But to me, you are still what I found you,

Before you grew

clever and tall;

And you'll think of the spell that once bound

you;

And you'll come-won't you come?—to our Ball!

LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH

II

PRIVATE THEATRICALS

Sweet, when actors first appear,

The loud collision of applauding gloves. — MOULTRIE.

YOUR labours, my talented brother,

Are happily over at last:

They tell me that, somehow or other,

The Bill is rejected, or past;

And now you'll be coming, I'm certain,
As fast as your posters can crawl,
To help us to draw up our curtain,
As usual, at Fustian Hall.

Arrangements are nearly completed;
But still we've a Lover or two,

Whom Lady Albina entreated

We'd keep, at all hazards, for you: Sir Arthur makes horrible faces;

Lord John is a trifle too tall;

And yours are the safest embraces
To faint in, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence;-it's really enchanting
To listen and look at the rout:
We're all of us puffing and panting,
And raving, and running about;
Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle;
There Andrew and Anthony bawl;
Flutes murmur chains rattle

rustle

In chorus, at Fustian Hall.

robes

By the bye, there are two or three matters
We want you to bring us from Town:
The Inca's white plumes from the hatter's,
A nose and a hump for the Clown;
We want a few harps for our banquet;
We want a few masks for our ball;
And steal from your wise friend Bosan-

quet

His white wig, for Fustian Hall!

Hunca Munca must have a huge sabre;
Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl;

And we're quite at a stand still with Weber
For want of a lizard and owl:
And then, for our funeral procession,
Pray get us a love of a pall,

Or how shall we make an impression
On feelings, at Fustian Hall?

And, Clarence, you'll really delight us,
If you'll do your endeavour to bring,
From the Club, a young person to write us
Our prologue, and that sort of thing;
Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,
Is gone for a Judge to Bengal;
I fear we shall miss him extremely
This season, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence! your idol Albina
Will make a sensation, I feel;

We all think there never was seen a

Performer so like the O'Neill:

At rehearsals, her exquisite fancy
Has deeply affected us all;

For one tear that trickles at Drury,
There'll be twenty at Fustian Hall!

Dread objects are scattered before her
On purpose to harrow her soul;
She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er her,
At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl.

The sword never seems to alarm her

That hangs on a peg to the wall; And she dotes on thy rusty old armour, Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

She stabbed a bright mirror this morning, (Poor Kitty was quite out of breath!)And trampled, in anger and scorning,

A bonnet and feathers to death.

But hark!-I've a part in "The Stranger,”There's the Prompter's detestable call! Come, Clarence-our Romeo and Ranger— We want you at Fustian Hall!