act, her imprecations are almost too horrible; among others, she exclaims, in the excess of rage, "Je maudrais les Dieux, s'ils me rendoient le jour." "I'd curse the gods were they to give me life." "Get to the d-1, vile hussey !" exclaimed an old officer, sitting on the front seat of the stage-box, and, at the same time, giving her a push on the back. For a while, this act of undue interference interrupted the performance. When the noise ceased, Mademoiselle turned, and thanked the officer for having bestowed on her the most flattering mark of applause she had ever received.

A SCOTCH BULL.

A PARTY of actors played "Douglas" at the Trades' Hall, in Glasgow. The bills said, that "his histrionic powers had procured him the appellation of the Third Roscius;"" but, nevertheless, added, "that this was his first appearance on any stage."

TRAGEDY IN EARNEST.

DURING a representation, at the Théatre de l'Impératrice, at Paris, one of the principal characters, a young nobleman, distrusting the fidelity of his confidant, draws his sword, and is about to plunge it in his bosom, when the sub

missive attitude of the man, with the remembrance of his former services, darts across his mind, and disarms his anger. The play had gone on smoothly to this scene; in the progress of it, the nobleman's wrath is raised, he draws his sword, but his confidant, being deficient in his part, neglected to draw back, or fall upon his knees; and before the other could command his weapon, the point had inflicted a deadly wound. Assistance was afforded on the instant, but the unfortunate man expired before he could be removed from the stage. The result of this accident made so deep an impression on the survivor, that, after an illness of four days, during which he incessantly bewailed the deed, he died, bequeathing the greater part of his proprety to the family of him he had so unconsciously slain.

THREE AND THE DEUCE.

ONE night, in Dec. 1823, the audience of the Liverpool Theatre were roused from their apathy by the performance of two gentlemen, presumed to be their first appearance on any stage. The play-bill announced that, after "Damon and Pythias," a gentleman of Liverpool would be found At Home, in imitation of Mr. Mathews. Accord

ingly, the amateur imitator came forward, and, at the same moment, a second gentleman jumped from the stage-box, in the person of his indignant, but respected father, armed with a huge ash-plant, which he so vigorously plied on the person of the young aspirant to dramatic fame, that he made a very hasty sortie. The manager, unfortunately for himself, interposing, made up the trio, and had the honour of receiving from the injured parent a quantum-sufficit of castigation, in the presence of the audience then assembled.

EPILOGUE TO A CONDEMNED FARCE.

By the following slight detail, our readers will learn, that the would-be Charioteers of 1779 were thought as fit subjects for dramatic ridicule, as those who sported "the Buxton Bit, Bridoon so trim,-three Chesnuts and a Grey," but a few short years ago.

On February 20th, 1779, a new farce, entitled "Jehu," was attempted to be performed at Drury Lane Theatre, but it was received with such unwelcome sounds, and such unequivocal marks of disapprobation, that the manager ordered the curtain to be dropped in the middle of the second

act. This, however, did not seem to satisfy the audience, as many voices called loudly for the manager. In the midst of the storm, Mr. King made his appearance; and, on silence being obtained, delivered the following poetical address, or epilogue, so very apposite to the fate of the farce, that many were convinced it had been written in the sagacious anticipation that the piece could not succeed. Whether this was the case or not, we cannot determine. It is very ingenious, and runs thus:

(To the Gallery.)

Here's, "Long-trotting Tom;" here's" Finger the reins ;" And tip all the go-by, from London to Staines.

I

say, how d'ye relish my foul-weather rug?

My wig, too, is that all tight, clever, and snug?

(To the Pit.)

This is coarse kind of humour for you to connive at ;
And you'll wonder, no doubt, what the d--l I drive at ;
To be brief; 'tis at this :—when an authorling dreams
Of Parnassus's mount, and Pierian streams,

He, in metaphor, utters bis joys and his hopes;
Eats, drinks, coughs, and sneers, in figures and tropes.
In this style, our bard, with his comedy, came,
(For farce is a term modern authors disclaim ;)
'Tis true, that Miss Farce is Dame Comedy's child,
And all her manœuvres are skittish and wild;

Much given to giggling and hoydenish airs,

While she's always a crying, or saying her prayers.

Why she whines thus of late, many things have been said
Some pretend, 'tis because wit and humour are dead.
Be that as it may, says the Bard-' Mr. King;
My diligence, here, is a slight little thing;
But slight as it is, perchance, it may thrive,
Could I get such a coachman as you are,
to drive.'
'First,' said I, let me ask, if your tackle's all tight;
If
your cattle have wind to run through a third night?
For we know but too well, 'tis confounded dull working,
Where all must depend on our flogging and jerking;
Besides, on the road, there is nothing that cheers
Your tits, like a few jingling bells at their ears;
And the d--l a crotchet have you of a song,
To help either driver or cattle along.

'Tis with coachmen, as well as with authors, the way
To whistle and sing, if they've little to say;
These are tokens of old, ever known to portend,
That the wit, on the journey, draws near to an end.
You, young scribblers, too, think you never can fail.
Gee up off at once! all the way like the mail!
While the critics lie by, 'till you totter and reel,
When one of them sticks a d-d spoke in your wheel;
Then over you go, 'tis in vain that you hollow
To the patron of poets and coachmen-Apollo.
Just as Cornishmen flock round a wreck on the shore ;
In a trice you're surrounded by critics a score ;
Who, while you are struggling, in vain, to get loose,
Will pluck you as bare as a Lincolnshire goose:

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