A lecture on mimicry: as it was delivered with great applause, at the theatres in Covent-Garden ... To which is added Jerry Sneak's return from the regatta; and a lecture on lectures. By George Saville Carey.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

- POETICAL INTRODUCTION.

- LECTURES ON MIMICKRY.

- 1

- SCENE II.

- SECOND PART.

- PART III.

- DIALOGUE.

- JERRY SNEAK's RETURN FROM THE REGATTA.

- SONG. The BOOKS of BRIGHTON. Tune, Cold and raw the North doth blow.

- A LECTURE ON LECTURES, By LANCELOT LAST; As delivered with Applause in the COMIC MIRROUR. Written by G. S. CAREY.

A LECTURE ON MIMICRY, As it was delivered with great Applause, at the Theatres in Covent-Garden and the Hay-Market, and the great Room in Panton-Street. In the Course of which were introduced A GREAT VARIETY OF THEATRICAL IMITATIONS. To which is added JERRY SNEAK's RETURN FROM THE REGATTA; AND A LECTURE ON LECTURES. BY GEORGE SAVILLE CAREY.

LONDON. Printed for J. BEW, No. 28, PATER-NOSTER-ROW. M.DCC.LXXVI. [Price ONE SHILLING.]

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

PART I. A Managerial Scene, in which is introduced

Mr. Fiddlestick,

Mr. F-sh-r

Mr. Smallcoal,

Mr. C-lm-n

Mrs. Artichoke,

Mrs. H-rt—y

Bouana Figli.

Sig. S-st-ni

Patent,

Mr. G-r-k

Richard IIId.

Mr. W.st-n.

Shylock in Macbeth,

Mr. M-ckl-n.

PART II.

What alas shall

Sig. M—ll-co

Rosy Wine,

Miss C-t—y

The early Horn,

Mr. L-we

This is Sir,

Mr. B-n—ster

From Morn 'till

Mrs. B-rt—n

Think, O! think

Mr. V-r—n

Sweet Willy O!

Mrs. B-d-ley

The Mulberry

Mr. K-ar

Ye Warwickshire Lads, &c. a Duette,

Mr. V—n and Mr. D—n.

PART III. A Scene from Harlequin's Invasion.

Mr. Br—by, Mr. D-dd, Mrs. P.-rs-ns, and others.

Othello,

Mr. B-r-y

Cymbeline,

Mr. H—st

Jacimo,

Mr. P-lm-r

Posthumus,

Mr. R—dish

The Riva Singers and the Determination of Dr. GUTTLE,

Mr. D—d-n, Mr. Q—ck, Dr. A-ne.

A Diologue between ARISTOPHANES and BILLY BUCKRAM.

POETICAL INTRODUCTION.

YOUR kind indulgence I am come to ask,

Whilst I pursue my arduous mimic task,—

The path's contracted which I've sought to tread,

Chance pops each fancy'd figure in my head;

No dint of labour gather'd by degrees;

I can't assume an object when I please,

But just when Nature throws it in my way,

I take the hint, and bear the form away.

I would not by this mimic trade offend,

My only motive is a private end,

chinking the pocket.

And who is here will say, that I'm to blame,

Since all mankind are apt to do the same.

Yet some there are, methinks, I hear 'em too,

Who cry "this fellow's plan can never do,

"Damn his wry faces—He pretend to sing,

"Would he were taken off but once—to swing.

"Did ever mortal such an effort see?

"He'd fain persuade you that he takes off me,

"How could the puppy ever think to please,

"No more like me, than I to Hercules.

mimicking W—dw—d.

Should I engagement seek—and by the by

Should I to Aristophanes apply,

The Satirist perhaps would thus reply;—

"Engage you sir! no, that can never be,

"Two of a trade you know can ne'er agree,

"You say I broil my characters like sprats,

"And make me write a comedy of cats,

"Croak too the hellish language of a crow,

"When all the world can tell, I don't know how;

"Would you engage, try to engage the town,

"And then like me you'll hobble to renown;

"Live by your wits, sir, that's the way to thrive,

"Why how the devil do you think I live?"

I'll take the hint, and, on myself depend,

I never yet found Manager my friend,

By you supported, boldly I'll oppose

My mimic powers against a host of foes;

Roscius shall wake, and strut about the stage

And limping Proteus grin with comic rage,

Feeble Othello shall the state address,

And toothless Shylock lisp in Macbeth's dress,

Declaiming Richard in short accents breathe,

And bind his brows with a victorious wreathe.

The silken sons of Italy shall squall,

And John roast-beef, in vulgar accents bawl;

In fine—as far as mimickry can go,

At least as far as I can make it do,

These and some others of the changeful crew,

Shall rise for judgment to your candid view,

And if some merit you shall chance to find,

Some little genius in the lecturer's mind,

O'erlook his failings, set his heart at ease,

Nor damp an ardour which aspires to please.

LECTURES ON MIMICKRY.

A SUDDEN transition, from the gloomy shades of oblivion, to the sunshine of prosperity, has different effects on different objects; the man of sense shews it in a modest reserve; a coxcomb in a superficial glare of ostentation, which renders him the laughing-stock of all mankind. A tom-boy is always pleas'd with a new coat, let it fit him ever so ill; and when he should rather hide himself, his vanity leads him into the great world; hence he is proud of establishing a character, though a ridiculous one.

