrantz, andGuildenstern, otherwise a drama cannot go on. If even Garrick himself were to rise from the dead, he could not actHamletalone. There must be generals, colonels, commanding officers, and subalterns; but what were the private soldiers to do? Many had mistaken their own talents, and had been driven in early youth to try the stage, to which they were not competent. He would know what to say to the poet and to the artist. He would say that it was foolish, and he would recommend to the poet to become a scribe, and the artist to paint sign-posts (Loud laughter.) But he could not send the player adrift; for if he could not playHamlet, he must playGuildenstern. Where there were many labourers, wages must be low, and no man in such a situation could decently support a wife and family, and save something of his income for old age. What was this man to do in latter life? Were they to cast him off like an old hinge, or a piece of useless machinery, which had done its work? To a person who had contributed to our amusement, that would be unkind, ungrateful, and unchristian. His wants were not of his own making, but arose from the natural sources of sickness and old age. It could not be denied thatthere was one class of sufferers to whom no imprudence could be ascribed, except on first entering on the profession. After putting his hand to the dramatic plough, he could not draw back, but must continue at it, and toil, till death released him; or charity, by its milder assistance, stepped in to render that want more tolerable. He had little more to say, except that he sincerely hoped that the collection to-day, from the number of respectable gentlemen present, would meet the views entertained by the patrons. He hoped it would do so. They should not be disheartened. Though they could not do a great deal, they might do something. They had this consolation, that every thing they parted with from their superfluity would do some good. They would sleep the better themselves when they had been the means of giving sleep to others. It was ungrateful and unkind that those who had sacrificed their youth to our amusement should not receive the reward due to them, but should be reduced to hard fare in their old age. They could not think of poor Falstaff going to bed without his cup of sack, or Macbeth fed on bones as marrowless as those of Banquo. (Loud cheers and laughter.) As he believed that they were all as fond of the dramatic art as he was in his younger days, he would propose that they should drink “The Theatrical Fund,” with three times three.

Mr.Mackayrose on behalf of his brethren, to return their thanks for the toast just drank.

LordMeadowbankbegged to bear testimony to the anxiety which they all felt for the interests of the institution which it was for this day’s meeting to establish. For himself, he was quite surprised to find his humble name associated with so many others, more distinguished, as a patron of the institution. But he happened to hold a high and important public station in the country. It was matter of regret that he had so little the means in his power of being of service; yet it would afford him at all times the greatest pleasure to give assistance. As a testimony of the feelings with which he now rose, he begged to propose a health, which he was sure, in an assembly of Scotsmen, would be received, not with an ordinary feeling of delight, but with rapture and enthusiasm. He knew that it would be painful to his feelings if he were to speak of him in the terms which his heart prompted; and that he had sheltered himself under his native modesty from the applause which he deserved. But it was gratifying at last to know that these clouds were now dispelled, and that the “great unknown”—“the mighty Magician”—(here the room literally rung with applauses for some minutes)—the Minstrel of our country, who had conjured up, not the phantoms of departed ages, but realities, now stood revealed before the eyes and affections of his country. In his presence it would ill become him, as it would be displeasing to that distinguished person, to say, if he were able, what every man must feel, who recollected the enjoyment he had had from the great efforts of his mind and genius. It had been left for him, by his writings, to give his country an imperishable name. He had done more for that country, by illuminating its annals, by illustrating the deeds of its warriors and statesmen, than any man that ever existed, or was produced, within its territory. He had opened up the peculiar beauties of his native land to the eyes of foreigners. He had exhibited the deeds of those patriots and statesmen to whom we owed the freedom we now enjoyed. He would give “The health of Sir Walter Scott.”

This toast was drank with enthusiastic cheering.

