Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II. Various

the Legion of Honour, K.T.S., and drum-major to the King of the Two Sicilies.

      Planxty Mac Swain, and "What have you got in your jug?" with brilliant variations for the Irish pipes, by Kalkbrenner, – Mr. Patrick Halligan, Minstrel in ordinary to the Prince of Coolavin.

      A capriccio on the German flute, by a distinguished amateur, who has lost four fingers and a thumb.

      A grand fantasia (Henry Hertz) on one piano by eight performers.

      Director, Sir George Smart.

      Conductor, on The Apollonicon, – lent to the lessee for that night only, – Mr. Purkis.

      Leader, Mr. T. Cooke,

The overture having been twice encored, bell rings, and curtain draws upAct II. – Scene I

      A public-house, "Black Horse," in the Borough. A tap-room. Mags and Poppleton discovered drinking "heavy wet." Mags rather fresh, and Poppleton evidently the worse of liquor. Mags, after a long pull, deposits the pot upon the table.

      Pop.– Now for your news, Mags.

      Mags. I told you, worthy Pop,

      That Stubs and Smith put keepers on the shop.

      Pop.– And how's our missus?

      Mags. Why, hearty, when last seen

      With a Life-Guardsman, crossing Turnham-green.

      Pop.– And honest Snags?

      Mags (with emotion). Ah! would that epithet were true,

      Or I could keep the sad details from you!

      Snags is not honest!

(Poppleton buttons his coat, and puts himself into a boxing attitude.)

      He has robb'd the till,

      And lost the money, betting at a mill!

(Noise without. Door opens. Enter Young Clipclose hastily.)

      Mr. C.– What, Mags and Pop! the coves I wish'd to see

      Above all others. Curse my pedigree!

Air —Mr. Clipclose.– ("I've been roaming.")

      I've been nabb'd, sirs, – I've been nabb'd, sirs, —

      And bundled off direct to jail,

      By the villains when they grabb'd, sirs,

      And now I'm out upon stag-bail.

(Mr. C. seizes the pewter in his right hand.)

      Mr. C.– Is this good stout?

      Mags (feelingly). My honest master, quaff!

      You'll find it strengthening, real half-and-half.

Air —Poppleton.– ("Here we go up, up, up.")

      Come, Bob, take a sup, sup, sup!

      Let the liquor your stiff neck slide down, boy;

      There's nothing like keeping steam up,

      When a man's at the worst, and done brown, boy.

(Clipclose starts, looks anxiously at Mags.)

      Mr. C.– How's all at home, – I mean on Ludgate-hill, —

      And have you heard the winner of the mill?

      Mags (with considerable hesitation).– We all, alas! for Fortune's frowns seem fix'd on.

      Poor Jerry Scout is bundled off to Brixton;

      The shop's done up; and, for your lady wife,

      I fear she's joined the Guards, yclept "The Life;"

      On other things, barring the fight, I'm barren,

      And Owen Swift was beat by Barney Aaron.

(Clipclose staggers across the room, and catches at the chimney-piece.)

      Mr. C.– My wife levanted, and the shop done up!

      Mags, hand the quart; I need another sup.

      Othello like, Bob's occupation's done;

      For I back'd Owen freely two to one.

      Like Antony at Actium, this fell day

      Strips me of all, shop, cash, and lady gay.

      Would I had nerve to take myself away!

      Pop. (aside.) – I'll watch him close. Although his looks are placid,

      He'll take a dose, I fear, of prussic acid.

(Enter Pot-boy.)

      Pot-boy.– Is there a gent call'd Mr. Clipclose here?

      Mr. C.– I am that wretched man!(Slaps his forehead.)

      Pot-boy. Who pays the beer?

      Pop.– I.

      Pot-boy.– Here's a note. (To Mr. C.) Lord, but the man looks queer!

(Mr. Clipclose reads it; jumps up, and whistles "Bobbing Joan.")QuartettoMagsMaster, are you mad?Mr. CNo; but I'm distractedPot-boyTimes are wery bad,PopAnd I in grief abstractedMagsOdds! he'll take his life!Mr. C. (kissing the billet.)

      Sweet note! thou'rt balm and manna!

      Mags to Pop. (who is reading it over Mr. C.'s shoulder.)

      Is it from his wife?

      Pop. (slaps his thigh.)

      No! from Miss Juliana!"

      Clipclose, when he reads it, rushes out; Mags after him. Poppleton attempts to follow, but is detained by pot-boy. He forks out tanner, and disappears. Solo —Apollonicon. Hurried music descriptive of three cabs: Clipclose in 793, at a rapid pace; Mags, 1659; Poppleton 1847, pursuing. Scene closes.

Scene II

      Thompson and Fearon's, Holborn; gin-palace at full work; company less select than numerous, and ladies and gentlemen taking "some'ut short" at the counter. Enter, in full uniform. Captain Connor; O'Toole and Blowhard in shell jackets. They call for a flash of lightning, touch glasses affectionately, and bolt the ruin. The captain stumps down for all.

Glee —Connor, O'Toole, and BlowhardCaptGin cures love, my boys, and gin cures the colic;O'TGin fits a man for fight, or fits him for a frolic;BlowCome, we'll have another go, then hey for any rollic!TrioCome, we'll have another go, and hey then for a rollic!

      Blow.– Lass! (to an attendant, whom he chucks under the chin,) some more jacky! Connor, do you still

      Bend at the shrine of her on Ludgate-hill?

      OT. (contemptuously).– Zounds! a cit's helpmate. That would never do.

      One of us Guards, and one of taste like you.

      Capt.– Faith, honest Blowhard, and you, my pal, O'Toole,

      Tho' fond of flirting, yet your friend's no fool!

      Think ye that I could live upon my pay,

      And keep four wives on three and six a day?

      No. Let me have a monied mistress still,

      My El Dorado be a tradesman's till.

      Love fed by flimsies, is the love that thrives,

      And let the mercers keep the Guardsman's wives.

      O'T.– I see how matters stand,