I beg leave to give my auditors a novel scene in another peep behind the curtain.

FIDDLESTICK.

Hollo! you carpenters, what the devil are you all about there?

CARPENTER.

Drawing up the clouds to make room for an Italian sky.

FIDDLESTICK.

Why, you make such a tugging and a pulling, you'll tear all the clouds to pieces.

CARPENTER.

Somebody has taken away the laurel from the figure of Apollo, sir, and we have not another in the house.

FIDDLESTICK.

Oh! I have got that, it fits me very well, and I intend to wear it in the character of Apollo, at the masquerade this evening. There, there, what the devil are you about now, hey!

CARPENTER.

'Tis only one of the ropes that snap'd.

FIDDLESTICK.

The devil snap you, what do you mean by that; do you know that the fourth part of every rope in this house belongs to me.

CARPENTER.

'Twas only the rope that was tied about the neck of Apollo; there is rope enough left to hang all the Apollo's in England.

Here Jerry Dowlas comes to offer himself.

DOWLAS.

A good morning sir, pray sir, is not your name Mr. Fiddlestick.

FIDDLESTICK.

Timothy Fiddlestick, Esq. if you please.

DOWLAS.

I beg your pardon sir.

FIDDLESTICK.

Well, what do you want here?

DOWLAS.

Sir, I came to offer myself.

FIDDLESTICK.

Offer yourself, to do what!

DOWLAS.

To play, sir.

FIDDLESTICK.

Hey, well, what do you play the fiddle?

DOWLAS.

No, sir.

FIDDLESTICK.

Can you sing?

DOWLAS.

No, sir.

FIDDLESTICK.

Then I would not give a fig for you.

DOWLAS.

I am a tragedian, sir.

FIDDLESTICK.

Damn your tragedies and your comedies,— I wish they were at the bottom of the sea, with all my heart;—'Tis a great pity they were ever introduced upon the stage;—there is more sound sense in a good solo, or a concerto, than all the tragedies and comedies in the world. But here comes Mr. Smallcoal,—you'd better speak to him. Hey, what, well—Mr. Smallcoal, here is a gentleman who says he is a tragedian.

SMALLCOAL.

A tragedian is he. Sneering did you ever play in any company.

DOWLAS.

Oh! yes sir, very often.

SMALLCOAL.

What company, sir?

DOWLAS.

Sometimes in one company, and sometimes another.

SMALLCOAL.

But what company, sir?

DOWLAS.

Sometimes at the Faulcon in Fetter-lane, sometimes at the Horn in Doctor's Commons, sometimes at the Goose-and-Gridiron in St. Paul's Church-yard.

SMALLCOAL.

I never saw such a goose as you are, I'm sure laughing Can you read, sir?

DOWLAS.

O yes. sir.

SMALLCOAL.

Can you write?

DOWLAS.

Yes, sir.

SMALLCOAL.

Then I'll be damn'd if you'll ever do for me: for you fellows that write and read are always too conceited; there is no making any thing of you.

DOWLAS.

I thought it was impossible to be an actor without such requisites, sir.

SMALLCOAL.

You thought?—who gave you the privilege of thinking, sir?—that's another proof of your stupidity—an actor should never think for himself.

DOWLAS.

No, sir?

SMALLCOAL.

No, he should always leave that to a Manager.—Did you ever hear Mrs. Hartichoke?

DOWLAS.

No, sir.

SMALLCOAL.

No?—call her in—now you shall hear the very pattern of an actress. Enter Hartichoke Prithee, my dear girl, give me your favourite speech in shore.—Oh, she has all the charming monotony of the cuckoo.

HARTICHOKE.

Such is the fate unhappy women find,

And such the curse entail'd upon our kind,

That man the lawless libertine may rove

Free and unquestion'd thro' the wilds of love;

While woman, sense and nature's easy fool,

If poor, weak woman swerve from virtue's rule,

If, strongly charm'd, she leave the thorny way,

And in the softer paths of pleasure stray,

Ruin ensues, reproach, and endless shame,

And one false step entirely damns her fame;

In vain with tears the loss she may deplore,

In vain look back to what she was before,

She sets like stars, that fall to rise no more.

SMALLCOAL.

There, there, what do you think of her?

DOWLAS.

Very clever indeed Sir;—but surely she could never have arriv'd at such a pitch of excellence, without knowing how to write and read.

SMALLCOAL.

Not a word, sir—not a syllable—all nature and my assistance;—besides, when she has lost the power of acting—she will be able to get her living by squeezing oranges and lemons at a coffee-house. squeezing his hands.

DOWLAS.

Sir, a good morning to you—I'm sorry I have been so troublesome.

SMALLCOAL

So am I, sir, [hey Fiddlestick] but I am afraid you have the greatest trouble to come.

DOWLAS.

What trouble, sir?

SMALLCOAL.

The trouble of taking yourself away as you came. [hey Fiddlestick]

DOWLAS.

'Tis a sad misfortune to be bit by a mad player;—however, I have one resource left yet. I'll e'en to my old friend Billy Bustle;—he's hand-and-glove with Patent; Patent will soon find out my genius, tho' these purblind dunciads have overlook'd it.

