University of Virginia Library

Scene First.

—The Stage at the Olympic Theatre.
Enter Mr. and Mrs. Wigan, arm-in-arm.
Mr. W.
Well, come what may, at least behold us here!
I hope you're satisfied? (to Mrs. Wigan)


Mrs. W.
So far, my dear,
The house is ours. We've nothing now to do
But—

Mr. W.
Fill it. Do you call that nothing, too?

Mrs. W.
Well, it's not much. The theatre is small,
And Lord John Clapham said he'd take—

Mr. W.
A stall!

Mrs. W.
Well, love, that's one—and one—

Mr. W.
(checking her)
“Friend,” you would say,
“Makes many.” I devoutly wish it may,
However, we are in for it, and so
It's no use talking, we must act!

Mrs. W.
I know
We must act, and I come resolved to play—

Mr. W.
All the best parts.

Mrs. W.
If they are in my way.

Mr. W.
And yours is such a taking way, my dear.

Mrs. W.
Come, Mr. Impudence, you needn't sneer,
There was a time, to which I could allude—

Mr. W.
Nay, don't be angry.

Mrs. W.
Then don't you be rude.

Mr. W.
I'd not the least intention. Don't let's squabble
But as you've got me into such a hobble—

Mrs. W.
I got you

Mr. W.
Well, no matter then, since we
Have got into it, let us, pray, agree
Upon some plan, at least, to get well out of it.
You think we shall succeed?

Mrs. W.
I've not a doubt of it!

Mr. W.
Bless the dear women! they're such sanguine souls
Whilst men in doubt stand scratching their dull polls,
They, by mere force of will, their ends achieve!
“Ce que femme veut, Dieu veut,” I do believe!
And so at once to business. I have got
An opening piece, of which I like the plot.
(takes MS. out of his pocket)
(reading title)
“The Camp at Chobham.”

Mrs. W.
Law! Why that's been done
At the Adelphi!

Mr. W.
A piece-not this one.

Mrs. W.
But the same titles—

Mr. W.
More attractive make 'em.
When titles are so catching people take 'em
Just as they do the measles—from each other.
And 'bout this Camp there has been such a pother,
The name alone is money sure to bring.
So here, you man fly-catching at the wing—
(a Carpenter advances from between wings)
Shew us a pair of flats.
(Carpenter smiles)
What do you mean
By grinning? Get me out, sir, a tent scene!
(aside)
Of flats, I'll swear, that rascal meant to say
We were the biggest pair he'd seen to-day.
(a tent scene is put on)
What's this?

Car.
King Richard's tent, sir.

Mr. W.
That will do.
It's so old that it's actually new.
“Methinks the ghosts of all who've Richard murthered”
Arise before me! Our cause won't be furthered
Much by such actors. (to Carpenter)
Two chairs, if you've got 'em!
(Call Boy brings forward two old broken chairs)
One with three legs—the other with no bottom!
“This is a sorry sight!”

Mrs. W.
“A follish thought
To say a sorry sight”—you rather ought
To think it a good omen here.

Mr. W.
How so?

Mrs. W.
If we can't sit we must stand!

Mr. W.
Oh oh oh!
You've got the inventory of the dresses;
What regimentals are there in the presses?

Mrs. W.
(producing a paper and reading from it)
“Uniform coats, one red, one green, one blue.”

Mr. W.
I don't call that quite uniform. Do you?

Mrs. W.
(continuing)
“Three guns, two bayonets, one sword and belt”

Mr. W.
How about hats?

Mrs. W.
Ah, there the pinch is felt!
Only one cocked hat!

Mr. W.
Humph, that won't go far
To carry on, as we may say, the war;
Although at Astley's half-a-dozen horses
And twenty men play all the British forces!

Mrs. W.
I'll tell you what, we'll have one man well dressed,
And let the audience fancy all the rest.

Mr. W.
Ah, if we could bring Fancy to our aid!

Fancy rises from trap, in a jester's costume.
Fan.
Fancy you can. It's done as soon as said.

Mr. W.
“Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”
What does this novel stage effect portend us?

Mrs. W.
“Be thou a spirit of health or goblin”—

Fan.
Hum!

Mr. W.
“Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from”—

Fan.
Mum!
I'm Fancy.

Mrs. W.
Only fancy that!