SirWalter Scottcertainly did not think, that, in coming there that day, he would have the task of acknowledging, before 300 gentlemen, a secret which, considering that it was communicated to more than 20 people, was remarkably well kept. He was now before the bar of his country, and might be understood to be on trial before lord Meadowbank, as an offender; yet he was sure that every impartial jury would bring in a verdict of “not proven.” He did not now think it necessary to enter into reasons for his long silence. Perhaps he might have acted from caprice. He had now to say, however, that the merits of these works, if they had any, and their faults, were entirely imputable to himself. (Long and loud cheering.) He was afraid to think on what he had done. “Look on’t again I dare not.” He had thus far unbosomed himself, and he knew that it would be reported to the public. He meant, when he said that he was the author, that he was the total and undivided author. With the exception of quotations, there was not a single word that was not derived from himself, or suggested in the course of his reading. The wand was now broken and the rod buried. They would allow him further to say, withProspero, “Your breath it is that has filled my sails,” and to crave one single toast in the capacity of the author of those novels, and he would dedicate a bumper to thehealth of one who had represented some of those characters, of which he had endeavoured to give the skeleton, with a degree of liveliness which rendered him grateful. He would propose the health of his friendBailie Nicol Jarvie; (loud applause;) and he was sure that, when the author ofWaverleyandRob Roydrank toNicol Jarvie, it would be received with that degree of applause to which that gentleman had always been accustomed, and that they would take care that, on the present occasion, it should be prodigious! (Long and vehement applause.)

Mr.Mackay, who spoke with great humour in the character ofBailie Jarvie.—“My conscience! My worthy father, the Deacon, could not have believed that his son could hae had sic a compliment paid to him by theGreat Unknown.”

SirWalter Scott.—“Not unknown now, Mr. Bailie.”

After this avowal, numerous toasts were duly honoured; and on the proposal of “the health of Mrs. Siddons, senior, the most distinguished ornament of the stage,” SirWalter Scottsaid, that if any thing could reconcile him to old age, it was the reflection that he had seen the rising as well as the setting sun of Mrs. Siddons. He remembered well their breakfasting near to the theatre—waiting the whole day—the crushing at the doors at six o’clock—and their going in and counting their fingers till seven o’clock. But the very first step—the very first word which she uttered, was sufficient to overpay him for all his labours. The house was literally electrified; and it was only from witnessing the effects of her genius, that he could guess to what a pitch theatrical excellence could be carried. Those young fellows who had only seen the setting sun of this distinguished performer, beautiful and serene as that was, must give the old fellows who had seen its rise leave to hold their heads a little higher.

SirWalter Scottsubsequently gave “Scotland, the Land of Cakes.” He would give every river, every loch, every hill, from Tweed to Johnnie Groat’s house—every lass in her cottage, and countess in her castle; and may her sons stand by her, as their fathers did before them, and he who would not drink a bumper to his toast, may he never drink whiskey more.

Mr.H. G. Bellproposed the health of “James Sheridan Knowles.”

SirWalter Scott.—Gentlemen, I crave a bumper all over. The last toast reminds me of a neglect of duty. Unaccustomed to a public duty of this kind, errors in conducting the ceremonial of it may be excused, and omissions pardoned. Perhaps I have made one or two omissions in the course of the evening, for which I trust you will grant me your pardon and indulgence. One thing in particular I have omitted, and I would now wish to make amends for it by a libation of reverence and respect to the memory of Shakspeare. He was a man of universal genius, and from a period soon after his own era to the present day, he has been universally idolized. When I come to his honoured name, I am like the sick man who hung up his crutches at the shrine, and was obliged to confess that he did not walk better than before. It is indeed difficult, gentlemen, to compare him to any other individual. The only one to whom I can at all compare him, is the wonderful Arabian dervise, who dived into the body of each, and in that way became familiar with the thoughts and secrets of their hearts. He was a man of obscure origin, and as a player, limited in his acquirements; but he was born evidently with a universal genius. His eyes glanced at all the varied aspects of life, and his fancy portrayed with equal talents the king on the throne, and the clown who crackled his chestnuts at a Christmas fire. Whatever note he took, he struck it just and true, and awakened a corresponding chord in our own bosoms. Gentlemen, I propose “The memory of William Shakspeare.”

Glee—“Lightly tread his hallowed ground.”

SirWalterrose after the glee, and begged to propose as a toast the health of a lady whose living merits were not a little honourable to Scotland. This toast (said he) is also flattering to the national vanity of a Scotchman, as the lady whom I intend to propose is a native of this country. From the public her works have met with the most favourable reception. One piece of hers, in particular, was often acted here of late years, and gave pleasure of no mean kind to many brilliant and fashionable audiences. In her private character, she (he begged leave to say) was as remarkable as in a public sense she was for her genius. In short, he would, in one word, name—“Joanna Baillie.”