SCENE II.

BUSTLE to PATENT.

BILLY BUSTLE.

We've lost it, we've lost it, we've lost it running up and down, blowing his nose, and wiping his fingers on his breeches

PATENT.

What have you lost—your senses?

BUSTLE.

It is the cause, it is the cause.

PATENT.

What cause, Billy, what cause?

BUSTLE.

That damn'd illiterate cause;—Milton, Shakespeare, Johnson, Dryden, Pope, Addison, and all the whole list of worthies are gone to hell.

PATENT.

The devil they are!—where did you get this intelligence?

BUSTLE.

From those double-dy'd devils in Westminster-Hall.

PATENT.

What do you mean?

BUSTLE.

My property is gone; it is indeed—indeed it is —Our family have had an illiterate property for many generations—I can prove my copy-right, granted to my great, great grand-father's grandfather, to the following illiterate productions: Sir John Gower's Poems, Jeffery Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Drayton's Polyalbian, Spencer's Fairy Queen, Sir John Harrington's Orlando Furioso, from the Italian of Ariosto.

PATENT.

And they're gone, are they, Billy?

BUSTLE.

For ever!

PATENT.

Well, don't despair, I have a consolation for you yet.

BUSTLE.

Is it possible?

PATENT.

You shall have my productions, they will be the property of the living.

BUSTLE.

I'm happy, I'm happy; let the copy-right of the dead die with their illiterate masters for what I care.—Odds bobs I had like to have forgot—I have a present for you.

PATENT.

What is it, Billy-boy?

BUSTLE.

A genius.

PATENT.

Indeed!

BUSTLE.

A voice like a lion, and an eye——Oh here he comes. I'll leave you together alone.

Exit BUSTLE.

Enter DOWLAS.

PATENT.

Walk in, Sir; your servant, Sir, your servant—have you any particular business with me?

DOWLAS.

Yes, sir, my friends have lately discovered that I have a genius for the stage.

PATENT.

Oh, you would be a player, would you, sir?— pray, sir, did you ever play?

DOWLAS.

No, sir, but I flatter myself—

PATENT.

I hope not, sir; flattering one's-self is the very worst of hypocrisy.

DOWLAS.

You'll excuse me, sir.

PATENT.

Aye, sir, if you'll excuse me for not flattering you.—I always speak my mind.

DOWLAS.

I dare say you will like my manner, sir.

PATENT.

No manner of doubt, sir—I dare say I shall— pray, sir, with which of the ladies are you in love?

DOWLAS.

In love, sir!—ladies!looking round

PATENT.

Aye, sir, ladies—Miss Comedy, or Dame Tragedy?

DOWLAS.

I'm vastly fond of Tragedy, Sir.

PATENT.

Very well, Sir; and where is your fort?

DOWLAS.

Sir?

PATENT.

I say, sir, what is your department?

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DOWLAS.

Department?—Do you mean my lodging, sir?

PATENT.

Your lodgings, sir?—no, not I;—ha, ha, ha, I should be glad to know what department you would wish to possess in the tragic walk—the sighing lover, the furious hero, or the sly assassin?

DOWLAS.

Sir, I should like to play King Richard the Third.

PATENT.

A damn'd good character—a very good character; and I dare say you will play it vastly well, sir.

DOWLAS.

I hope you'll have no reason to complain, sir.

PATENT.

I hope not. Well, sir, have you got any favourite passage ready?

DOWLAS.

I have it all by heart, sir.

PATENT.

You have, sir, have you?—I shall be glad to hear you.

DOWLAS.

Hem—hem—hem— clearing his throat.

What will the aspiring blood of Lancaster

Sink in the ground—I thought it would have mounted.

See how my sword weeps for the poor king's death,

Oh! may such purple tears, be always shed

On those who wish the downfall of our house;

If there be any spark of life yet remaining

Down, down, to hell, and say I sent thee thither,

I that have neither pity, love nor fear.

PATENT.

Hold, sir, hold—in pity hold; za, za, za, sir, —sir—why dam'me, sir, 'tis not like humanity. You won't find me so great a barbarian as Richard,—you say he had neither, pity, love nor fear,—now, sir, you will find that I am possess'd of all those feelings for you at present,—I pity your conceit, I love to speak my mind; and damme I fear you'll never make a player.

DOWLAS.

Do you think so, sir.

PATENT.

Do I think so, sir?—Yes, I know so sir!— now sir, only look at yourself—your legs kissing as if they had fall'n in love with one another; —and your arms, dingle dangle, dingle dangle, like the fins of a dying turtle, mimicks him 'pon my soul, sir, 'twill never do,—pray, sir, are you of any profession?

DOWLAS.

Yes, sir, a linen draper!

PATENT.

A linen draper!—a damn'd good business; a very good business—you'll get more by that than by playing,—you had better mind your thrumbs and your shop, and be damn'd to you— and don't pester me here any more with your Richard and your—za, za, za—this is a genius damn such geniusses I say. Exit.

It will be acknowledged, I believe, that some, the most ingenious of mankind, who now stand dignified in the court of Fame, have been often more indebted to chance than industry.

