University of Virginia Library

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.