Mr. W.
Who'd guess,
In such a habit—

Fan.
It's a fancy dress.

Mrs. W.
A fool's—saving your presence.

Fan.
You forget
That Fancy plays the fool with sense, and yet
Without some Fancy Sense would be a frump,
While without sense Fancy's not worth a dump!
Their happy union makes for youth and age
The choicest entertainments of the stage,
(For which I have the greatest partiality)
And give to every scene I touch reality.

Mr. W.
Then pray touch some of mine up, and I'd name
This tent for one.

Fan.
Air—Fancy—“La Donna è mobile.”

Trio—Fancy, Mr. and Mrs. Wigan—“Rat-a-plan.”

Scene changes to the Camp of the Combined British Dramatic Forces; on one side are the characteristic tents of Tragedy, Melo-drama, and Opera; on the other those of Comedy, Farce, and Pantomime—In the centre is the large and splendid pavilion of Spectacle.
Music—(grant march) Enter Tragedy from her tent in the costume of Lady Macbeth, 1753, a letter in her hand.
Fan.
First in the field, old English Tragedy
In stately hoop and train “comes sweeping by!”
As in the British Drama's palmy day,
When people took an interest in the play!

Mr. W.
A letter in her hand! why then the dame is—

Fan.
The wife of the ambitious Thane of Glamis!

Mrs. W.
Lady Macbeth! In Dollalolla's dress!

Tra.
(reading the letter)
“They met me in the day of my success.”

Mr. W.
That must have been a hundred years ago,
To judge from a costume so rococo!

Tra.
(indignantly)
In my day, sir, judgment, and power, and feeling,
With confidence to public taste appealing,
Received the crown—no matter what its fashion,
It was the crown!

Mr. W.
Well, don't be in a passion.

Tra.
Not in a passion! when I see the State
Of Denmark rotten! When I hear the fate
Which hath befallen both the classic domes,
'Neath which my votaries once found their homes!
Where Garrick, monarch of the mimic scene,
His sceptre passed from Kemble down to Kean;
Where Cibber's silver tones the heart would steal,
And Siddons left her mantle to O'Neil!
The Drama banished from her highest places
By débardeurs and “fools with varnished faces,”
Sees foreign foes her sacred ruins spurning,
Fiddling like Neros while her Rome is burning!

Fan.
The times have changed; but there is still a stage,
And one on which Macbeth has been the rage!

Tra.
Macbeth! Is't possible! O, hie thee here,
That I may pour my spirit in thine ear!

Music—The pavilion opens and discovers “The Blasted Heath,” same as at the Princess's Theatre, with the Three Witches—Macbeth and Banquo in the costume worn at that theatre—Temp. 1853.
Fan.
Behold, he comes!

Tra.
“Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor!”
Can that be he?

Fan.
In heavy marching order.
Not as when Garrick used to meet the witches—
In gold-laced waistcoat and red velvet breeches;
(Garrick appears as Macbeth with the daggers)
Nor as in Kemble's time, correct was reckoned,
Accoutred like “the gallant forty-second,”
(Kemble appears as Macbeth, with target and truncheon)
But as a Scottish chieftain roamed scot-free—
In the year one thousand and fifty-three.

Trio—Mr. and Mrs. Wigan and Fancy—“Auld Lang Syne.”
My auld acquaintance I've forgot,
If ever he was mine;
Is that the way they clad a Scot
In days o' Lang Syne?
For Auld Lang Syne, my dear,
For Auld Lang Syne,
We'll look on him wi' kindness yet
For Auld Lang Syne!

Trag.
“My countryman—and yet I know him not!”

Mr. W.
More like an antique Rum'un than a Scot!

Tra.
A Scotchman, and no kilt?

Mrs. W.
Don't Macbeth say,
“We've scotch'd the snake, not kilt it!”

Mr. W.
Oh, don't, pray!

(scene closes)
Air—Fancy—“The Bonnets of Bonny Dundee.”
Through their habits conventional managers broke,
To make old plays go down they new habits bespoke;
The old-fashioned Scotchman no longer we see,
Except as a sign for the sale of rappee.
So pack up your tartans, whatever your clan,
And look a new “garb of old Gaul” out, my man;
For the stage in its bonnet has got such a bee,
It's all up with “The Bonnets of Bonny Dundee.”