Painters have drawn conversation pieces from the figures they have fancied to have seen in a fire; beautiful landscapes from the broken plaister in a wall;—formidable caverns, and terrifick mountains from the inside of a rotten cheese.

Musicians have composed fav'rite airs, from the creaking hinges of a door, the gurgling in the neck of a bottle, or the wind whistling through some little cranny.

Famous actors too have often formed their mode of speaking from the howling of a wolf, the roaring of a lion, or the braying of an ass.

There is a modern theatrical hero, "whom I have heard many praise, and highly too" as Hamlet says, who fell in love with the monotony of a chimney sweeper.

S**th.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

Our stern alarms are chang'd to merry meetings;

Grim-visag'd war has smooth'd his wrinkled front,

And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds,

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

He capers nimbly in a lady's ehamber,

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

Little Peter Pollish took his hints from a different object. This gentleman has often been heard to say, that a windmill was one of the most graceful structures in the world, and that it always put him in mind of a flying Mercury; but how he made it out, heaven only knows; 'tis certain he had studied the motion of a windmill, and the figure of a Mercury, for he had ever the action of the one, and the attitude of the other; 'tis said he was a profound politician too, and has been often heard muttering to himself, concerning the precarious and ticklish finances of poor Old England, our trade declining, frequent bankruptcies, combustions in the state, city squabbling, public complainings; and no Popery.

Once in a sudden gush of exclamation, he broke out in a quotation from Barbarossa, sometimes ingeniously making one syllable into two.

S**ig*y.

Now sleep and silence—ber-oods o'er the city,

The devoted centinel, now takes his lonely stand,

And idly der-eams of that to-morrow,

Which shall never come;—in this der-ead interval.

Oh! busy thought; from outward things

Descend into thyself; bring with thee

Awful conscience, and fir-em resolve,

That in the approaching hour of blood and horror

I may stand unmov'd.

And there he left off as stiff as a statue.

A certain veteran of the stage, perceiving a dearth of genius and the theatre in an absolute decline, stood forth at seventy-five to save it from a total fall. Othello, he observ'd, had lost his legs, and Roscius his inclination.—Shall we for ever bid good by'e to Romeo—Adieu to Castalio,—and farewell to Macbeth;—no, I will step forth myself, and convince the world there is no occasion for leg, tooth, or eye to play such characters; and without any of those corporeal requisites, my auditors shall see that I will act them to a charm.

M**k**n.

If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well,

It were done quickly; if th' assassination

Could trammell up the consequence, and catch

With its surcease, success; that but this blow

Might be the be-all, and the end-all—HERE.

But here upon this bank and shoal of time,

We'd jump the life to come.—But in these cases

We still have judgment here, that we but teach

Bloody instructions, which being taught, return

To plague the inventor. Even-handed justice

Returns th' ingredients of our poison'd chalice

To our own lips. Exit.

End of the First Part.

SECOND PART.

THE Italians make the ladies the objects of their imitation. Who does not laugh to hear a gigantic hero, from whose appearance one might expect the roar of a bellowing Taurus, warble out the commands of the conqueror of the world, with the execrable squeaking of a guinea-pig.

GAUDANI.

What, alas! shall Orpheus do?

Whither go without his love?

Euridice, oh! answer me,

I have lost my darling dove, &c.

I know no difference there can be in this between a C*T**Y in breeches, and a S***S**O in petticoats.

C*T**Y.

When bickerings hot,

At high words got,

Break out at gammy-oram,

The golden rule

Their flame to cool,

Is push about the jorum.

With fist on jug,

Coifs who can hug,

Or shew me that glib speaker,

Who her red rag

In gibe can wag

When her mouth's brim full of liquor?

'Tis not every ear that is so refin'd; some will listen with more satisfaction to the natural and unaffected manner of an English singer, than to the debilitated extravagance of an Italian.

DU**LL**Y.

With early horn

Salute the morn, &c.

Now I will beg leave to introduce the manner of a gentleman who has a little more pudding in his voice.

B*NN****R.

This is, sir, a Jubilee,

Music without Melody,

Verses without harmony

That is, sir, a Jubilee,

&c. &c.

There is generally a greater share of affectation in singers than in actors, and they are frequently more indebted to art than to nature. To imitate the dissonant jargon of an unpolished African, requires a mimical capacity but no great share of vocal abilities.

D*BD*N.

Deer heart, deer heart, what a terrible life am I led, &c.

The Italians, whose ancestors were the sweetest of all poets, seem to have abolished that celestial science, as if they thought poetry and good sense unnecessary, where there is fine singing. A famous air in an Italian Opera has been literally translated thus:

Where, which, and wherefore,

There, this, and therefore.

Paintings in still life seem to have lost their estimation—but we have capital singers in still life, in high esteem, who think it unnecessary to move hand or foot; nay sometimes indeed even disdain to open their mouths.

Mrs. BAR***L***N.

From morn to night alone I set,

For liberty I sigh and fret:

Like Robin in his cage.

Mamma too kills me with her care;

She tells me I am young and fair,

At a bewitching age.

&c. &c.

Our most sanguine wishes are frequently disappointed by the most provoking contrarieties. Some there are who possess enchanting tones, but are destitute of taste; and on the other hand, we meet with those who are endowed with every requisite but a voice. When therefore a passion for imitation is guided by taste and judgment, it will always give satisfaction; and we are ever pleas'd to view good action, fine feelings, and superior taste supply the deficiency of a voice.

