Marmoset. To prove it, if you have any fancy for the identical hat that you wore at Marengo, you can purchase it of Mr. Moses Ragby, who lent it at two-and-sixpence a night to Covent-garden.

Napoleon. Indeed!

Marmoset. Besides your real pocket-handkerchief from St. Helena, before the imperial crown was picked out of the corner.

Napoleon. And who-who has acted me?

Marmoset. Every body; the fact is, you are a stock part, and now go with the heavy old man.

Napoleon. Bah!

Prince Talleyrand. Eh, Monsieur? dis donc-est-il possible que — Marmoset. Beg your pardon, Sir, pray speak English, because the gentleman who translates for me isn't here.

Byron. Come, Mr. Marmoset, can you make no use of the Emperor? Marmoset. Don't see, my Lord, how. By the way, my Lord, that Sardanapalus of yours is a pretty thing for the closet.

Byron. Did you ever meet with it there?

Marmoset. Never, my Lord; only as it failed upon the stage-that is, my Lord-I-the truth is, my Lord, it is always a point with gentlemen of my profession, when we find a piece not quite the thing for the boards, to praise it for the library.

Byron. Because then you are sure never to meet with it—eh?

Marmoset (pushing his fore-finger in the stomach of Lord Byron). You're a wag still, my Lord-'pon my life you are.

Byron. And you can do nothing with poor Napoleon?

Marmoset (aside). Between ourselves, my Lord, the fleas have done for him.

Byron. Fleas! Worms you mean?

Marmoset. No, my Lord, no: since the showmen have mounted him on flea-back, he's become vulgar. He's a drug even with the imageboys. I wouldn't hurt his feelings, but at the Royal Sanguinary Theatre I wouldn't let him carry a banner-that is, unless he changed his coat, and went on without a salary. I wish I could hit upon something to stir the town! Do, my Lord, help me to an idea.

Byron. What do you think of engaging the House of Commons?

Marmoset. To say the truth, that struck me; but some of the railway members ask such terms. You'd think senators were of the same consequence as singers-for they positively demand nearly as high salaries. If you could suggest something at once new and musical? Byron. What is cat-gut at a premium?

Marmoset. Nothing like music, my Lord, in all its branches; last week three traders in German bullfinches started each a carriage: music! Penny whistles sell for twopence. Something musical now! Daniel O'Connell. I have it: I'll make a speech for you.

Marmoset. Should be very happy indeed, Sir: but, you know, you've tried at every theatre but mine; and I-I can't afford it. If I could get a new effect with a striking character!

Brougham. Why not put Talleyrand in a pantomime?

Byron. Don't you hear, my Lord Vaux, that the manager wants something new?

Dennis Collins. What do you say to me, my old 'un?

Marmoset. Ha! Mr. Collins: if you had but taken my terms when the bloom of your reputation was upon you!

Dennis Collins. Tell you what, old fellow! D-n the shiners! Dennis never cared for 'em: to prove it, I'll do you what you like for twenty pounds a night, and throw you in the ornpipe for nothing.

Marmoset. Under other circumstances, Mr. Collins, I should have been delighted; but at present I can't clearly see my way. (Here the Manager sees Numbers SEVENTY Two and SEVENTY THREE of the collection beckoning to him, and crosses over.) Ha! gentlemen, if your terms are moderate-if I can see my way with

Seventy Two. How much?

Seventy Three. And find our own sack?

you

Marmoset. Ha! my dear friends, if I had only had you a few years ago; but now, murder does not bring what it used to. I've played three assassinations and two forgeries this very season to less than my expenses.

Seventy Two. Naething's sae slippery as public taste, ye ken.

Seventy Three (visibly affected). You'd hardly believe it, Mr. Marmoset, but naebody speers at us now!

Seventy Two (with a sigh). They a' gang into the "Chamber o' Horrors!"

Marmoset (aside, glancing towards the "chamber "). Yes; that— that, indeed, would be a hit. He's the newest upon town; and as I believe he is no singer, his terms may be met.

John Kemble. Mr. Marmoset, are you in want of

Marmoset. Nothing at all-nothing, my dear Sir, in your way. And yet, Mr. Kemble, if we could come to terms

John Kemble. For a round of characters?

Marmoset. Not as actor, Mr. Kemble-not as actor; you were very well in your time-very well, indeed. But, ha! Mr. Kemble, if you could but write me another "Lodoiska!"