Fan.
But see, where brilliant Comedy appears,
(music—Enter Comedy from her tent, in the costume of Lady Teazle)
Blooming as brightly as in former years,
Invincible, with powder, paint, and patches,
Loaded and primed—her eyes the lighted matches—
Ready to play upon a yawning pit,
She brings up the artillery of wit!

Com.
Wit! oh, my dear, don't mention such a thing!
Wit on the stage what wit away would fling?
There are so few who know it when they hear it,
And half of those don't like so much as fear it.
Wit! If to theatres for wit they'd come,
Would Farquhar, Congreve, Wycherly be dumb?
Or even the poor devils now-a-days,
Who can't help scribbling, hawk their hapless plays
From house to house, to hear the sentence chilling,
“Your piece is clever, but won't draw a shilling.”

Mr. W.
Then, what will draw?

Com.
O mercy! Tell me, pray,
What horse will win the Derby, sir? You may,
I'm sure, as easily as I tell you
What the dear British public will come to!
Just what they like—whatever that may be—
Not much to hear, and something strange to see.
A Zulu Kaffir, with his bow and quiver;
A Pigmy Earthman, from the Orange River;
An Aztec Lilliputian, who can't say a
Word, from the unknown city Iximaya.
Any monstrosity may make a hit,
But no one's fool enough to pay for wit!
Or if he be, in theatres why seek
For jokes, when Punch is but a groat a week!

Mr. W.
No wonder that in such a situation
Your spirits flag!

Com.
My only consolation
Is that all sorts of folks are now so funny,
My dulness will be soon worth any money.
E'en Tragedy—my sister there—sad soul,
Has recently become so very droll,
That the judicious few her acts who see,
Laugh at her more than at poor Comedy!

Tra.
(advancing on her)
Madam! This irony!—

Com.
Oh, lud! she'll bite!

Mr. W.
Part them! they are incensed!

Fan.
A jest so light
Should not to any serious censure doom her;
Like Mr. Sulky—she “will have her humour.”

Tra.
Will she, indeed? Then I'll forgive her gladly,
For lately she was wanted humour sadly.

Com.
Now who's ironical, dear sister, pray?
“Oh, sister, sister! sister ev'ry way!”

Mr. W.
Air—Mr. Wigan—“We have been friends together.”

Mrs. W.
Talking of humour—where on earth has fled
Our broad old English farce? or is he dead?

Fan.
No, but too homely for this polished age,
He's lately taken French leave of the stage;
But there's a substitute still more grotesque
We often find for him—he's called Burlesque.

Tra.
Don't name the wretch! I hate him with a hate
Known only on the stage! He mocks my state;
Mimics my voice; my words mis-quotes, mis-matches,
A vice of kings! a king of shreds and patches!

(flourish of penny trumpets heard)
Fan.
He comes! I know his trumpet!

Tra.
Too! too! too—
Well I remember it! Support me, do!

Mr. W.
Tragedy! shew me where's the actor strong enough?

Tra.
Then I shall fall! (sinks into a chair)


Mrs. W.
Alas, I've thought so long enough!

Charivari—Enter Burlesque in the costume of King Arthur in “Tom Thumb.”
Bur.
Air—Burlesque—“Such a fine King as I!”

Tra.
Avaunt, and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee
Unreal mockery, hence! I can't abide thee!

Bur.
Because I fling your follies in your face,
And call back all the false starts of your race
Shew up your shows, affect your affectation,
And by such homœopathic aggravation,
Would cleanse your bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon our art—bombast and puff.

Mr. W.
Have you so good a purpose then in hand?

Bur.
Else wherefore breathe I in dramatic land?

Mrs. W.
I thought your aim was but to make us laugh?

Bur.
Those who think so but understand me half.
Did not my thrice-renownèd Thomas Thumb,
That mighty mite, make mouthing Fustian mum?
Is Tilburina's madness void of matter?
Did great Bombastes strike no nonsense flatter?
When in his words he's not one to the wise,
When his fool's bolt, spares folly as it flies,
When in his chaff there's not a grain to seize on,
When in his rhyme there's not a ray of reason,
His slang but slang, no point beyond the pun,
Burlesque may walk, for he will cease to run.

Mr. W.
Although your trumpet, sir, is but a penny one,
You blow it, I confess, as well as any one!

Com.
I vow the wretch to common sense pretends!