V*RN*N.

Think, ah! think, within my breast,

While contending passions reign,

How my heart is robb'd of rest,

And in pity ease my pain.

To a lover thus distrest,

Torn with doubting, hopes and fears,

Ev'ry moment till he's bless'd

Is a thousand thousand years.

When an actor or a singer is possessed of an extravagance of action, it destroys all effect of sense or sound; and renders the most elegant composition farcical.

Mrs. B*DD**Y.

The pride of all nature was sweet Willy O,

The first of all swains,

He gladden'd the plains,

None ever was like to the sweet Willy O,

None ever was like to the sweet Willy O,

&c. &c.

I have heard the tree of our immortal Shakespeare celebrated in the melodious strains of an itinerant crier of wooden ware.

"By my bowl or platter, buy my wooden ware."

K**R.

Behold this fair goblet was carv'd from the tree

Which, Oh, my sweet Shakespeare was planted by thee;

As a relique I kiss it, and bow to the shrine,

What comes from thy hand must be ever divine.

All shall yield to the mulberry tree,

Bend to thee, bless'd mulberry;

Matchless was he that planted thee,

And thou, like him, immortal be.

As I have already given Mungo in distress, and Amintor in love, give me leave to introduce them once more in the rustic Ballad Singers.

V*RN*N.

Ye Warwickshire lads and ye lasses,

See what at the Jubilee passes.

&c. &c.

D*BD*N.

Be proud of the charms of your county,

Where nature has lavish'd her bounty.

&c. &c.

V**N*N.

Old Ben, Thomas Otway, John Dryden,

And half a score more we take pride in,

&c. &c.

D*BD*N.

There never was sure such a creature.

Of all she was worth he rob'd nature.

&c. &c.

End of the Second Part.

PART III.

IT rarely happens that we meet with a ROSCIUS, whose imitative genius can comprehend the great variety of human passions, and arrive at superior excellence in each.

There are many characters in which the figure of the figure of an actor gives us a disgust, and were they possessed of every other requisite, the part would always shew an awkward deficiency. —A crook-back'd Richard six feet high, will prejudice us against the character.—An Othello or a Mark Anthony, have the same effect, when represented by a diminutive figure.—But I have seen those characters acted by a modern tragedian, who hath impressed on me so strong an idea, that I have sometimes thought he had just left the great originals, and came to mimic them on the stage.

B*R*Y.

Most potent, grave, and reveren'd Seniors,

My ever honour'd and approv'd good masters,

That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,

It is most true—true I married her;

The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent—no more.—

It has been too often observed the managers of our theatres pay too little deference to their Kings. I have seen his Majesty of Denmark represented by a gentleman who would have made an excellent waiter at a tavern, and Cymbeline put into the hands of another who would have done more credit to Snuffle in the Mayor of Garrat than any other actor on the stage.

H**ST.

I've surely seen him,

His favour, his familiar to me—Boy!

Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace

I know not why,—or wherefore

To say, Live, Boy! ne'er thank thy master—live!

And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt

Fitting my bounty, and thy state, I'll give it.

When a hero makes his complaints, they should be expressed with the spirit of a hero; but when he whimpers them like a school-boy, it renders him perfectly ridiculous.

P*L**R.

It was upon a time—

A curse the clock that struck the hour,

When I brought proof enough to make

The noble Leonatus mad. Whereupon

Methinks I see him now!

R*DD**H.

Ah, so thou dost, Italian fiend,

Ah, me, egregious murderer, spit

And throw stones at me, set

The dogs in the street at me,

Let every thing be call'd Posthumous, Leonatus.

Oh! Imogen, my life, my wife, my Imogen!

Comedy has never a better effect on our passions than when two characters are happily contrasted, like light and shade in painting, each serves to foil the other;—the ludicrous vociferation of a Major Sturgeon, and the vacant timidity of a Jerry Sneak, give a double satisfaction, being opposed to each other.

DIALOGUE.

Aristophanes, F**TE. Billy Buckram W*ST*N.

BUCKRAM.

Your servant, Master Stophanes.

ARISTOPHANES.

Ah, what my little waddling, swaddling Billy Buckram, how goes the world with you?—I thought old Charon had punted you over long enough ago.—I thought you was lost!

BUCKRAM.

No, I am not lost—I was just found —I was in Heaven, as it were—I walked, I do not know how I walked—mechanically, like a clock, or Moore's machine.

ARISTOPHANES.

What, you've been with the damn'd Methodists again, I find.

BUCKRAM.

Damn'd Methodists!—Oh, thou shalt broil for that; thou shalt stand at the Devil's gate, and I will pelt thee, yea, I will pelt thee with red hot cinders.

ARISTOPHANES.

The devil you will—Red hot cinders!—I fancy you talk of things too hot to hold, hey, Billy—Come, prithee, be thy goodly self again, put off that damn'd face and begin.

BUCKRAM.

Begin What?

ARISTOPHANES.

Johnny Pringle, to be sure.

BUCKRAM.

Nay, I can be merry an I chuse.

ARISTOPHANES.

