University of Virginia Library

SHOOTING STARS: OR, THE BATTLE OF THE COMETS.

AN UNWRITTEN TRAGEDY, IN TWO ACTS. NOT BY SHAKESPEARE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• Philus Philomusus, a celebrated manufacturer of looking-glasses.
• Dr. Fungus, editor of the “Literary Mushroom,” and retailer of catsup.
• Sedley, editor of the “Comet,” with a fiery beard.
• Fabulator, a writer of the tales, fables, and allegories.
• Epigram, scribbler on a small scale.
• Conundrum, scribbler on a small scale.
• Stanley, a wary politician, on the fence.
• Caustic, a satirical fellow, supposed to be the dramatist himself.
• Keeper of the Park, a friend to all parties.
• Officer, a runner of the marble house.
• Finance, travelling agent of the looking-glass maker.
• Trustall, travelling agent for the “Mushroom.”

ACT I.

SCENE I

The Park, in front of the debtors' jail. Whitey-blue posts seen in endless perspective. The City-Hall clock strikes eleven.
Enter Keeper of the Park and Officer.
Keeper.
Has Fungus, sir, walked forth this morning?

Off.
No;
It was his usual time an hour ago.

Keep.
At any time, sir, when you see him here,
Let no unfeeling creditor come near;
I would not have him stared at. See! who 's that,
Now entered at the gate, so plump and fat?

Off.
Sir, 't is the Mirror's principal collector,
With pockets lined like some pet-bank director.

Keep.
Leave me awhile, but be within my call.

[Exit Officer.
Enter Finance.
Good morning, sir, you 're welcome to the hall.
I heard last night you had arrived express,
With news of your unparalleled success.

Fin.
Yes, sir; and I am proud to be the man
That served the Mirror since it first began.
Defeated Fungus will attempt no more
To cross our path, as he has done before;
No longer will his Mushroom work be known—
The Mirror, now, securely reigns alone.

Keep.
Near Tewksbury, I think, in Jersey state,
Your agent got two thousand names of late!
Has Fungus, sir, lost any friends of note?

Fin.
Sir, I was posted home by the first boat,
Ere an account was taken of his loss;
But as I left the place, to come across
Upon the railroad, it was boldly said,
The Mushroom never more could raise its head!

Keep.
That work, I fear 's, unlike the Mirror, sir,
Too tame and spiritless to make a stir;
Worse news than this poor Fungus never met,
For on his agent's luck his all was set.

Fin.
Ill fortune is to Fungus nothing new, sir;
He bets at random, and is still the loser;
Yet his chagrin he has the tack to hide well—
How does he pass his time, sir, here in Bridewell?

Keep.
As one whose income ne'er was half a crown,
But as an editor he 's much cast down.
Sometimes he reads and walks, and wishes fate
Had blest him with a less conspicuous state.

Fin.
Were it not possible to see this editor?
They say he'll talk with any but a creditor.

Keep.
This is his usual hour of walking out,
Here, in the Park; we'll see him soon, no doubt;
After his morning draught he seldom fails.
Here we may stand unseen, behind these pales,
Awhile to observe how he at fortune rails.

[They retire.
Enter Fungus.
Fun.
By this time the decisive blow is struck—
Either my agents have been blessed with luck,
Or I no more can send the Mushroom forth,
For eighteen pence is all that I am worth!
Would I had wealth, if fate's stern will were so,
For what have we poor editors but wo!
While the rich reader pays us, if he chooses,
And is content with nothing he peruses!

Fin.
He seems extremely moved.

Keep.
He 's ill at ease,
I'll introduce you to him, if you please.

[Coming forward.
Fun.
Why, there's another check to proud ambition.
That man, through me, obtained his late commission;
And now I am his prisoner—he 's my bail,
For the extended limits of the jail.
Such an unlooked-for change who could believe,
That saw him for his unpaid salary grieve,
When I employed him as my out-door clerk?
Good morrow, Mr. Keeper of the Park.
The grass looks cheerful, and the day is fair.
Has any news arrived? Whom have you there?

Keep.
A gentleman of breeding and address,
Who came last night from Tewksbury, express.

Fun.
Comes he to me with letters or advice?

Keep.
He serves the Mirror, sir, let that suffice.