John Kemble. Am I to understand that you wish to retain me solely as author?

Marmoset. Solely; and if you will write me a quadruped piece-I have a whole menagerie at my disposal, besides a dancing-woman from the Chippewahs, and very good hopes of a real mermaid.

John Kemble. Is there no public taste, Mr. Marmoset?

Marmoset. Plenty of it, Sir, if one can but be lucky enough to catch

it. As a manager, I am bound to bait with everything.-I had a tank made for a hippopotamus; the animal was caught, Sir-was coming over in robust health, but-I mention no names-early one morning watch, the creature was found dead. As I said, I mention no names; but I may be allowed to state this curious fact-the third mate of the ship was proved to be own cousin to a rival manager. The hippopotamus was flung into the sea. I accuse nobody-but would have given fifty pounds if that hippopotamus had been opened.

John Kemble. You hav'n't a play-bill about you, Mr. Marmoset? Marmoset. There, Mr. Kemble-a little more red in the bills now, little bigger type, too, than we can recollect, eh?

John Kemble (reading the bill). "Overflowing house!" What is that, Mr. Marmoset?

Marmoset. That is, Sir, when the gallery-as I am proud to say it frequently happens at my establishment-when the gallery runs into the boxes. In summer, I fill 'em, as they filter water, by ascension.

John Kemble. Curious man! Pray explain yourself. Ascension! Marmoset. You see, Mr. Kemble, I've a large ventilator in the roof. I fill my pit with paper, and then turn the paper into shillings. Marry, how? you will say. Listen:-When the pit is crammed full, and a thousand people more at the door-it sometimes happens-for there I give no orders, that there's not a soul in the boxes; nice, cool, airy boxes, lined with real scarlet serge, Mr. Kemble. The pit, thus crammed, with the ventilator open, is only moderately hot; upon this, I resolutely close my ventilator! The effect, Mr. Kemble, is magical! Half the pit have, in five minutes, the extra money in their hands for the boxes a little door, generously constructed for the occasion, is flung hospitably open, and the boxes are filled, as I say, by "ascension." That I call an overflowing house, Mr. Kemble.

John Kemble. And what may you call 66 a brilliant audience?"

Marmoset. Almost the same thing: it's when I see glittering in the fingers of every person in the pit an extra shilling for the dress boxes.

John Kemble. I see you state that the house "continues to be crowded to suffocation!" Do you think that an inducement to others to be suffocated?

Marmoset. No doubt: I'd take upon myself to make an air-pump popular by exactly the same advertisement.

John Kemble. What do you consider "universal and enthusiastic shouts ?"

Marmoset. When the applause is almost enough to drown the hisses. John Kemble. And what the "most fashionable audience of the season?"

Marmoset. When the hackney-coaches in front of the theatre outnumber the cabs.

John Kemble. And do you think the town believes all this? Marmoset. To speak out, Mr. Kemble, I don't think it does. John Kemble. Then why, my dear Sir-why continue to print it? Marmoset. That's very well-very well, indeed, of you: but, when a manager has lied for years together, you can't think how impossible it is for him to speak the truth. Bless you! he wouldn't believe himself if he did. Can you suggest nothing, Mr. Kemble?

John Kemble. Here is something-lent to me last night by my neighbour here," Seventy Two."

Marmoset. Ha! It looks like a MS. Eh? What? "The Terrific Tapeworm," a domestic drama of peculiar interest, by Doctor M-n!

Seventy Two. He came here yestreen, and while he was feeling the knobs on my skull, I dips my hand into his pocket!

Marmoset. And here are parts and all copied out. Gentlemenfriends-will you go through the piece? "The Terrific Tapeworm !" The name 's enough. Gentlemen, allow me to cast the drama. (Distributing the parts.)

Dennis Collins. I say, messmate-(about to return the part)-this here's no use to me; I can't read.

Marmoset. My dear Sir, in the present state of things, that's not of the slightest consequence. Now, gentlemen, "The Terrific Tapeworm !" There must be something in such a title. Now, gentlemen: Scene first-Enter

In three seconds after this Mr. Marmoset awoke; but-and the phenomenon has been satisfactorily accounted for in the philosophy of dreams-in that space of time, the whole domestic drama was perfectly represented, the gentlemen " having kindly undertaken their several parts at the shortest notice."