Towards the close of the evening, SirWalterobserved:—There is one who ought to be remembered on this occasion. He is indeed well entitled to our great recollection—one, in short, to whom the drama in this city owes much. He succeeded, not without trouble, and perhaps at some considerable sacrifice in establishinga theatre. The younger part of the company may not recollect the theatre to which I allude; but there are some who with me may remember, by name, the theatre in Carrubber’s-close. There Allan Ramsay established his little theatre. His own pastoral was not fit for the stage, but it has its own admirers in those who love the Doric language in which it is written; and it is not without merits of a very peculiar kind. But, laying aside all considerations of his literary merit, Allan was a good, jovial, honest fellow, who could crack a bottle with the best. “The memory of Allan Ramsay.”

Mr.P. Robertson.—I feel that I am about to tread on ticklish ground. The talk is of a new theatre, and a bill may be presented for its erection, saving always, and provided the expenses be defrayed and carried through, provided always it be not opposed. Bereford-park, or some such place, might be selected, provided always due notice was given, and so we might have a playhouse, as it were, by possibility.

SirWalter Scott.—Wherever the new theatre is built, I hope it will not be large. There are two errors which we commonly commit—the one arising from our pride, the other from our poverty. If there are twelve plans, it is odds but the largest, without any regard to comfort, or an eye to the probable expense, is adopted. There was the college projected on this scale, and undertaken in the same manner, and who shall see the end of it? It has been building all my life, and may probably last during the lives of my children, and my children’s children. Let it not be said when we commence a new theatre, as was said on the occasion of laying the foundation-stone of a certain building, “Behold the endless work begun.” Play-going folks should attend somewhat to convenience. The new theatre should, in the first place, be such as may be finished in eighteen months or two years; and, in the second place, it should be one in which we can hear our old friends with comfort. It is better that a theatre should be crowded now and then, than to have a large theatre, with benches continually empty, to the discouragement of the actors, and the discomfort of the spectators.

SirWalterimmediately afterwards said, “Gentlemen, it is now wearing late, and I shall request permission to retire. Like Partridge, I may say, ‘non sum qualis eram.’ At my time of day, I can agree with Lord Ogleby, as to the rheumatism, and say, ‘There’s a twinge.’ I hope, therefore, you will excuse me for leaving the chair.”—(The worthy baronet then retired amidst long, loud, and rapturous cheering.)

Theseextracts[80]contain the substance of Sir Walter Scott’s speeches on this memorable occasion. His allusions to actors and the drama are, of themselves, important; but his avowal of himself as the author of the “Waverley Novels,” is a fact of peculiar interest in literary history. Particular circumstances, however, had made known the “Great Unknown” to several persons in London some months previously, though the fact had not by any means been generally circulated.

[80]From the report of the “Edinburgh Evening Courant” of Saturday, 24th Feb. 1827; in “The Times” of the Tuesday following.

“Oh! for a muse offire!”

One fire burns out another burning. The jack-puddings who swallow flame at “the only booth” in every fair, have extinguished remembrance of Powell the fire-eater—a man so famous in his own day, that his name still lives. Though no journal records the time of his death, no line eulogizes his memory, no stone marks his burial-place, there are two articles written during his lifetime, which, being noticed here, may “help his fame along” a little further. Of the first, by a correspondent of Sylvanus Urban, the following is a sufficient abstract.

Ashbourn, Derbyshire, Jan. 20, 1755.

Last spring, Mr. Powell, the famous fire-eater, did us the honour of a visit at this town; and, as he set forth in his printed bills, that he had shown away not only before most of the crowned heads in Europe, but even before the Royal Society of London, and was dignified with a curious and very ample silver medal, which, he said, was bestowed on him by that learned body, as a testimony of their approbation, for eating what nobody else could eat, I was prevailed upon, at the importunity of some friends, to go and see a sight, that so many great kings and philosophers had not thought below their notice. And, I confess, though neither a superstitious nor an incurious man, I was not a little astonished at his wonderful performances in the fire-eating way.