Fun.
Then he wont dun me—so good morning, sir,
You 're welcome, though the friend of Philus, for
I'm almost such myself—could I forget
That he grows rich, while I'm confined for debt;
Were he not called the great belles-lettres leader,
I might be truly happy, and his reader.
You 've canvassed in New Jersey!—what success?

Fin.
Ah! that will reach your ears too soon, I guess.

Fun.
If to my loss it can't too soon. But tell,
Are all my agents and collectors well?
And does the list of their subscribers swell?

Fin.
Since my arrival, sir, another post
Came in, which brought us word a numerous host,
Of your subscribers 'mong the Jersey hills,
Have stopped their papers, and not paid their bills!

Fun.
Fate, do thy worst! the Mushroom then must slumber,
I have not paper for another number;
No cash—no credit—sighs and prayers are all
I have to give—the work, alas! must fall!

Fin.
Our Philus, sir, depends on perseverance,
Patience and toil, and faithful friends' adherence,
Talent, and taste, and tact—for these have made him,
Yet he pays liberally to all who aid him.
His writers love a bold and active leader,
And so does every male and female reader.
Patrons, like women, must be warmly wooed,
Such is the course our Philus has pursued.

Fun.
Alas! I thought them children, all together,
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a feather.
And rather hoped to win their hearts and cash
With stale, old stories, anecdotes, and trash!
But literary editors, I find,
Are put in trust for tastes of every kind;
And when themselves are void of wit and tact,
Who can say how their patrons may not act?

Enter Officer.
Off.
Sir, here's a man, who told me, with a groan,
He wished to see the doctor, all alone.

Keep.
I come to him.

[Exit Keeper.
Fin.
His business must require
Your private ear, and so I will retire;
Wishing you all the earthly good I can,
Not wronging him I serve—the Mirror man.

[Exit Finance.
Fun.
Farewell; alas! who can this fellow be?
A sudden chill is running over me.
I fear some heavy news.
Enter Keeper.
Who is't, O'Hare?

Keep.
A man whose looks bespeak a world of care.
A melancholy messenger, I dread,
For when I asked the news, he shook his head.
He comes express from Tewksbury to you,
I fear his news is fatal, so adieu!

[Exit.
Fun.
Fatal, indeed! his brow 's a running title,
That speaks the page below, a sad recital.
Enter Trustall.
Say, friend, how goes the work?—do many stop?
Of new subscribers have you reaped a crop?
Thou tremblest, and the whiteness of thy cheek
Is apter than thy tongue, the news to speak.
E'en such a man, so faint and wo-begone,
So dead in look, so dull, and so forlorn,
Drew Simpson's curtain, when the night was lowery,
And told him Forrest had redeemed the Bowery.
Now wouldst thou say—“your pen did thus and thus,
And thus your scissors, both enraptured us:”
Stopping my greedy ear with flattery's meed,
Till in the end, to stop my ear indeed,
Thou hast a sigh to change this dew to frost,
Ending with scissors—pen—and—all—are lost.

Trust.
Your scissors yet remain, from hook impending,
But for your pen—

Fun.
Why that, perhaps, wants mending;
Although I scarcely use it once a week.
Yet, say, good Trustall—speak, I charge thee, speak!
Must we yield up our editorial fame,
And let the Mirror every honor claim?
Must each competitor still lose the prize!
Tell thou thy master his suspicion lies,
And I will take it as a kind disgrace,
And thank thee for such insult to my face.

Trust.
Your fears are true; the Mirror “goes ahead.”

Fun.
Yet, for all this, say not the Mushroom's dead.

Trust.
I'm sorry I must force you to believe,
A sad disaster nothing can retrieve;
But all your Jersey patrons, sir, are lost;
They 've stopped the Mushroom, and not paid the cost;
While each of them now takes, oh! cursed chance,
The New York Mirror, paid for in advance!
They say, “that sheet, beside our Mushroom paper,
Is like the sun compared to farthing taper!
Its active spirit lends a fire, that's fanned
E'en to the dullest peasant in the land;
And makes its way against all opposition,
Though ever courting generous competition.”
A nobler work, or one in richer dress,
Was never issued from the weekly press.
In fine, its editor has won the field,
And your sharp scissors and dull pen must yield.

Fun.
Yet, hold! for oh, this prologue lets me in
To a vile plot—where have our agents been?
Why suffered they such chances to befall?
They should have given every one a call.