Happily, Mr. Marmoset retains a vivid recollection of every syllable of the piece; but, too distrustful of himself, has retained us to look to the minute points of orthography, and to soften the severity of his punctuation.

The drama itself he has not yet dictated to us, but, with a fine sense of gratitude, he has already sent the following dedication of its forthcoming pages to the printer:

"To Madame Tussaud,

who,

With an enlarged Humanity,

Takes for her Models

The best and basest of mankind;
and who,

Unreservedly mingling them together,
Extracts from the whole

The good that all Men seek,
This Drama

Is gratefully dedicated."

Thus much for the dedication. And though we are not able, at the present moment, to lay the drama before the reader, we are happy to state that we can afford him some matter for reasonable speculation on its deep character and diversified interest in the following address of thanks to the actors employed, seasoned with criticisms on their various talents and imperfections. The manager (who without any compunction puts himself in the place of author) says

"How difficult is it to particularise where almost all alike demand our thanks! How hard the task to vary eulogy where nearly everybody is to be praised! Never, never since Thespis begged grease for his cart-wheel has author been so bowed with obligation. Turn my thoughts where they will they meet a creditor. Let me, however-hard as may be the task, imperfect as may be my words-strive at least to stammer my gratitude!

To his Grace the Duke of Wellington I can never sufficiently express my thanks: first, for the condescension he displayed in accepting a part so manifestly below his genius; and next, for the importance he gave to it. The part was a part of lines; but how great was his Grace in the lines!

"Napoleon was, perhaps, never so much at home as in his low comedy with Fieschi. All his bye-play showed him to be a perfect master of his art. The playful manner in which he pulled Voltaire by the nose must form one of the most enduring and delightful recollections of all

who beheld it. Truly does Madame T., in her historical and eloquent catalogue, say of him, 'Unlike his person, which was small, his mind was that of a giant!' If this gentleman would but cultivate his singing he would be a very great acquisition to opera; for though his organs are weak, they are extremely mellifluous. He has, unfortunately, too great diffidence in making use of them.

"To Sir Francis Burdett, for having undertaken, at a very short notice, a part so infinitely below him, I ought to pay volumes of acknowledgment. The part was a very trifling one-but how much can the

baronet make of a little!

"Oliver Cromwell, as the frank, light-hearted lover, exhibited the tender passion, even to the married, in the most favourable view; whilst his scene at the tavern displayed all that buoyancy of heart, that generosity of spirit, and delicacy of sentiment, hitherto considered by the superficial as incompatible with extreme drunkenness. The illusion was perfect to hear him drop his words was to listen to the wine running from the bottle. It is plain, that nature intended him to play the very highest comedy.

"To Mr. J. P. Kemble, for the undisguised manner in which, throughout the play, he exhibited his skull, I beg to return my sincere thanks. He, I know, will think the exhibition of an entire skull but a small matter to obtain praise; but I, who, unhappily, know how very few actors can, for a whole night, be induced to show the least part of one, am happy to express to him my enlarged sense of obligation. "Lord Byron, from his excessive timidity, prevented the display of what I will venture to predict to be a very respectable talent. If he would but borrow a little of the wild jollity of William Penn, he would give a flavour to his otherwise too quiet humour.

"Sir Walter Scott only wants encouragement to become really a tolerable favourite. He delivered a message in a manner that almost surprised me. It is charming to watch the early development of talent. With great study, great time, and some luck, Sir Walter may become a very useful person in general utility.

"Mr. Washington, as a rebel drummer, elicited scintillations of lambent humour. It is sometimes difficult to judge of young beginners; but I think Mr. Washington will do.

"If Prince Talleyrand were not so nervous, I should have high hopes of him. I much fear, however, that mauvaise honte will utterly blast his prospects in life.

"Mr. Joseph Hume played his part to perfection. His address to a milk-score showed the artist.

"I regret that I cannot praise Lord Nelson. There is not one particle of salt in his sailors: they are all landsmen, with frogs in their throats. In low comedy he might stand a chance.

"Monsieur Voltaire might be tolerated as Pantaloon: in no other character can he ever be accepted. I never knew so dull a person-that is, when he speaks.

"Neither Charles Fox nor George Canning can be trusted with a single line. I never heard such speakers.

* It will be seen that Mr. Marmoset writes as if The Tapeworm had already been represented to "a brilliant and overflowing audience.”