Then prithee chuse to be merry.

BUCKRAM.

So I will master 'Stophanes, for I loves you for old acquaintance sake.

SONG.

Johnny Pringle had a little pig,

It was little, and not very big.

Oh, had you been alive, and there to see

Johnny Pringle, Jenny Pringle, and little Piggy.

Johnny Pringle sat him down and cry'd,

Jenny Pringle laid her down and dy'd.

So there was an end of all the whole three,

Johnny Pringle, Jenny Pringle, and little Piggy.

But I am a-weary of this wicked world for all that.

ARISTOPHANES.

Its more than I am.

BUCKRAM.

And yet by your shining face, it seems to make you sweat, too.

ARISTOPHANES.

Huh, huh, sweat?—Fry, broil, burn,—I broil characters as you broil sprats.

BUCKRAM.

Broil characters, I gad, that's odd enough.

ARISTOPHANES.

Aye, broil characters;—What think you of Dr. Squintum, Peter Paragraph, Sir Luke Limp, Mother Cole, and the whole tribe of the Nabobs.

BUCKRAM.

Oh, they are parfectly burnt to a cinder now, the town wants more coals, fresh Coles, or any thing fresh,—

ARISTOPHANES.

They shall have 'em.—I'll tell you a secret, —shut the door—I'm going to have a new pantomime.—I'll tell you another,—I shall play harlequin myself.—Such a magazine for the next campaign. Characters never thought of by any bard before.—But to return to my pantomime— You shall be my Perriot.

BUCKRAM.

Perriot! Oh, if you make a peer of me, master 'Stophanes, you'll be a princely gentleman, indeed.

ARISTOPHANES.

Hold your tongue, you damn'd fool you. I shall be harlequin, and a nimble one—— You must keep close to my heels if you can. —And when we are pursued by all the mob of pantomimical figures, with their constables staves, red-hot pokers, pitch-forks, &c. at last we are drove into some turn-again lane,—how are we to make our escape?—

BUCKRAM.

I can't tell how, indeed.

ARISTOPHANES.

You can't, why then I'll tell you.—I'll turn you into a lion, and myself into an ass!

BUCKRAM.

I beg to be excused, master 'Stophanes.

ARISTOPHANES.

Hold your tongue, ye fool.——When the pantaloon and his mob comes to close quarters— you shall roar like a lion, and I'll bray like an ass

BUCKRAM.

can't roar like a lion, master 'Stophanes.

ARISTOPHANES.

I warrant you I'll make you.

BUCKRAM.

How will you make me.

ARISTOPHANES.

By a charm to be sure.

BUCKRAM.

But what sort of a charm.

ARISTOPHANES.

You shall hear—When you are standing in a corner sucking your thumbs, and wont roar, I'll lay my stick, thawk across your shoulders—and I warrant you'll roar like a lion in spight of your teeth.

BUCKRAM.

But shan't I make use of the same charm to you, Master 'Stophanes.

ARISTOPHANES.

I beg to be excused—I have my part by heart —For instance, what mob can stand this brays like an ass away they run—There's a touch for you.

BUCKRAM.

A touch indeed!

ARISTOPHANES.

Now, what is the next scene?

BUCKRAM.

Nay, I can't tell.

ARISTOPHANES.

Some beautiful water-works—with a fine cascade—when I the gentle harlequin, by the side of my pretty little columbine, shall be discover'd playing some tender air on my flute—suppose I give you a touch from Bona Figliola.

BUCKRAM.

Bona, Fi-fi-fili.

ARISTOPHANES.

Oh, that's too hard a bone for you to pick.

BUCKRAM.

Oh, I shall like to hear it, Master 'Stophanes, tho' I don't understand it.—I'm not so much out of fashion as that.

ARISTOPHANES.

Why then you shall have it. imitates the flute upon his stick. There, there, is not that enough to charm any body.—Well, in the midst of our felicity, we are attacked again—and how do you think I got rid of 'em?

BUCKRAM.

Drown 'em all, I suppose.

ARISTOPHANES.

No—I'll turn the water-works into fire-works.

BUCKRAM.

Into fire-works.

ARISTOPHANES.

Yes, fire-works;—and you shall be my little match-man.—I'll be Torre behind, and you shall take care of the rockets in front.—Here goes a rocket. Imitates the firing of a rocket. There, there it goes, Billy.

BUCKRAM.

Where, where, Master 'Stophanes.

ARISTOPHANES.

Where? Why, its all in idea to be sure.

BUCKRAM.

But I can't find out the idea, Master 'Stophanes.

ARISTOPHANES.

Why then you're a damn'd fool, that's all— And now Billy, now for it.

BUCKRAM.

Now, what's next.

ARISTOPHANES.

Why I shall turn the cathrine-wheels into a couple of cats.

BUCKRAM.

A couple of cats.

ARISTOPHANES.

Yes, a couple of cats. You remember my parrot, don't you.

BUCKRAM.

I don't remember your parrot, not I.

ARISTOPHANES.

No?—Room for cuckolds, Poll, Poll, Poll, O pretty Padle.

BUCKRAM.

O Lud, I remember poor Poll vastly well now.

ARISTOPHANES.

You do—Then what think you of my cats,— the am'rous courtship of two cats in a gutter.— 'Twill make a damn'd good moon-light scene.