Trust.
The lucky Philus, seeking our defeat,
Called for the Mushroom, and was shown a sheet;
Asking what reparation we could make,
For all the articles our scissors take
Without acknowledgment. When I with pride,
Impatient of such taunts, indignant cried,
“Hold! most ambitious editor of York,
At champagne parties first to draw a cork,
While speaking with my master's mouth, you see,
I now propose the selfsame words to thee,
Which thou wouldst have me answer to.” From these
More words arose, and we had quite a breeze,
Till, in the end, two thousand names were struck
From our subscription list! Confound the luck!
Low in the dust our scissors' journal lies,
From whence, with life 't will never more arise.

Fun.
Oh! hadst thou stabbed, at every word thou'st uttered,
Sharp scissors in my flesh, I 'd not have muttered
A single oath! Oh, heavens! methinks I see
My little pet in mortal agony!
Gorging the ravenous wolf's insatiate crop!
But, say, did all—did all our patrons stop?

Trust.
All but the free list—fifteen hundred, ten.

Fun.
Let them, too, stop. Inhospitable men!
Against our rigid rules, a balance due,
To discontinue without paying too!
Was't not enough to have the secret blown,
That we ne'er wrote a sentence of our own;
That all our pictures were from worn-out plates;
Our newest fashions all of last year's dates;
But must you cheat us out of all we sent you?
Nor could the editor's lost fame content you?
You never published, monsters, if you had,
You 'd know the pang of being driven mad!

Trust.
Take comfort, sir, and hope a better day;
Another work, perhaps, will better pay.

Fun.
Oh! who can tamely, and with patience fast,
By thinking on an alderman's repast,
Or wander coatless, when 't is damp and chill,
By bare remembrance of a tailor's bill?
Away! by heavens, I shall abhor to see
The man who talks of publishing to me.
And when thou sitt'st up late, with good old folks,
In tedious winter nights, to crack your jokes,
Amuse them with the marvellous relation
Of many a poor, ill-fated publication,
Which, like my own, have toiled, with heart and hand,
To mar the brightest Mirror in the land,
And toiled in vain, but died at last unread—
And send your hearer laughing to his bed.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE II.

A street in New York, near St. Paul's Church.
Enter Philus, with arms folded, à la Kean.
Phi.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this bright event;
And all the clouds, which on the Mirror frowned,
In the deep bosom of the ocean drowned.
Now are our brows with laurel chaplets twined;
Our doubts and fears are given to the wind;
Eleven volumes, bound at great expense,
Are now displayed as gilded monuments
Of our success, filled with the choicest treasures,
Engraving, music, and delightful measures;
Grim Opposition smooths his wrinkled face,
And now, instead of jockeying in the race,
To check our course, convinced of his mistake,
Has struck his flag, and follows in our wake.
But I, that am not shaped for fawning tricks,
To bite, and snarl, and lick the foot that kicks,
Why I shall still, without remorse or dread,
In duty's path, like Crockett, go ahead.
Mid flowers of literature I'll toil and delve,
And my next step commences Volume Twelve.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The Park. Fungus reading a pamphlet.
Enter Philus and the Keeper.
Phi.
Good-day, my lord; what subject is't you read?
I fear, I bother you.

Fun.
You do indeed.

Phi.
Friend, leave us to ourselves; we must confer.

[Exit Keeper.
Fun.
I owe you nothing; what 's your business, sir?

Phi.
Suspicion haunts the guilty, like a ghost,
He sees a bailiff in each painted post.

Fun.
Where guilt without controlment, holds his sway,
And steals a rival's patronage away,
An editor might fear each post a Turk;
And I, proprietor of one sweet work,
Have now the fatal object in my eye,
Who caused my periodical to die.

Phi.
Why, what a dunce was Æsop's bird of night,
To ape the eagle in his mid-day flight,
Till Sol's bright rays did all his powers confound,
And so, for all his wings, the fool was drowned.
Thou shouldst have been content as carrier, sir,
And not aspired to be an editor.
With a poor, frothy brain, half-crazed with rhyming,
Nor broken thus thy neck with foolish climbing.

