nager, sighing: "it has
always some enemy or other. In quiet times it is laid on the shelf.
Then comes some season of political ferment: the liberty boys kick up a
dust: the public voice calls for the play clamorously: the theatre
fills nightly: every allusion is caught at with rapture: and, as to the
actors, they may lie upon their oars; for, let them play as ill as they
choose, they are sure of applause for the sake of what they utter. But,
as often as ever this happens, in steps the government and forbids the
representation."

"Forbid the representation?" shrieked Mr. Dulberry; "forbid that
excellent play Venice Preserved? What! there's something in it against
government, is there? Oh! it's an admirable play. And how, now, how is
it they forbid it? Not by act of parliament, I dare swear: bad as
parliament is, they would hardly trust it to them. By an order in
council, I suppose? and Lord Londonderry sends a regiment of dragoons
into the pit, eh?"

"No, Mr. Dulberry: the Lord Chamberlain forbids it."

"The Lord Chamberlain? Worse and worse! And so it's the Lord
Chamberlain that sends the dragoons?--Chamberlain! why that's the man
that takes care of the government sheets and pillow-slips; the overseer
of the chambermaids. And he's to trample on the liberties of the
country and to put out the lights of the theatre, by the hoofs of
military despotism!--Oh fie! fie! poor old England!"

Partly from political indignation, and partly from some more personal
indignation at a little laughing which now arose in some quarter of the
room, the patriot returned hastily to the Courier, which he held in his
hand; and the conversation seemed likely to droop; when suddenly
Bertram's attention was drawn by a bright blaze of light; and, looking
up, he beheld his reforming neighbour, Mr. Dulberry, metamorphosed into
a pillar of salt. His mouth was wide open; the whites of his eyes were
raised to the ceiling; one hand was clenched; the other hung lifeless
by his side. The Courier had sunk with one end into the fire; a roaring
flame was springing up and enveloping the whole: and, before Mr.
Dulberry returned to his self-possession, the newspaper with all its
world of history and prophecy was reduced to ashes.

"Mr. Dulberry! for God's sake, Mr. Dulberry! what's the matter?"
exclaimed the company on all sides. "Has Bolivar beaten the royalists?
Is the Austrian loan repaid? or what is it, for the love of heaven?"

"What is it, gentleme