BUCKRAM.

But how will you introduce 'em, Master Stophanes.

ARISTOPHANES.

How?—Why you shall hear—Suppose two cats on the top of a house, making love to each other; washing their faces; for all your true lovers should go with clean faces, hey, Billy— The gentleman shall address his lady thus:

Mimicks the cats.

"Moll, Moll-row, Moll-row."

Now the she cat.

"Cur-well, Cur-well, Cur-well."

Now the he cat.

"Cur you love me, Cur you love me."

Now the she cat.

"No, Cur no, Cur no."

Now the catastrophe.

Hoo, hoo, Oh, you whore.

Imitates the fighting of cats.

There's for you, Billy, there's for you, boy;—if there should be a serious face in the house while that scene is going forward, I shall pronounce it, the face of a murderer or a methodist.

End of the Third Part.

JERRY SNEAK's RETURN FROM THE REGATTA.

I'M just come from 'Gatta; am drench'd like a hound,

'Tis twenty to one that I had not been drown'd,

There were wife and myself, and some brave jolly boys,

In a six-oar'd cutter, amidst all the noise,

When a blundering broad-bottom'd country barge

Came bearing down on us,—and then to our charge

We were all overset; should surely have sunk,

And have gone to the bottom if we had not been drunk;

There was ne'er a one dead of us all, but my wife,

But they tow'd her to shore, and soon brought her to life;

She was dead as a fish, and as pale as a clout,

But they rubb'd her, and scrubb'd her, and roll'd her about,

'Till they made her to talk, and to walk, and to see,

And now she's as blithe and as brisk as a bee,

But we boarded our cutter, and ventur'd again,

Determin'd to see, what there was to be seen,

Such a wonderful possy of pennants and colours,

Such splashing and dashing with oars and scullers,

Skiffs, wherries and barges all huddl'd together,

Such crying for shelter on account of the weather,

The people on shore, who paid pounds for a seat,

Got wet to the skin and were glad to retreat,

While we on the Thames were so snug and so quiet,

Amidst all the rain, all the racket and riot;

There were courtiers and cits, and the gay savage-weavers,

With fifes and with drums, with bones and with cleavers,

The men were all red, and the women all white,

Oh, what a beautiful, wonderful sight,

The like I ne'er saw since born of my mother,

Should I live 'till I die, I should ne'er see another,

For should I have been drowned again and again,

I'd have gone every day such a sight to have seen;

There's nothing in drowning you know now-a-days,

They've found out such wonderful comical ways,

Were you dead as a stone, you've no reason to fear,

They'll bring you to life with a flea in your ear;

The barges, some look'd like a body of gold,

Some new ones were made—out of those that were old,

With awnings of silk; with some figure or trinket,

And many were covered—with nought but a blanket,

With white-lead and black-lead, with paint and with pitch,

Some large and some small, some ragged, some rich;

Such a sight, such a noise, and such a sweet smell,

Was never yet equal'd on earth, or in hell;

But we got to the gardens, and landed at last,

In hopes to partake of the princely repast,

The tables were cover'd with many a thing,

You'd have thought they'd set out a fine feast for a king;

The aldermen fix'd 'em each man to his plate,

One took off his wig, and then rubbing his pate,

Look'd eagerly round with a face of despair,

For fear that he should not come in for his share,

Then stuck his knife greedily into a ham,

Unbutton'd his waistcoat his stomach to cram,

Laid bones of fat capons in many a heap,

That he eat and he drank till he fell fast asleep.

I was hungry too, for as I am a sinner,

I'd ne'er a spare minute to get me a dinner,

So took me a plate, and then slily sate down,

Determin'd to get me a bit of the brown,

Was resolv'd to have it the risque of my life,

In spight of that termagant teazer, my wife,

But I'd scarcely got down a good mouthful or two,

Before she came up, and made such ado,

Cry'd I never should more go with her to a feast,

Said I look'd like a hog, that I eat like a beast,

I'd have look'd if I could still more like a swine,

Would have swill'd all the night, but could get me no wine;

And mine was the fate too, often out of twenty,

There was nought but the artful appearance of plenty;

To canal next I went, and there dipp'd in my hat

To get me some water—there was plenty of that,

I heard some of the people most bitterly curse,

But I took it like marriage, the better for worse;

The people all round seem'd in wonderful pother,

Did nothing but grumble, and look at each other.

To me it appear'd like a scene of confusion,

Without a beginning, or without a conclusion.

All the folks that were,—Turk, Christian, or Jew,

Seem'd plaguely puzzl'd to know what to do.

By the fate of St. Peter, and well too they might,

'Twas the very first time they had seen such a sight,

'Twas a kind of rehearsal, where none knew his part,

To act a Regatta's a wonderful part!

There was none of them perfect, to be sure, it was plain,

'Twill be much better done when they play it again;

But they all from that day have been fond of the water,

Not a father or mother, not a son or a daughter,

But what have sate off for a draught or a dip,

To get themselves cur'd of the scurvy and hyp.

Oh, were you at Margate, Southampton, or Brighton,

To see them all sous'd—'tis enough to delight one;

'Tis sheep-sheering time, so they go there to feast,

The first to be wash'd well, and then to be fleec'd.

