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not bore my readers by dwelling long on matters which (however they may have annoyed me) cannot entertain or interest them.

“I regret following up one instance of Mr. Gilliland's inaccuracy immediately with another; but he asserts, in his Dramatic Mirror,' that J. Bannister, in the season 1778, made his appearance for the benefit of his father, on the boards of Old Druiry.' In contradiction to the foregoing statement a document now lies before me, I transcribe it verbatim:

“ . First appearance, at the Haymarket, for my father's benefit, 1778, in The Apprentice. First appearance at Drury-lane, 1779, in Zaphna, in Mahomet. Took leave of the stage at Drury-lane, Thursday, June 1st, 1815. Garrick instructed me in the four first parts I played, -- the Apprentice; Zaphna (Mahomet); Dorilas (Merope); and Achmet (Barbarossa). Jack Bannister, to his dear friend George Colman. June 30th, 1828.'?

These memoranda, under the circumstances, are curious and affecting.- Death has gathered in his harvest, and both the men are gone.

Of Mr. Colman's delightful manners and conversational powers no words can give any adequate idea : with all the advantages of extensive reading, a general knowledge of mankind, and an inexhaustible fund of wit and humour, he blended a joyousness of expression, a kindness of feeling, and a warmth of manner, which rendered him the much-sought companion of every circle of society in which he chose to mix.

Of his literary talents all the world can judge ; but it is only those who have known him in private life who can appreciate the qualities which we despair of being able justly to describe.


About a year since, a young lady begged this celebrated wit to write some verses in her album: he shook his head; but, good-naturedly promising to try, at once extemporised the following,-most probably his last written and poetical jest.

My muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled,
Sat up together many a night, no doubt ;
I've sent the poor

old lass to bed,
Simply because my fire is going out.

But now,

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Oh! the balloon, the great balloon!
It left Vauxhall one Monday at noon,
And every one said we should hear of it soon
With news from Aleppo or Scanderoon.

very soon after, folks changed their tune:
“The netting had burst-the silk-the shalloon ;
It had met with a trade-wind-a deuced monsoon-
It was blown out to sea -it was blown to the moon
They ought to have put off their journey till June;
Sure none but a donkey, a goose, or baboon,
Would go up, in November, in any balloon!"
Then they talk'd about Green—"Oh! where's Mister Green ?
And where's Mister Holland who hired the machine ?
And where is Monk Mason, the man that has been
Up so often before—twelve times or thirteen-
And who writes such nice letters describing the scene ?
And where's the cold fowl, and the ham, and poteen?
The press'd beef, with the fat cut off, --nothing but lean?
And the portable soup in the patent tureen ?
Have they got to Grand Cairo ? or reach'd Aberdeen ?
Or Jerusalem-Hamburgh—or Ballyporeen ?-
No! they have not been seen! Oh! they haven't been seen!”
Stay! here's Mister Gye-Mr. Frederick Gye.
At Paris,” says he, “ I've been up very high,
A couple of hundred of toises, or nigh,
A cockstride the Tuilleries pantiles, to spy,
With Dollond's best telescope stuck at my eye,
And my umbrella under my arm like Paul Pry,
But I could see nothing at all but the sky;
So I thought with myself 'twas of no use to try
Any longer; and feeling remarkably dry
From sitting all day stuck up there, like a Guy,
I came down again, and you see-here am I !"
But here's Mister Hughes !-What says young Mr. Hughes ?
“ Why, I'm sorry to say, we've not got any news
Since the letter they threw down in one of their shoes,
Which gave the Mayor's nose such a deuce of a bruise,
As he popp'd up his eye-glass to look at their cruise
Over Dover; and which the folks flock’d to peruse
At Squier's bazaar, the same evening, in crews,
Politicians, newsmongers, town council, and blues,


Turks, heretics, infidels, jumpers, and Jews,
Scorning Bachelor's papers, and Warren's reviews;
But the wind was then blowing towards Helvoetsluys,
And my father and I are in terrible stews,
For so large a balloon is a sad thing to lose !"


Here's news come at last! Here's news come at last !
A vessel 's come in, which has sail'd

And a gentleman serving before the mast,
Mister Nokes, has declared that “ the party has past
Safe across to the Hague, where their grapnel they cast
As a fat burgomaster was staring aghast
To see such a monster come borne on the blast,
And it caught in his breeches, and there it stuck fast!"

Oh ! fie! Mister Nokes,--for shame, Mister Nokes !
To be poking your fun at us plain-dealing folks-
Sir, this isn't a time to be cracking your jokes,
And such jesting, your malice but scurvily cloaks;
Such a trumpery tale every one of us smokes,
And we know

whole story 's a hoax !

well your

« Oh! what shall we do? Oh! where will it end?
Can nobody go ? Can nobody send
To Calais--or Bergen-op-zoom—or Ostend?
Can't you go there yourself? Can't you write to a friend,
For news upon which we may safely depend?”