Fun.
Hadst broken thine, when first thou chased a bubble,
It might have saved Jack Ketch a little trouble;
But thou wast born to edify mankind,
Amuse the ladies, and improve their mind;
To reach the top of fame and fortune's ladder,
While I, beneath its foot, have played the adder.
How many love-sick lines and maiden sighs
Hast thou to answer for! how many eyes
Of liquid blue hast thou gemmed round with pearls
Bright as thy wit; how many lovely girls
Will bless the hour that gave thy Mirror birth!
The tuneful cricket chirruped in the hearth;
The mocking-bird sung, a plagiaristic sign,
Foreboding many a sweet, but stolen line;
Æolian harps were heard upon the breeze,
And, though 't was August, blossoms decked the trees;
The kittens gambolled in their frolic play,
And thrilling expectation held its sway;
Canaries warbled with their sweetest glee,
And currant tarts were all the rage for tea;
More than a printer's pains thy printer took,
(Thy types were not by Connor nor by Cooke,)
Yet brought forth less of hope—I mean in size,
Mottoes it had, and Algebra sublime,
With much of Woodworth's amatory rhyme;
Types in its head, like German text appeared,
And if the rest be true, that I have heard,
It came into the world—

Phi.
I'll hear no more.
Take this bank-note, and pay thy paper score;
I'll puff thy work; my censures were but feigned;
For this, among the rest, was I ordained.

Fun.
Oh! and for much more generous acts than this,
Just Heaven reward thee with a life of bliss!

Phi.
What! shall the aspiring hopes of talent sink,
Which should have mounted? see what tears of ink,
My pen shall shed in sympathy for him,
Who sought the Mirror's downfall; he shall swim;
And, if a doubt remain, thy hopes to wither,
Down, down to Wall street, say I sent thee thither;
Cash it—'t is genuine.
[Exit Fungus.
Indeed, 't is true,
What Fungus told me of; our work, when new,
Came forth into the world with some acclaim,
For all admired the Mirror and its frame;
The men all wondered, and the female tribe
Cried, “Heaven bless us, let us all subscribe!”
And so they did, which plainly showed they prized it,
And, till this hour they've always patronized it.
Stay, let me see—the eleventh volume 's done,
No sharing spoils before the field is won.
I'll quickly sell each copy that remains;
When they are gone, then must I count my gains.

[Exit.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Battery. The steam packet William Gibbons, just arriving from Charleston.
Enter Philus.
Phi.
Now, by St. Paul, the work goes bravely on,
And doubt no longer argues pro and con.
What molehill mountains would not prudence see,
Through some weak eyes, to undertake like me!
Come, come—this doubt's a scarecrow after all,
Cold prudence climbs not, lest it chance to fall,
While confidence soon scales the laden bough,
And banquets on the fruit, as I do now.
E'en all mankind to wealth and fame incline,
Great men choose greater means—the Mirror's mine.

Enter Finance, with papers.
Fin.
Good news, my lord, the William Gibbons spoke,
Below the Hook, the packet Hearts of Oak,
And brought up all our European files—
Read their contents, and see how fortune smiles.
Here's one that says—“the thrilling notes of fame,
From north to south, from east to west, proclaim,
The New York Mirror's worth, to every ear,
In every clime, and zone, and hemisphere;
In England, Scotland, Germany, and France,
And throughout Asia, does it cause advance;
While classic bards in Italy and Greece,
Awake their lyres to honor its increase.

Phi.
Thy news, Finance, true modesty can 't swallow;
Go, wash it down, and here 's a phœnix dollar.
[Exit Finance.
Was ever Fame thus boldly wooed and won?
Has ever Fame adopted such a son?
What I! without a friend my suit to back,
To court her thus, and yet not get the sack!
Upon my life, the goddess seems to find
Something in me. I'll have my office lined
With Mirror pictures—and I'll keep in pay
A score or two of artists, by the day.
For since I 've crept in favor with myself,
I will maintain it—never mind the pelf.

Enter Epigram.
Phi.
Cousin of Epigram, give me thy hand,
I'm glad to see thee—how do matters stand
In the proud Athens of our native land.

Epi.
Apollo and the muses, in convention,
Agreed, at once, without the least dissension,
To braid a civic chaplet for thy brow,
Of flowers and laurels—they are at it now.

Phi.
Now, by St. Paul! methinks I feel it here,
Its tints and odors do my senses cheer!
What think'st thou, cousin—wert an easy matter,
To get a “Brush Hat,” too, from Bond the hatter?

Epi.
No doubt, my lord, he strait shall send you one.

Phi.
Thus far, before the wind, we gayly run.
My fortune smiles, and no one boon refuses,
Even to a chaplet from the tuneful muses!
Tell Bond to send the best upon his shelf.

