er playhouses were at that time
experiencing a nightly overflow, and a Tragedy was, as she should be,
all the rage! I knew not the cause, but rejoicing in the effect, huddled
my manuscript into my great-coat pocket, and trotted to your residence
in Portland-place. For be it known, sir, to those whom it may concern,
(your tradesmen) that you no longer reside within five minutes' walk of
the Royal Exchange. Formerly you passed your evenings in posting your
leger, and shaking your head at the follies of Fashion; you now exhaust
that portion of the day in posting to the opera, or shaking your heels
at Willis's rooms, and your elbows at the Union Club. If I felt pleased
at finding you at home, how was my satisfaction increased, by hearing
from a yellow-bellied waspish footman that you were busy with the first
tragedian of the day? Good! said I to myself, this must be Kemble: there
is no man better able to appreciate my labours--I'll break in upon them
without ceremony. On approaching your worship's door, I heard the words
"knuckle down" articulated in a shrill voice. I thought this an odd
exclamation for the first tragedian of the day; but how was I petrified
with astonishment, on entering the room, to find you on your knees,
playing at marbles with the little Roscius! Speechless with admiration I
retired unperceived. To have deranged a single taw would, in my mind,
have been a sacrilege as great as an attempt to upset the balance of the
Copernican system. I had scarce time to reflect on your improvement in
dramatic taste, when I learned that you had engaged a Roscia at your
theatre in Covent-Garden. Indeed, so wide had your love of the rising
generation at that time extended, I was credibly informed that Genoa was
on the point of shipping a squalling Roscium for the edification of your
opera-house, when the bubble burst like the gas of the Pall-Mall
lamp-lighter: Reason's dragon-teeth had been buried long enough, and a
race of men succeeded. The worshipful John Bull acted the part of the
cow, in Tom Thumb. Ridicule, that infallible emetic of sick minds, had
eased your stomach of its baby incumbrance; Miss Mudie returned to her
mamma, and Master Betty also retired to break Priscian's head, and hide
his own in the bosom of alma mater.

How elastic is hope when a man thinks he has written a good book, and
what mortal ever supposed himself the author of a bad one? _Quassas
reficit rates._ I again collected my darling notes on Sh