A RECKONING WITH TIME.
I. Come on, old Time!—Nay, that is stuff; Gaffer! thou comest fast enough; Wing'd foe to feather'd Cupid!— But tell me, Sand-man, ere thy grains Have multiplied upon my brains, So thick to make me stupid;—
II. Tell me, Death's journeyman!—But no! Hear thou my speech: I will not grow Irreverent while I try it; For, though I mock thy flight, 'tis said The forelock fills me with such dread, I never take thee by it.
III. List, then, old Is, Was, and To-be; I'll state accounts 'twixt thee and me. Thou gav'st me, first, the measles; With teething would'st have ta'en me off; Then mad'st me, with the hooping-cough, Thinner than fifty weasels;
IV. Thou gav'st small-pox, (the dragon now That Jenner combats on a cow,) And then some seeds of knowledge,— Grains of Grammar, which the flails Of pedants thresh upon our tails, To fit us for a college.
V. And, when at Christ-Church, 'twas thy sport To rack my brains with sloe-juice port, And lectures out of number! There Freshman Folly quaffs and sings, While Graduate Dullness clogs thy wings With mathematic lumber.
VI. Thy pinions next,—which, while they wave, Fan all our birth-days to the grave,— I think, ere it was prudent, Balloon'd me from the schools to town, Where I was parachuted down, A dapper Temple student.
VII. Then, much in dramas did I look,— Much slighted thee and great Lord Coke: Congreve beat Blackstone hollow; Shakspeare made all the statues stale, And in my crown no pleas had Hale To supersede Apollo.
VIII. Ah! Time, those raging heats, I find, Were the mere dog-star of my mind; How cool is retrospection! Youth's gaudy summer solstice o'er, Experience yields a mellow store,— An autumn of reflection!
IX. Why did I let the God of song Lure me from law to join his throng, Gull'd by some slight applauses? What's verse to A. when versus B.? Or what John Bull, a comedy, To pleading John Bull's causes!
X. Yet, though my childhood felt disease,— Though my lank purse, unswoll'n by fees, Some ragged Muse has netted,— Still, honest Chronos! 'tis most true, To thee (and, 'faith! to others too,) I'm very much indebted.
XI. For thou hast made me gaily tough, Inured me to each day that's rough, In hopes of calm to-morrow. And when, old mower of us all, Beneath thy sweeping scythe I fall, Some few dear friends will sorrow.
XII. Then, though my idle prose or rhyme Should, half an hour, outlive me, Time, Pray bid the stone-engravers, Where'er my bones find church-yard room, Simply to chisel on my tomb,— "Thank Time for all his favours!"
It is a curious coincidence—although considering the proximity of their ages there may be nothing really strange in it—that Mr. Colman and his intimate friend Bannister should have quitted this mortal world so nearly at the same time. The circumstance, however, gives us an opportunity of bringing their names together in a manner honourable to both. We derive the anecdote from the "Random Records;" and we think it will be at this juncture favourably received by those who admire dramatic authors and actors, and who rejoice to see traits of private worth the concomitants of public excellence.
After recounting the circumstances of his first acquaintance with Bannister, Mr. Colman says,
"In the year of my return from Aberdeen, 1784, unconscious of fear through ignorance of danger, I rushed into early publicity as an avowed dramatist. My father's illness in 1789 obliged me to undertake the management of his theatre; which, having purchased at his demise, I continued to manage as my own. During such progression, up to the year 1796 inclusive, I scribbled many dramas for the Haymarket, and one for Drury-lane; in almost all of which the younger Bannister (being engaged at both theatres) performed a prominent character; so that, for most of the thirteen years I have enumerated, he was of the greatest importance to my theatrical prosperity in my double capacity of author and manager; while I was of some service to him by supplying him with new characters. These reciprocal interests made us, of course, such close colleagues, that our almost daily consultations promoted amity, while they forwarded business.
"From this last-mentioned period, (1796,) we were led by our speculations, one after the other, into different tracks. He had arrived at that height of London popularity when his visits to various provincial theatres in the summer were productive of much more money than my scale of expense in the Haymarket could afford to give him. As he wintered it, however, in Drury-lane, I profited for two years more by his acting in the pieces which I produced there. I then began to write for the rival house in Covent Garden, and this parted us as author and actor: but separating, as we did, through accident, and with the kindest sentiments for each other, it was not likely that we should forget or neglect further to cultivate our mutual regard: that regard is now so mellowed by time that it will never cease till Time himself,—who, in ripening our friendship, has been all the while whetting his scythe for the friends,—shall have mowed down the men, and gathered in his harvest.
