“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).”