Bur.
Don't mention it, I beg, e'en among friends.
Like Mr. Snake, though here the truth I own,
I should be ruined if abroad 'twere known.
I live as that same worthy does aver,
Upon the badness of my character.
If once of common sense I was suspected,
I should be quite as much as you—neglected.

Tra.
“That's wormwood!”

(music)
Mr. W.
Hark! what means that prelude grand?

Enter English Opera as Mandane in “Artaxerxes,” with German Band.
Fan.
'Tis English Opera!

Mrs. W.
With a foreign band!

Fan.
She takes the best her music book that suits.
She always had French horns and German flutes.

Com.
Has she forgot her native wood-notes wild?

Fan.
She hasn't chirped them since she was a child.

Tra.
You mean “When music, heavenly maid, was young,”
“And first in early Greece—she—she—

Bur.
(prompting her)
“Gave tongue.”

(Tragedy sits down disgusted)
Fan.
But not in Opera like that before us,
The Greeks had none.

Tra.
They'd Tragedy!

Mr. W.
And Chorus!

Fan.
Yes! spoken, so that you heard every word;
A sort of chorus now that's never heard.

Mr. W.
But let us hear what Opera has to say,
Or rather sing, in her own cause to-day.

Op.
(sings)
“The soldier tired of war's alarms,” &c.

Mr. W.
(interrupting her)
Thank you! that's quite enough! Oh dear! Oh dear!

Bur.
That old style don't agree with the new y(ear)!

Mrs. W.
It was a stile I hoped she had got over!

Op.
Of English Opera you wished a “Prova”;
And that's about the best in English still.

Mr. W.
Except “the Beggar's.”

Op.
That's a vaudeville!

Mr. W.
Have you no new and great airs on your shelves?

Op.
The greatest airs the singers give themselves!

Fan.
And while they do so there is little chance
Of seeing English Opera advance;
The only compositions her proveditors
Have lately gained by have been with their creditors.

Mr. W.
Then Bishop, Balfe, and Barnett, where are they?

Mrs. W.
Wallace! Macfarren!

Tra.
(wildly)
“Rivers! Vaughan! Grey!”

Op.
Madam!

Fan.
Poor soul! Her wits are going fast,
She has not seemed quite right for some time past
And now Burlesque completely has upset her.

Tra.
I shall weep soon, and then I shall be better!

Mrs. W.
Suppose you take a nap?

Com.
Aye, sister, do;
Your audience sleep sometimes, why shouldn't you?

Mr. W.
(to Comedy)
You're too severe upon your sister muse.
(to Opera)
This interruption, madam, pray excuse.

Op.
Sir, I'm accustomed to a few bars' rest.

Mr. W.
You spoke of airs by which you were oppressed.

Op.
Oh, e'en my foreign rivals on that score
Suffer as much as I do, if not more;
One has already given up the ghost.

Fan.
See where it walks!
Ghost music from “Don Giovanni”—The Ghost of Her Majesty's Theatre appears, having a great bodily resemblance to Signor Lablache.
Once in itself a host!
The last, but not the least by any means,
Of the great stars that lighted up her scenes.

Mr. W.
What, old acquaintance! could not all that flesh
Keep in a little life? Mine ears refresh
With choice Italian. Speak, “Ore retundo!”
Enormous artist! Great basso profundo!

Ensemble—from “Don Pasquale.”
Solo—Ghost of Old Italian Opera.
Pacing yon colonnade
Most melancholy,
Humming the serenade—
From “Don Pasquale”;
Nightly I wander—sighing and sulky,
No more in Figaro, brilliant as bulky!
Dull is thy valet now,
Gay Don Giovanni!
What trump shall rally now
“I Puritani”?
My Impresario
Plays “Belisario”
Grisi and Mario
Partiti son!

Trio—Mr. Wigan, Fancy, English Opera.
Bravo, bravo! Don Pasquale!
Can no magic flute recall ye,
Whose superb recitativo
Could this great basso relieve O?
Caro mio, let this trio—
So enchanting, so bewitching,
Bring a moment back to Fancy,
The great rôle you were so rich in!

Ghost.
Bene, si!
Now fortissimo!
Now pianissimo!
Bravo, bravissimo—
Bene, si.