Epi.
I fly to serve thee.

Phi.
Say to serve thyself.
For by-and-by, claim thou of me, my cousin,
(Our work complete), and thou shalt have a dozen.
[Exit Epigram.
Why, now my golden dream is out at last,
Ambition, like an early friend, hast cast
With eager hand, my curtains back, to say,
That what I dreamed last night is true to-day.
A laurel crown! thou bright reward of toil,
Oh! how thy glory makes my spirits boil;
Lie still, my heart, more nerves must yet be strained,
Crowns won by toil, must be by toil maintained.
[Exit Philus.

SCENE II.

The Mirror publication office, filled with poets and authors.
Phi.
Stand all apart—cousin of Epigram,
At length, by thy assistance, here I am
Applauded by the daily press—but say,
Shall we but wear these laurels for a day,
Or shall they last as fresh as they are now?

Epi.
I hope for ages, sir, they'll grace thy brow.

Phi.
Oh! Epigram! reluctant I proceed,
To try if thou be steadfast friend indeed.
Now, though thy friendly hand once took my part,
When envious Slander threw a venomed dart,
I would have some kind friend to aid me still.

Epi.
Why you have here a thousand, sir, that will.

Phi.
Cousin, thou wert not wont to be so dull—
Shall I be plain? I wish thy teeming skull
To furnish a poetical address,
About this chaplet, and the Mirror press.

Epi.
I must attempt whate'er your highness pleases.

Phi.
Indeed! methinks thy former kindness freezes.
Thou dost refuse me, then?

Epi.
Allow me time
To think, and I may hammer out a rhyme.
[Exit Epigram.

Phi.
I'll henceforth deal with bards of nobler flight;
None write for me, who can't compose at sight.
High-reaching Epigram grows circumspect,
And studies hard, but seldom writes correct.
Still there are traits of excellence about him;
The best on 't is, it can be done without him—
Better, perhaps, for did he not decline,
Why, then the verses had been his, not mine.
We'll make a shift as 't is. Come here, Finance;
Didst thou to Caustic certain sums advance?

Fin.
I did, sir.

Phi.
Give him, then, this note, and say,
Ourselves would speak a word with him to-day.
[Exit Finance.
This plodding Epigram no more shall be
The neighbor of my councils. What! has he
So long held out untired, nor paused to blow,
And stops he now for breath? well, be it so.
Enter Stanley.
Well, Stanley, have you any news to tell us?

Stan.
I hear, my liege, that Sedley has grown jealous,
And will get up a paper of his own,
And vows the Mirror shall be overthrown.
He calls his sheet the Comet, and has paid
A year's advance for your Conundrum's aid.

Phi.
Why let him go, we've many such to spare.
Hark thee, friend Selim, where is Mrs. Thayer?

Selim.
In the far West, I hear she 's teaching school.

Phi.
I'll write to her, before my purpose cool.

Enter Epigram.
Epi.
My lord, I have considered in my mind
Your late request, and do not feel inclined
To undertake that curious rhyming medley.

Phi.
Well, let that rest. Conundrum writes for Sedley.

Epi.
I 've heard the news, sir.

Phi.
He 's your kinsman, Stanley.
But you'll condemn an action so unmanly.

Epi.
My lord, I claim that gift, by promise due,
A dozen hats—but I'll compound for two—

Phi.
Stanley, beware! for if your wife see fit
To write for Sedley, you shall answer it.

Epi.
What says your highness to my just request?

Phi.
I do remember me, when once my guest,
This Sedley wrote an interesting column,
For number one, I think, of our ninth volume,
And our friend Fay did prophesy that he
Some future day, an editor would be.
Enter Finance.
'T is odd—an editor—perhaps. Where's Caustic?

Fin.
At your book-table, writing an acrostic.

Epi.
May 't please you to resolve me in my suit?

Phi.
Conduct him to my closet—but be mute.

[Exit Finance.
Epi.
I beg your highness' ear, my lord, again.

Phi.
I'm busy—thou troublest me—I'm not i' th' vein.
[Exit Philus.

Epi.
By the lord Harry! is it thus he pays
My services, and all my lines of praise?
If his contributors have any sense
Of such ungentle treatment, they'll dispense
Their favors to the “Comet”—grave Viator,
Claudius, Potentus, Caustic, Fabulator,
Congerro, Croaker, Gamut, and the rest,
Till a new galaxy shall light the West.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Front vestibule of the City-Hall. Philus reading a communication.
Phi.
How sweet is every strain from Lydia Huntley!
Enter Finance.
Good news or bad, that thou com'st in so bluntly?