Huzzah! huzzah ! one and eight-pence to pay
For a letter from Hamborough, just come to say
They descended at Weilburg about break of day ;
And they 've lent them the palace there, during their stay,
And the town is becoming uncommonly gay,
And they 're feasting the party, and soaking their clay
With Johannisberg, Rudesheim, Moselle, and Tokay;
And the landgraves, and margraves, and counts beg and pray
That they won't think as yet, about going away ;
Notwithstanding, they don't mean to make much delay,
But pack up the balloon in a waggon or dray,
And pop themselves into a German "po-shay,"
And get on to Paris by Lisle and Tournay;
Where they boldly declare, any wager they 'll lay,
If the gas people there do not ask them to pay
Such a sum as must force them at once to say“ Nay,”
They 'll inflate the balloon in the Champs Elysées,
And be back again here, the beginning of May.

Dear me! what a treat for a juvenile fête !
What thousands will flock their arrival to greet!
There 'll be hardly a soul to be seen in the street,
For at Vauxhall the whole population will meet,
And you 'll scarcely get standing-room, much less a seat,
For this all preceding attraction must beat :

Since, there they 'll unfold, what we want to be told,
How they cough’d, how they sneez’d, how they shiver'd with cold,
How they tippled the cordial,” as racy and old
As Hodges, or Deady, or Smith ever sold,
And how they all then felt remarkably bold;
How they thought the boil'd beef worth its own weight in gold ;
And how Mister Green was beginning to scold
Because Mister Holland would try to lay hold
Of the moon, and had very near overboard rollid.

And there they 'll be seen—they 'll be all to be seen!
The great-coats, the coffee-pot, mugs, and tureen!
With the tight-rope, and fire-works, and dancing between,
If the weather should only prove fair and serene.
And there, on a beautiful transparent screen,
In the middle you'll see a large picture of Green,
With Holland on one side, who hired the machine,
And Monk Mason on t'other, describing the scene;
And Fame on one leg in the air, like a queen,
With three wreaths and a trumpet, will over them lean;
While Envy, in serpents and black bombazine,
Looks on from below with an air of chagrin.

Then they'll play up a tune in the Royal Saloon,
And the people will dance by the light of the moon,
And keep up the ball till the next day at noon;
And the peer and the peasant, the lord and the loon,
The haughty grandee, and the low picaroon,
The six-foot life-guardsman, and little gossoon,
Will all join in three cheers for the “monstre” balloon.


Andy Rooney was a fellow who had the most singularly ingenious knack of doing every thing the wrong way; disappointment awaited on all affairs in which he bore a part, and destruction was at his fingers' ends : so the nick-name the neighbours stuck upon him was Handy Andy, and the jeering jingle pleased them.

Andy's entrance into this world was quite in character with his after achievements, for he was nearly the death of his mother. She survived, however, to bave herself clawed almost to death while her darling babby was in arms, for he would not take his nourishment from the parent fount unless he had one of his little red fists twisted into his mother's hair, which he dragged till he made her roar; while he diverted the pain by scratching her till the blood came, with the other. Nevertheless she swore he was “the loveliest and sweetest craythur the sun ever shined upon ;" and when he was able to run about and wield a little stick, and smash every thing breakable belonging to her, she only praised his precocious powers, and used to ask, “ Did ever any one see a darlin' of his age handle a stick so bowld as he did ?”

Andy grew up in mischief and the admiration of his mammy; but, to do him justice, he never meant harm in the course of his life, and was most anxious to offer his services on all occasions to any one who would accept them; but they were only those who had not already proved Andy's peculiar powers.

There was a farmer hard by in this happy state of ignorance, named Owen Doyle, or, as he was familiarly called, Owny na Coppal, or, “ Owen of the Horses," because he bred many of these animals, and sold them at the neighbouring fairs; and Andy one day offered his services to Owny when he was in want of some one to drive up a horse to his house from a distant “ bottom,” as low grounds by a river side are always called in Ireland.

“Oh, he's wild, Andy, and you'd never be able to ketch him,” said Owny.—“Throth, an' I 'll engage I 'll ketch him if you

I never seen the horse I couldn't ketch, sir," said Andy.

“Why, you little spridhogue, if he took to runnin' over the long bottom, it ’ud be more than a day's work for you to folly him.” “Oh, but he won't run."

Why won't he run ?”—“ Bekase I won't make him run.” “How can you help it ?”—“ I'll soother him.”

“Well, you 're a willin' brat, any how; and so go, and God speed you !” said Owny.

“Just gi' me a wisp o' hay an'a han'ful iv oats,” said Andy, “ if I should have to coax him.”_-“Sartinly,” said Owny, who

'll let me go

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