"One trait of Bannister, in our worldly dealings with each other, will nearly bring me to the close of this chapter.
"In the year 1807, after having slaved at some dramatic composition,—I forget what,—I had resolved to pass one entire week in luxurious sloth.
"At this crisis,—just as I was beginning the first morning's sacrifice upon the altar of my darling goddess, Indolence,—enter Jack Bannister, with a huge manuscript under his left arm!—This, he told me, consisted of loose materials for an entertainment, with which he meant to "skirr the country," under the title of Bannister's Budget; but, unless I reduced the chaos into some order for him, and that instantly,—he should lose his tide, and with it his emoluments for the season. In such a case there was no balancing between two alternatives, so I deserted my darling goddess to drudge through the week for my old companion.
"To concoct the crudities he had brought me, by polishing, expunging, adding,—in short, almost re-writing them,—was, it must be confessed, labouring under the "horrors of digestion;" but the toil was completed at the week's end, and away went Jack Bannister into the country with his Budget.
"Several months afterwards he returned to town; and I inquired, of course, what success?—So great, he answered, that in consequence of the gain which had accrued to him through my means, and which he was certain would still accrue, (as he now considered the Budget to be an annual income for some years to come,) he must insist upon cancelling a bond which I had given him, for money he had lent to me. I was astounded; for I had never dreamt of fee or reward.
"To prove that he was in earnest, I extract a paragraph from a latter which he wrote to me from Shrewsbury.
"'For fear of accidents, I think it necessary to inform you that Fladgate, your attorney, is in possession of your bond to me of £700; as I consider it fully discharged, it is but proper you should have this acknowledgment under my hand. J.B.'
"Should my unostentatious friend think me indelicate in publishing this anecdote, I can only say, that it naturally appertains to the sketch I have given of our co-operations in life; and that the insertion of it here seems almost indispensable, in order to elucidate my previous statement of our having blended so much sentiment with so much traffic. I feel, too, that it would be downright injustice to him if I suppressed it; and would betoken in myself the pride of those narrow-minded persons who are ashamed of acknowledging how greatly they have profited by the liberal spirit of others.
"The bond above mentioned was given, be it observed, on a private account; not for money due to an actor for his professional assistance. Gilliland, in his 'Dramatic Mirror,' says that my admission of partners 'enabled the proprietors to completely liquidate all the demands which had for some time past involved the house in temporary embarrassments.' This is a gross mistake; the Haymarket Theatre was never embarrassed (on the contrary, it was a prosperous speculation) while under my direction. My own difficulties during part of this time are another matter: I may touch slightly on this hereafter; but shall not bore my readers by dwelling long on matters which (however they may have annoyed me) cannot entertain or interest them.
"I regret following up one instance of Mr. Gilliland's inaccuracy immediately with another; but he asserts, in his 'Dramatic Mirror,' that J. Bannister, 'in the season 1778, made his appearance for the benefit of his father, on the boards of Old Drury.' In contradiction to the foregoing statement a document now lies before me,—I transcribe it verbatim:
"'First appearance, at the Haymarket, for my father's benefit, 1778, in The Apprentice. First appearance at Drury-lane, 1779, in Zaphna, in Mahomet. Took leave of the stage at Drury-lane, Thursday, June 1st, 1815. Garrick instructed me in the four first parts I played,—the Apprentice; Zaphna (Mahomet); Dorilas (Merope); and Achmet (Barbarossa).—Jack Bannister, to his dear friend George Colman. June 30th, 1828.'"
These memoranda, under the circumstances, are curious and affecting.—Death has gathered in his harvest, and both the men are gone.
Of Mr. Colman's delightful manners and conversational powers no words can give any adequate idea: with all the advantages of extensive reading, a general knowledge of mankind, and an inexhaustible fund of wit and humour, he blended a joyousness of expression, a kindness of feeling, and a warmth of manner, which rendered him the much-sought companion of every circle of society in which he chose to mix. Of his literary talents all the world can judge; but it is only those who have known him in private life who can appreciate the qualities which we despair of being able justly to describe.