he made born at "Stoke
Pogis"; the very sound of which was like the actor speaking and digging
his words."

* * * * *

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MR. MUNDEN.

_In a Letter to the Editor of the "London Magazine."_

Hark'ee, Mr. Editor. A word in your ear. They tell me you are going to
put me in print,--in print, Sir; to publish my life. What is my life to
you, Sir? What is it to you whether I ever lived at all? My life is a
very good life, Sir. I am insured at the Pelican, Sir. I am threescore
years and six,--six; mark me, Sir: but I can play Polonius, which, I
believe, few of your corre--correspondents can do, Sir. I suspect
tricks, Sir; I smell a rat: I do, I do. You would cog the die upon us:
you would, you would, Sir. But I will forestall you, Sir. You would be
deriving me from William the Conqueror, with a murrain to you. It is no
such thing, Sir. The town shall know better, Sir. They begin to smoke
your flams, Sir. Mr. Liston may be born where he pleases, Sir; but I
will not be born at Lup--Lupton Magna for anybody's pleasure, Sir. My
son and I have looked over the great map of Kent together, and we can
find no such place as you would palm upon us, Sir,--palm upon us, I say.
Neither Magna nor Parva, as my son says; and he knows Latin,
Sir,--Latin. If you write my life true, Sir, you must set down, that I,
Joseph Munden, comedian, came into the world upon Allhallows Day, Anno
Domini 1759,--1759; no sooner nor later, Sir: and I saw the first
light--the first light, remember, Sir--at Stoke Pogis,--Stoke Pogis,
_comitatu_ Bucks, and not at Lup--Lup Magna, which I believe to be no
better than moonshine,--moonshine; do you mark me, Sir? I wonder you can
put such flim-flams upon us, Sir: I do, I do. It does not become you,
Sir: I say it,--I say it. And my father was an honest tradesman, Sir: he
dealt in malt and hops, Sir; and was a Corporation-man, Sir; and of the
Church of England, Sir; and no Presbyterian, nor Ana--Anabaptist, Sir;
however you may be disposed to make honest people believe to the
contrary, Sir. Your bams are found out, Sir. The town will be your
stale puts no longer, Sir; and you must not send us jolly fellows,
Sir,--we that are comedians, Sir,--you must not send us into groves and
Charn--Charnwoods a-moping, Sir. Neither Charns, nor charnel-houses,
Sir. It is not our constitutions, Sir: I tell it you,--I tell it you. I
was a droll dog from my cradle. I came into the world t