Trio.
But while we strive
Once more alive
To fancy Don Pasquale,
We find, alas,
The shadow pass,
And so as a finale,
Regretting one so great should e'er
Be forced to sing so smally,
Addio, addio, unhappy Buffo say!

Ghost.
To the shades I must away,
There a deeper part to play!

(Ghost retires)
Bur.
Poor Buffer!

Mrs. W.
Buffo.

Mr. W.
Air—Mr. Wigan—”Oft in the stilly night.”

Mrs. W.
And whither has the once gay Ballet hopped?

Fan.
Like the poor sylphide when her wings were cropped,
Behold her shorn of all her magic power,
Denied to dance upon a single flower.

Enter Ballet “à la Sylphide,” with her Coryphées—She expresses her altered state in action to Mr. Wigan.
Mr. W.
What does she mean? I'm stupid, I've no doubt,
But I could never make a ballet out.
With diplomatic notes take rank they should,
The most successful when least understood.

Bal.
Oh I could tell you, sir, in words as well,
But if the Ballet talk'd it mightn't tell.

Fan.
She tells you, fallen from her high estate
On her last legs she's taken now to skate
Like a bold wench, resolved at any price
To cut a figure, though it's but on ice.

Music—Scene at back opens and shews the skating scene from “Le Prophète,” as at the Italian Opera, Covent Garden.
Air—Ballet—Skating Music in “Le Prophète.”
We slide and glide and slip and trip,
And wheel and reel through snow and sleet,
These are bad days when Coryphées
Are puzzled to keep their feet!
We colds have caught and chilblains brought,
To spite our light fantastic toes!
And vile Jack Frost perhaps may cost
Poor Ballet her lovely nose!

(scene closes)
Mr. W.
Cold comfort this for a new speculator!

Mrs. W.
For a house warming—a refrigerator!

Mr. W.
A drama must be found, or we are undone,
With spirit in it to stir up all London!

Fan.
Oh, if you want a piece with spirit in it,
I'll call up Melo-drama in a minute.
His efforts supernatural have told,
When all things else have failed. Appear!
A chord—Melo-drama comes through his tent as “the Monster,” in “Frankestein.”
Behold!

Mr. W.
What monster's this?

Fan.
The one from “Frankenstein.”
He reads a lesson to folks in your line.
How many a manager I've seen a stew in,
Making a monster that has been his ruin!

Mrs. W.
He looks of blue ruin the incarnation!
I've no great hopes from his resuscitation!

Fan.
There is a spirit of another blue;
He sometimes personates the fine old “true!”

Chord—Enter William in the melo-drama of “Black-eyed Susan.”
Fan.
Of “Black-eyed Susan” there the hero stands,
Into the pit he oft has piped all hands,
And brought the drama up with a wet sail.

Bur.
He goes a-head—but thereby hangs—a tail.

Com.
All in the Downs the British fleet lay moored,
When “Black-eyed Susan” came the stage on board;
The scene is changed—the fleet is at Spithead,
And our poor stage “All in the Downs” instead.

Fan.
Well, there's another sprite at Christmas time
That oft does wonders—Comic Pantomime!
Spite of blows, tumbles, changes, kicks, and slaps,
She makes her annual trips and sets her traps.

Music—Pantomime enters as “Mother Goose,” Harlequin, Columbine, Pantaloon, and Clown rise up trap, dance, rally, group.
Bur.
Shade of Grimaldi! who thy loss can know,
That never saw Inimitable Joe!

Quintette—Burlesque, Fancy, Opera, and Mr. and Mrs. Wigan,—“There's some one in the house with Dinah.”
Solo—Burlesque.
(Bone accompaniment.)
Old Joe he was an artist great,
There's been nobody like him seen of late;
To Pantomime 'twas a knock down blow
When the curtain fell upon poor old Joe!
Poor dear Joe—was the Joe—yes, the Joe!

All.
Old Joe kicking up behind and before,
The Columbine a kicking up behind old Joe;
There's no one in this house so fine, ah,
Nor any other house I know,
There's no one in that funny line, ah,
Can play the fool like dear old Joe!

Mrs. W.
But though suck kickshaws may succeed perchance,
We must have some “morceau de résistance”;
And from such fare we're as far off as ever.

Mr. W.
Do help us, Fancy!

Fan.
Well, don't I endeavour?
Shall I invoke the genius of the ring?

Mrs. W.
What! from Aladdin?