After many restless days and nights, and the profoundest researches into the nature of things, I almost despaired of accounting for the strange phenomenon of a human and perishable creature eating red hot coals, taken indiscriminately out of a large fire, broiling steaks upon his tongue, swallowing huge draughts of liquid fire as greedily as a country squire does roast beef and strong beer. Thought I to myself, how can that element, which we are told is ultimately to devour all things, be devoured itself, as familiar diet, by a mortal man?—Here I stuck, and here I might have stuck, if I had not met with the following anecdote by M. Panthot, doctor of physic and member of the college ofLyons:—

“The secret of fire-eating was made public by a servant to one Richardson, an Englishman, who showed it in France about the year 1667, and was the first performer of the kind that ever appeared in Europe. It consists only in rubbing the hands, and thoroughly washing the mouth, lips, tongue, teeth, and other parts that are to touch the fire, with pure spirit of sulphur. This burns and cauterizes the epidermis, or upper skin, till it becomes as hard as thick leather, and every time the experiment is tried it becomes still easier than before. But if, after it has been very often repeated, the upper skin should grow so callous and horny as to become troublesome, washing the parts affected with very warm water, or hot wine, will bring away all the shrivelled or parched epidermis. The flesh, however, will continue tender and unfit for such business till it has been frequently rubbed over again with the same spirit.

“This preparative may be rendered much stronger and more efficacious, by mixing equal quantities of spirit of sulphur, sal ammoniac, essence of rosemary, and juice of onions.

“The bad effects which frequently swallowing red-hot coals, melted sealing wax, rosin, brimstone, and other calcined and inflammable matter, might have had upon his stomach, were prevented by drinking plentifully of warm water and oil, as soon as he left the company, till he had vomited all up again.”

My author further adds, that any person who is possessed of this secret, may safely walk over burning coals, or red-hot plough-shares; and he fortifies his assertion by the example of blacksmiths and forgemen, many of whom acquire such a degree of callosity, by often handling hot things, that they will carry a glowing bar of iron in their naked hands, without hurt.

Whether Mr. Powell will take it kindly of me thus to have published his secret, I cannot tell; but as he now begins to drop into years, has no children that I know of, and may die suddenly, or without making a will, I think it is a great pity so genteel an occupation should become one of theartes perditæ, as possibly it may, if proper care is not taken; and therefore hope, after this information, some true-hearted Englishman will take it up again for the honour of his country, when he reads in the newspapers,Yesterday died, much lamented, the famous Mr.Powell.He was the best, if not the only fire-eater in this world, and it is greatly to be feared his art is dead with him.

Notwithstanding the preceding disclosure of Powell’s “grand secret,” he continued to maintain his good name and reputation till after Dr. Johnson was pensioned, in the year 1762. We are assured of the fact by the internal evidence of the following article, preserved by a collector of odd things, who obtained it he knew nothow:—

Genius unrewarded.

We have been lately honoured with the presence of the celebrated Mr. Powell, who, I suppose, must formerly have existed in a comet; and by one of those unforeseen accidents which sometimes happen to the most exalted characters, has dropped from its tail.

His common food is brimstone and fire, which he licks up as eagerly as a hungry peasant would a mess of pottage; he feeds on this extraordinary diet before princes and peers, to their infinite satisfaction; and such is his passion for this terrible element, that if he were to come hungry into your kitchen, while a sirloin was roasting, he would eat up the fire, and leave the beef.

It is somewhat surprising, that the friends ofreal merithave not yet promoted him, living, as we do, in an age favourable to men of genius: Mr. Johnson has been rewarded with a pension for writing, and Mr. Sheridan for speaking well; but Mr. Powell, whoeats well, has not yet been noticed by any administration. Obliged to wander from place to place, instead of indulging, himself in private with his favourite dish, he is under the uncomfortable necessity of eating in public, and helping himself from the kitchen fire of some paltry alehouse in the country.

O tempora! Omores![81]

[81]Lounger’s Common Place Book

March Fair, at Brough, Westmoreland

For the Table Book

This fair is held always on the second Thursday in March: it is a good one for cattle; and, in consequence of the great show, the inhabitants are obliged to shut up their windows; for the cattle and the drivers are stationed in all parts of the town, and few except the jobbers venture out during the time of selling.