Fin.
Bad news, my lord, as I can gather from it,
That Peregrine is writing for the Comet;
And Epigram has left us in a huff,
To write for Sedley a prodigious puff.

Phi.
Perry with Sedley touches me more near
Than Epigram's revolt; but hence with fear!
Dangers retreat when boldly they 're confronted,
Neither my courage nor my pen is blunted.
Let 's muster men who racy quills can wield,
We must be brief when traitors brave the field.
Collect our forces: Paulding, Irving, Stone,
Bryant and Wetmore, Woodworth, Knapp, and Hone,
Pintard and Stuart, Strong, Verplanck, and Wharton,
Sage Matthew Carey, Payne, and General Morton;
Dunlap and Leggett, Hoffman, Cox, and Fay,
Willis and Inman, Palmer, Sprague, and Day;
Smillie, Durand, with Weir, and Simms, and Hawes,
With Clarke and Bird, and all who love our cause;
Bid all our fair invincibles assemble:
Tuneful Pierce Butler, late Miss Fanny Kemble,
Fair Sigourney and Embury, advance;
Come, see, and conquer with a single glance!
Aiken and Bogart, Vanderpool and Brooks,
Whipple and Gould, Montgomery and Crookes
Muzzy, and Fitch, and Thayer, disdain to shrink,
And quench this Comet in a sea of ink.
Enter Caustic.
How now? the news?

Caus.
A work will soon be out,
Yclept the Comet, edited, no doubt,
By recreant Sedley, who now waits assistance
From Epigram, to give the brat existence.

[Exit.
Phi.
Why, let it come, then. Hasten you, Finance,
Swiftly as you can make White Surrey prance,
Post to Whitehall, to Fabulator's bower,
Bid him straight levy all the strength and power
That he can make; 't is Paulding that I mean,
Beg him to furnish all that he can glean,
And meet me here at eight to-morrow morn.
Commend me to his grace. Away! begone!
[Exit Finance.
Enter Stanley.
Well, my good lord, what news have you collected?

Stan.
Willis is on the seas, and soon expected.

Phi.
Well, what of Sedley, and the Comet press.

Stan.
I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess.

Phi.
Well, as you guess?

Stan.
Sustained by Epigram,
Conundrum, Ondit, Rebus, Flash, and Flam,
Sedley expects to win a laurel crown.

Phi.
Where are thy forces, then, to put him down?
Where be thy legends, tales, romantic stories,
Grave essays, proverbs, fables, allegories,
The foe at hand, and thou no arms to meet 'em!
No classic fire to scatter and defeat 'em!
Or, hast thou sold such literary lumber,
To help the rebels out in their first number?

Stan.
My lord, such subjects, serious and erratic,
Are all transcribed, and ready in my attic.

Phi.
What do they in the attic, sapient sir,
When here they 're needed by thy editor?
Away, then, to thy garret for them—stay,
I will not trust thee. I have thought a way
To make thee sure—if thou play'st double game,
I'll blazon to the world thy real name;
So I'll expect thy papers without fail,
Or else thy fame's assurance is but frail.

Stan.
As I prove true, my lord, so deal with that.

Enter Caustic.
Caus.
Poor Epigram is sued, sir, for a hat,
And what subscribers he procured, refuse
To pay the balance of their several dues;
Saying, that their subscription was a shame.

Phi.
Off with their names!—so much for Epigram.

Caus.
My lord, I'm sorry I 've more news to tell.

Phi.
Out with it, Caustic, we can bear it well.

Caus.
Sedley has come out with a daily sheet,
Which boys are peddling now in every street.
One cent a-piece is all the price they ask;
An eighth of which rewards them for their task;
It carries all before it, it is said,
As eighty thousand copies have been spread.
The Sun, the Moon, the Star, and fifty others,
All join the Comet, like a band of brothers,

Phi.
Why, ay, this looks rebellion! Stop the press!
And put in our poetical address.
By heaven, this news my stirring soul alarms,
And all my energies are now in arms!
Come forth, my honest pen! which, here I vow,
Shall not again be dry as it is now;
Ne'er shall these watching eyes have needful rest,
Till these apostates have been skinned and dressed,
Ne'er shall these limbs on downy bed regale
Till I have seized this Comet by the tail!