Fan.
Quite another thing;
One who knows how the public in to whip,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

Music—Enter Hippo-drame as a lady attired for the ring, Riding Master, &c.
Fan.
Air—Fancy—“I'm the Genius of the Ring.”

Mr. W.
Soft sawdust! I am proof against soft sawder;
I've great respect for the equestrian order,
And hope its members oft my stalls will pay to;
But horses on the stage I must say nay to.
To cavalry I own its obligations,
But there's no field here for its operations;
The genius of the ring it would but cramp,
And might put out the genius of the lamp.

Fan.
You're very hard to please.

Mr. W.
The town is harder!
And sadly empty the dramatic larder.
While army-raising Fancy plays the fairy at,
I fear she quite forgets the Commissariat!
The bravest troops that ever took the field,
If they've no food to fight upon, must yield.

Music—Spectacle appears in splendid fancy dress.
Spec.
You're right; and then the food should be well drest,
Or quite uneatable may be the best.

Mr. W.
Who's this that talks and looks so mighty fine?

Fan.
Spectacle! a great friend of mine.

Bur., Op., Pan., Melo., and Hippo.
And mine!

Fan.
You've heard of him, of course!

Mr. W.
And seen him, too,
Till I am almost sick of him! arn't you?

Spec.
Is this your gratitude for all the splash
I've made upon the stage, and all the cash
I've brought into the treasury?

Mr. W.
I doubt
If you bring in as much as you take out.

Spec.
Well, try a piece without me now-a-days;
See if your triumph will be called a blaze!

Mr. W.
The blaze is often only in the bill—

Mrs. W.
Or one that burns the fingers through the till.

Com.
Why should a drama that deserves success
Burn blue lights, like a vessel in distress?

Tra.
Has not immortal Shakespeare said 'tis silly,
“To gild refinèd gold—to paint the lily?”

Spec.
Immortal Shakespeare! come, the less you say
The better on that head. There's not a play
Of his for many a year the town has taken,
If I've not buttered preciously his bacon.

Tra.
More shame, then, for the town!

Spec.
(to Comedy)
And you, Miss Prue;
Pray, has Spectacle nothing done for you?
Have I not given you correct costumes,
And furnished splendidly your drawing-rooms!
Ungrateful minx! till my Augustan age
You never saw a carpet on your stage.
Dragging your train through dust of other days,
You envied Tragedy her old green baize;
And all the sticks to muster you were able
Consisted but of two chairs and a table!

Com.
You have improved my room, I don't deny,
But you preferred it to my company;
And Lady Townley now, or Lady Teazle,
May starve unless she'll dance, “Pop goes the weasel!”

Fan.
What's to be done when the immortal names
Of Shakespeare and of Byron urge their claims,
In vain to popularity, without
Spectacle march all his contingent out?
Not mere Dutch metal, spangles, foil, and paste,
But gems culled from authority by Taste;
Until, reflecting every bygone age,
A picture-gallery becomes the stage;
And modern Babylon may there behold
The pomp and pageantry that wrecked the old!

Music—The pavilion of Spectacle opens and discovers Tableau from “Sardanapalus.”
Mrs. W.
It seems, then, that the new way to success
Is when the Drama halts, to make it dress.

Fan.
“The tailor makes the man,” we used to say—
The tailor makes the manager, to-day.

Com.
Oh, if he'd really be our benefactor,
Let him take one stitch more and make the actor!

Fan.
Well, Fancy has done all she can to aid you,
And seems more fanciful but to have made you.
You must make up your mind—if you have got one—
Out of all these fair offers is there not one
That you can count on?

Tra.
(to Mr. Wigan)
Tragedy restore
To the proud station that she held of yore!

Com.
(to Mr. Wigan)
Give Comedy again a chance to play
Where folks may hear what she has got to say.

Mr. W.
Air—Mr. Wigan—“How happy could I be with either.”

Tragedy knocks his hat out of his hand. Comedy picks it up, brushes, and restores it to him.
Op.
Let native music here, then, weave her spell—
You really sing yourself, sir, pretty well;
Italian Opera can't object to roam (Rome),
For English Opera “there's no place like home.”

Melo.
Try me! I keep all spirits under my lock!

Bur.
Try me, my boy, remember Mr. Shylock!

Pan.
Before you leap, just look at one of mine!