From five to six o’clock the preceding evening, carts, chiefly belonging to Yorkshire clothiers, begin to arrive, and continue coming in until the morning, when, at about eight or nine, the cattle fair begins, and lasts till three in the afternoon. Previously to any article being sold, the fair is proclaimed in a manner depicted tolerably well in the precedingsketch. At ten, two individuals, named Matthew Horn and John Deighton, having furnished themselves with a fiddle and clarinet, walk through the different avenues of the town three times, playing, as they walk, chiefly “God save the King;” at the end of this, some verses are repeated, which I have not the pleasure of recollecting; but I well remember, that thereby the venders are authorized to commence selling. After it is reported through the different stalls that “they’ve walked the fair,” business usually commences in a very brisk manner.

Mat. Horn has the best cake booth in the fair, and takes a considerable deal more money than any “spice wife,” (as women are called who attend to these dainties.) Jack Deighton is a shoemaker, and a tolerably good musician. Coals are also brought for sale, which, with cattle, mainly constitute the morning fair.

At the close of the cattle fair, the town is swept clean, and lasses walk about with their “sweethearts,” and the fair puts on another appearance. “Cheap John’s here the day,” with his knives, combs, bracelets, &c. &c. The “great Tom Mathews,” with his gallanty show, generally contrives to pick up a pretty bit of money by his droll ways. Then “Here’s spice Harry, gingerbread, Harry—Harry—Harry!” from Richmond, with his five-and-twenty lumps of gingerbread for sixpence. Harry stands in a cart, with his boxes of “spice” beside him, attracting the general attention of the whole fair, (though he is seldomer here than at Brough-hill fair.) There are a few shows, viz. Scott’s sleight of hand, horse performances, &c. &c.; and, considering the size of the town, it has really a very merry-spent fair. At six o’clock dancing begins in nearly all the public-houses, and lasts the whole of “a merry neet.”

Jack Deighton mostly plays at the greatest dance, namely, at the Swan inn; and his companion, Horn, at one of the others; the dances are merely jigs, three reels, and four reels, and country dances, andno morethan three sets can dance at a time. It is a matter of course to give the fiddler a penny or two-pence each dance; sometimes however another set slips in after the tune’s begun, and thus trick the player. By this time nearly all the stalls are cleared away, and the “merry neet” is the only place to resort to for amusement. The fiddle and clarinet are to be heard every where; and it is astonishing what money is taken by the fiddlers. Some of the “spice wives,” too, stop till the next morning, and go round with their cakes at intervals, which they often sell more of than before.

At this festival at Brough, the husbandmen have holiday, and many get so tipsy that they are frequently turned off from their masters. Several of the “spice wives” move away in the afternoon to Kirby Stephen, where there is a very large fair, better suited to their trade, for it commences on the day ensuing. Unfortunately, I was never present at the proclamation. From what I saw, I presume it is in consequence of a charter, and that these people offer their services that the fair-keepers may commence selling their articles sooner. I never heard of their being paid for their trouble. They are constantly attended by a crowd of people, who get on the carts and booths, and, at the end, set up a load “huzza!”

W. H. H.

For the Table Book.

It is a Polish superstition, that each month has a particular gem attached to it, which governs it, and is supposed to influence the destiny of persons born in that month; it is therefore customary among friends, and lovers particularly, to present each other, on their natal day, with some trinket containing their tutelary gem, accompanied with its appropriate wish; this kind fate, or perhaps kinder fancy, generally contrives to realize according to their expectations.

January.

Jacinth, orGarnetdenotes constancy and fidelity in every engagement.

February.

Amethystpreserves mortals from strong passions, and ensures peace of mind.

March.

Bloodstonedenotes courage and secrecy in dangerous enterprises.

April.

Sapphire, orDiamonddenotes repentance and innocence.

May.

Emerald, successive love.

June.

Agateensures long life and health.

July.

Ruby, orCornelianensures the forgetfulness or cure of evils springing from friendship or love.

August.

Sardonixensures conjugal felicity.

September.

Chrysolitepreserves from, or cures folly.

October.

Aquamarine, orOpaldenotes misfortune and hope.

November.

Topazensures fidelity and friendship.

December.

Turquoise, orMalakitedenotes the most brilliant success and happiness in every circumstance of life.

E. M. S.

[From the “Game at Chess,” a Comedy, by Thomas Middleton, 1624.]

Popish Priest to a great Court Lady, whom he hopes to make a Convert of.

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