[Exit in a rage

SCENE IV.

Office of the Comet—publication morning. Sedley, Epigram, Conundrum, Acrostic, &c.
Sed.
Thus far, on sweet revenge and profit bent,
Have we marched on without impediment,
And poured our streams of poison round (sans pity),
Into the very bowels of the city.
And here 's a letter, which friend Stanley sent,
With lines of comfort and encouragement,
Such as will help to animate our cause,
And gild our triumph with the town's applause.
Our comet still shall sweep along its path,
To some a fearful visitant of wrath,
To others, light—then let it still on high
Brandish its fiery tresses in the sky,
And with them scourge the bad, revolting “stars,”
That have consented to the loud huzzas,
Which greet The New York Mirror every week,
Whose worth we envy, and whose fall we seek.
When beggars die, there are no Comets seen;
The “Mushroom” fell, and all went on serene;
But ere the mightiest Julius fell, in Rome,
Stars dropped down blood, portentous of his doom!
So, ere the aspiring Mirror tumble down,
Our sweeping “Comet” startles all the town.

Con.
Your words have fire, my lord, and make those glow,
Who trembled at the number of our foe.

Sed.
Why, were they doubled we should conquer still;
Thrice is he armed who holds a ready quill;
While he who scribbles with a patent pen
Can ne'er supply, with copy, half his men.
Then, go ahead, my lads; to hope still cling,
And pluck your quills from the proud eagle's wing.

[Exeunt with a flourish.

SCENE V.

Publication office of the Mirror, as before. Philomusus, Fabulator, Caustic, Claudius, &c.
Phi.
Good Fabulator, sir, the cheerful speed
Of your supply deserves my thanks indeed.

Fab.
I am rewarded, sir, in having power
To serve my friend.

Phi.
May Fame and Fortune shower
Their favors on you. Is it ascertained,
How many patrons have, in all, been gained
For this same “Comet?”

Fab.
Sir, they can but boast
Of six or seven thousand, at the most.

Phi.
Why, our battalia treble that account;
Besides, the Mirror's name is like a mount
Of eastern granite, which the rebels lack.

Caus.
The most of them lack jackets to their back,
Oh, Muse of Grub street! such a tattered host;
So poor; so famished; each a fleshless ghost;
'T is well for them that we've no buzzards here.

Phi.
Now, by St. Paul, we'll send them bread and beer.
Dinners and coats—apparel, food, and drink,
Plenty of paper, and good writing ink;
And beat them then. How long, do ye think, my lords,
Before these fools repent this war of words?

Caus.
To-morrow scatters these ill-favored cattle,
So soon, I hear they mean to give us battle.

Phi.
The sooner, still, the better; we are ready.
No dangers daunt the heart that's always steady.
Enter Finance.
Will Stanley aid us with his writings, sir.

Fin.
He does refuse, my lord; he will not stir.

Phi.
Dearly shall he repent, he did refuse 'em!
A thousand hearts are swelling in my bosom,
Fame's trumpet calls me to the task—away!
My soul's in arms, and eager for the fray!

[Exeunt with a flourish.

SCENE VI.

Interior of a modern printing establishment. On one side the compositors are seen at their cases, on the other are steam-presses, in full operation. Stage dark.
Enter Philomusus from a closet.
Phi.
'T is now the dead of night, and half the town
Are sleeping on their beds of—straw or down,
Yet I, with all my care-worn thoughts, mayhap,
Shall not be able to procure a nap.
The clock strikes twelve! and hark! from room to room
The sounds of printing-engines pierce the gloom:
Press answers press with clank of iron wheels,
While from each case a fainter murmur steals,
The clink of types in the composing-sticks,
Of which compositors scarce see the nicks,
All giving note of preparation for
To-morrow morning's literary war.
My stern impatience chides this night's delay,
Which limps so slow and tediously away.
I'll to my closet, and attempt once more,
To catch a snooze, for I must stir at four.
Ha! what sweet sounds are those which greet my ears!
[Music is heard.
Sure 't was the music of the tuneful spheres,
Or the soft warblings of a seraph's lyre!
No matter what it was—I must retire.