Spec.
Without me you can never cut a shine!

Bal.
You'll catch no mice without an “entre chat.”

Hippo.
What can you find like horses, pray, to draw?

Mr. W.
I am completely bothered, that's a fact,
And, like some actors, don't know how to act!

Tra.
But screw your courage to the sticking place!

Mr. W.
I have—and stuck quite fast—that's just my case.

Mrs. W.
I'll tell you what to do.

Mr. W.
I wish you would.

Mrs. W.
In each of them there's something that is good.
Without committing ourselves here to fix 'em,
Let's take the best and mix 'em.

Mr. W.
Mix 'em!

Mrs. W.
Mix 'em.

Mr. W.
Like pickles? or like physic? what a notion!
D'ye think the town will swallow such a potion?
Why, Tragedy's a black dose of itself!

Mrs. W.
Who talks of taking all, you silly elf?
I mean an extract of each spirit—Tragic,
Comic, Satiric, Operatic, Magic,
Romantic, Pantomimic, Choreographic,
Spectacular, Hip—

Mr. W.
Spare that tongue seraphic
Such vain exertion—for they would but call
Your mixture melo-drama, after all.

Mrs. W.
With all my heart, I say, I don't care what
It's called, provided always it is not
Of “the stage stagey”—whatsoe'er we do,
Let there be nature in't—

Fan.
And fancy, too.

Mrs. W.
By all means, for with you I quite agree,
Without some Fancy, dull e'en sense would be.
Besides, you know, to vary our diversions,
We must make supernatural exertions.

Mr. W.
“It must be so; Plato, thou reasonest well.”
On second thoughts I think the plan will tell.
Elegant extracts shall be, as you say,
In this, our Camp, the order of the day.
And so—attention! eyes right! dress up there!
I fear it's hopeless to say “as you were;”
But as you are—on you I will depend,
So “stand at ease!”

Tra.
And you will stand my friend?

Mr. W.
One of the best you ever had on earth;
I wouldn't murder you for all you're worth!

Tra.
Then I may take myself off, I suppose?

Bur.
“Do it, nor leave the task to me!”

Tra.
Here goes!

Mr. W.
Stay! though I leave Burlesque to cure your bathos,
We'll keep of Tragedy the gentler pathos.
(to Comedy)
From you I would extract—you look so arch,
Upon me, I'm afraid, you'll steal a march—
Gay as a lark, and so good-humoured too,
I feel I can't extract too much from you!
(to Melo-drama)
Some spirits from your vasty deep I'll call;
Ballet shall help me to keep up the ball,
Opera lend a ballad or romanza,
And Fancy make burlesque, extravaganza.
Pantomime teach me how to do the trick;
E'en Hippo-drame may furnish a last kick.

Spec.
Well, try what trick you please to get the tin with,
Spectacle's, after all, the card to win with.

Mr. W.
Yes, after all; yet in one sense, my friend,
Spectacle should not be the Drama's end.
Where that's the case the satirists may say
It is indeed all over with the play!
But my play's over now, thanks to your stars!
(to Fancy)
(to Audience)
And now I fain would call up your huzzahs,
To keep the ground for us and our review.
I have not told you all I mean to do;
For on that head—as promises may fetter—
The lessee thinks the less he says the better!
But to our Chobham if you will but tramp,
And smile on our experimental Camp.
A gallant corps in time I hope to form,
Which may, some fine night, take the town by storm!
Oh! let me hope that hope's not a forlorn one,
I'm a bold man, if ever there was born one!
Pardon that boldness in my utmost need,
And by your coups de main make mine succeed;
Confirming me in this proud situation,
By the command of general approbation.

Spec.
From me to borrow nothing do you mean?

Mr. W.
Perhaps you'll favour me with a last scene,
On this occasion, by your own desire.

Spec.
Then give the word—

Mr. W.
Make ready!—present!
(scene changes to a splendid Fairy Temple)
Fire!

(coloured fires are lighted)
Chorus-Finale
—“The Sturm Marsch.”
Solo—Mr. Wigan.
Solo—Fancy.

Chorus.
March to support, &c.

Chorus.
(Grand Salute)
Thus presenting arms before we march away,
End we our review!
Off with beating drums and flying colours pray,
Let the piece go too;
Command us by a parting cheer,
Nightly to salute you here!