The townsmen have all got a wonderful knack

Of touching your pocket, and stroking your back,

But give them a chance, once, of taking a pull,

At a fat golden fleece, and they'll have all his wool.

If you would not be apt now to think it too long,

I'd finish my story good folks with a song.

SONG. The BOOKS of BRIGHTON. Tune, Cold and raw the North doth blow.

I.

The country is moorish,

The natives are boorish,

Tho' ignorant, yet they are cunning,

These are excellent places,

If you're of false faces,

With abundance of fleecing and funning.

II.

I wish you much pleasure,

And mirth without measure,

My wishes, I'm sure they are fervent,

You may all believe me,

I do not deceive ye,

So believe me your most humble servant.

End of the Fourth Part.

A LECTURE ON LECTURES, By LANCELOT LAST; As delivered with Applause in the COMIC MIRROUR. Written by G. S. CAREY.

LADIES and Gemmen, I am going presently, as you will presently find, to give you a Lecture on Lectures; but first and foremast, I think it necessary that I should give some account of myself, because why, a man who can give no account of himself, is to all intents and purposes a vagram.

First, as to my name, Lancelot Last, at your service, by trade, when I used to follow it, a Shoe-maker; but happening to see one of your lectures in our town, I was inspired, as it were; and knowing him to be no better a schollard than myself, I took off my apron, threw down my lap-stone, kick'd up my last, gave up my awl, and so sate off to lecture.

I was a long time before I could determine with myself what subject to begin upon, at last Stronomy came into my head, but I found the stars were out of my reach, and whenever I dipp'd into that science, I was presently lost as it were, in a cloud.

Then Ottamy came into my head, I was at home to a peg in Ottomy, for as to plucking out a tooth, picking out a corn, or curing the gripes, nobody is more skilful than myself; but when I came to the imputation of a leg, and as I am naturally tender-hearted, I found it too cutting a business for me.

Then says I to myself, what think'st thou Lancelot Last of Chymistry, I thought as how that business was something in my way, for as to your consalves and presarves, nobody is more larned in that way than myself, but then thinks I again, some of my auditors may have an objection to the name of physic, and physic now-a-days is nothing but a drug.

Then Heraldry came into my head, but happening to see the king's arms on a hackney-coach, I thought the dignity of that science was gone to the dogs.

I was advised by a friend to set about Midwifery. But my mind was big with a thousand apprehensions whenever I thought on midwifery, so I gave it up because I thought I should never be able to deliver myself on that subject.

I would have set about a Lecture on Heads, but my friend, Alexander Stevens, had dissected every head in the kingdom so well, that I should have been set down as one of his block-heads, if I had meddled with ever a one.

I thought the Heart would be no bad subject, but I could find so very few good ones, that I had not a heart to set about it.

Thinking of bad hearts put the Law into my head, and I thought a Lecture on the Law would be no bad thing; then says I to myself, the Law is no good thing in itself, but would it not be better if I could make a good subject out of it. I thought and I ponder'd about it 'till I found myself like a poor fly in a cobweb. The law always puts me in mind of a coffin—once in, your never out again.

If none of these subjects will do, what in the name of Lucifer will do,—Lucifer! who the devil is Lucifer?—A great orator mayhap.— Odds-bobbs, an orator.—It directly came into my head that a lecture on oratory would be the best thing I could set about, and so I begins my lecture on oratory.

Ladies and gemmen, now according to the learned, and I am something of a schollard myself. Oratory means jawing, because why, why because no orator can speak without his jaws; perhaps you'll think I can't give you a Latin devination for it, now you'll find yourselves mistaken, what is English for Os? why bon•… to be sure, and the jaws being full of bones▪ they are fix'd proofs that the word oratory comes from Os.

Now I think it is necessary that you should know what an orator is——and what is it you will say; I answer, it is a man—and what is he to do?—I answer, to speak words——and what are words?—I answer, letters put together, but there can be no word without a wowel;— because why; why do you see, because they can't.

What are the necessary qualities of an orator——The first, he must spit, then wipe his mouth, then lay his hand upon his heart, then turn up his eyes, then out comes a word, then another follows it, and then, like a post horse, let him get on as fast as he can.

An orator should be a good mimic too— Odds-bobbs, now I talk of mimics, I must take care what I am about, for I am surrounded by mimics here, and they will be for taking me off, perhaps, now you shall see I will save them the trouble, and take off myself.

going off.

FINIS.

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Title statement

A lecture on mimicry: as it was delivered with great applause, at the theatres in Covent-Garden ... To which is added Jerry Sneak's return from the regatta; and a lecture on lectures. By George Saville Carey.

Carey, George Saville, 1743-1807.

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University of Oxford Text Archive
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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5312

ID [isbn10]

1106023110

ID [isbn13]

9781106023117

ID [TCP]

K113231.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3314427220

ID [ECLL]

0796300300

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— A lecture on mimicry: as it was delivered with great applause, at the theatres in Covent-Garden ... To which is added Jerry Sneak's return from the regatta; and a lecture on lectures. By George Saville Carey., Carey, George Saville, 1743-1807.. [2],57,[1]p.,plate : port. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for J. Bew,. 1776.. [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT145570.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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