[Lies down—sleeps—dreams.
Music. Vision of Apollo and the Muses, who approach his couch, and Apollo holds a laurel crown over the sleeper's head, while goddesses appear to kiss him!
Apollo.
O thou, whose courage, sleeping or awake,
Not all the terrors of thy foes can shake,
Where conscience and where friends thy course approve,
Sleep on, while I, commissioned from high Jove,
With dreams of rapture sweeten thy repose,
And give thee confidence to meet thy foes.

CHORUS OF THE MUSES.
Place the chaplet on his head,
Scatter roses o'er his bed;
Philomusus, friend of ours,
We will strew thy couch with flowers;
Philus, persevere in duty,
Friend of virtue—friend of beauty;
Thus we virgin sisters nine,
Thus thy brows with garlands twine;
Dew ambrosial thou shalt sip,
Take it from each Muse's lip.
[They each stoop and kiss him.
Philus, persevere in duty—
Friend of virtue—friend of beauty.

Apollo.
The morning's dawn has summoned us away,
Now Philomusus, wake, without delay!
Ere blaze of noon has drowned the morning's beam,
Thou shalt have realized this pleasing dream;
Philus, awake! thy hopes and means are ample—
Awake! to gifted minds a bright example.

Lively music. Philomusus starts from his couch, and rushes to the front, à la Kean.
Phi.
Give me another wreath!—another kiss!—
Thanks, bright Apollo! for this hour of bliss!
Ha! was it, after all, then, but a dream!
But then so fascinating did it seem,
That all my pulses now with rapture play—
Who 's there?

Enter Finance.
Fin.
'T is I, my lord; 't will soon be day,
Your friends are up, and ready for the fray.

Phi.
Oh! I have had so sweet a dream tonight.

Fin.
A right good omen, sir, of Sedley's flight.

Phi.
I feel it is so; at them, then, pell-mell!
Such be the fate of all who dare rebel.

[Exeunt with a flourish.

SCENE VII.

The field of battle—flourishes, shouts, and every kind of noise the prompter can conveniently make.
Enter Philus Philomusus.
Phi.
What, ho! young Sedley! Philomusus calls!
I hate thy paper for 't is worked with balls.
Now, if thou dost not hide thee from my quill,
Sedley, I say, come forth and try thy skill!
I'll meet thee here, with all thy Grub street force,
I'll hold my tongue—for I am getting hoarse.

[Exit—flourish.
Enter Caustic and Finance.
Fin.
Rescue! oh, rescue! noble Caustic, quick!
Great Philus Philomusus beats old Nick!
His quill 's used up, and he with pencil writes,
Dashing at Sedley, and his scribbling wights.

Enter Philomusus.
Phi.
A pen!—a pen!—my kingdom for a pen!

Caus.
I'll fly to Jansen's, sir, and get you ten.

Phi.
Slave! must I wait at such a time for thee?
When every second is a century!
I think there be six “Comets” in the fray,
Five have I pulled down by the beard to-day,
Instead of Sedley's—but I'll try again—
A pen—a pen—my kingdom for a pen!
Rally your powers, Finance! your forces rally;
I'll lead you on to a most glorious sally:
Draw, archers draw, your arrows to the head,
With shafts of satire strike the rebels dead!
Spur Pegasus, ye poets, till he prance,
Ye cannoniers of argument, advance;
Charge, ye light cavalry of anecdote,
While Fame's shrill trumpet breathes its liveliest note;
Rattle quick vollies forth, ye rhyming lovers,
Advance your standards (blue and yellow covers;)
Upon them, Caustic, with your forces charge!
Gamut, push on! with buckler, shield, and targe;
Level long-toms, good Leggett, at his hull,
And let a shower of grape salute his skull;
With whole broadsides of tales assail the dolts,
'Twixt wind and water, sir—drive home their bolts!
On, gallant Power, with hot hell-kettle fights;
Lawson, advance, with all thy Scottish knights;
Charge, Paulding, charge! with tales and allegories;
On, Dunlap, on! with thy dramatic stories;
Outflank them, Woodworth, with thy wingéd prancers,
Supported by thy Amazonian lancers;
Sound drums and trumpets! boldly and cheerfully!
The word, St. George, Mirror, and victory!

[A most glorious flourish, in the midst of which a bright and fiery comet, accompanied by a shower of stars, is seen to fall into the North river, where it expires in a hiss, in which it is expected all the audience will participate. Shouts of victory succeed, and the curtain falls amid thunders of applause.