on her boa!" While, from that "refugium peccatorum," the shilling gallery, infernal cries of "Down in the front!" "Music!" "Curse your pedigree!" "Hats off!" "How's your mother?" drown even the double-drums, and render the overture inaudible from the opening crash to the close.
"Some giggling daughter of the queen of love"
To remedy this nuisance, – to allow the excited feelings of an overcrowded house to subside sufficiently to enable the audience, by presenting them with the first act, to judge how far the music of the overture is adapted to the business of the stage, – these considerations have induced me thus to postpone its performance, and with what success the public will best decide.
Another, and a more agreeable duty, now devolves upon me, – to express my ardent thanks to all and every to whom this drama is in any way indebted for its brilliant and unparalleled success. To Messrs. Flight and Robson; the commanding officers of the Foot and Fusileer Guards; the King of the Two Sicilies; the Hereditary Prince of Coolavin; and his serene highness the Duke of Darmstadt, I am eternally grateful. To the performers, male and female, the composers, the orchestra at large, scene-painters and scene-shifters, prompters and property-men, box-keepers and check-takers, sentries and police, I present my heartfelt acknowledgements. And to the most crowded and fashionable audience that ever graced a metropolitan theatre, I shall only say, that the rapturous and reiterated plaudits bestowed upon this drama shall never fade from the recollection of their most devoted, very humble, too fortunate, and ever grateful servant,
July 1, 1837.
LOVE IN THE CITY;
Grand Overture, – composed jointly by Spohr, Haynes Bayly, Newkom, and Rossini, and performed by the largest orchestra ever collected in a European theatre, assisted by the Duke of Darmstadt's brass band, and the entire drums of the Foot and Fusileer Guards.
In the course of the overture the following novelties will be introduced.
A duet upon the double-drums with one stick only, by Mons. Tambourette, Member of the Legion of Honour, K.T.S., and drum-major to the King of the Two Sicilies.
Planxty Mac Swain, and "What have you got in your jug?" with brilliant variations for the Irish pipes, by Kalkbrenner, – Mr. Patrick Halligan, Minstrel in ordinary to the Prince of Coolavin.
A capriccio on the German flute, by a distinguished amateur, who has lost four fingers and a thumb.
A grand fantasia (Henry Hertz) on one piano by eight performers.
Director, Sir George Smart.
Conductor, on The Apollonicon, – lent to the lessee for that night only, – Mr. Purkis.
Leader, Mr. T. Cooke,
A public-house, "Black Horse," in the Borough. A tap-room. Mags and Poppleton discovered drinking "heavy wet." Mags rather fresh, and Poppleton evidently the worse of liquor. Mags, after a long pull, deposits the pot upon the table.
Pop.– Now for your news, Mags.
Mags. I told you, worthy Pop,
That Stubs and Smith put keepers on the shop.
Pop.– And how's our missus?
Mags. Why, hearty, when last seen
With a Life-Guardsman, crossing Turnham-green.
Pop.– And honest Snags?
Mags (with emotion). Ah! would that epithet were true,
Or I could keep the sad details from you!
Snags is not honest!
He has robb'd the till,
And lost the money, betting at a mill!
Mr. C.– What, Mags and Pop! the coves I wish'd to see
Above all others. Curse my pedigree!
I've been nabb'd, sirs, – I've been nabb'd, sirs, —
And bundled off direct to jail,
By the villains when they grabb'd, sirs,
And now I'm out upon stag-bail.
Mr. C.– Is this good stout?
Mags (feelingly). My honest master, quaff!
You'll find it strengthening, real half-and-half.
Come, Bob, take a sup, sup, sup!
Let the liquor your stiff neck slide down, boy;
There's nothing like keeping steam up,
When a man's at the worst, and done brown, boy.
Mr. C.– How's all at home, – I mean on Ludgate-hill, —
And have you heard the winner of the mill?
Mags (with considerable hesitation).– We all, alas! for Fortune's frowns seem fix'd on.
Poor Jerry Scout is bundled off to Brixton;
The shop's done up; and, for your lady wife,
I fear she's joined the Guards, yclept "The Life;"
On other things, barring the fight, I'm barren,
And Owen Swift was beat by Barney Aaron.
Mr. C.– My wife levanted, and the shop done up!
Mags, hand the quart; I need another sup.
Othello like, Bob's occupation's done;
For I back'd Owen freely two to one.
Like Antony at Actium, this fell day
Strips me of all, shop, cash, and lady gay.
Would I had nerve to take myself away!
Pop. (aside.) – I'll watch him close. Although his looks are placid,
He'll take a dose, I fear, of prussic acid.
Pot-boy.– Is there a gent call'd Mr. Clipclose here?
Mr. C.– I am that wretched man!(Slaps his forehead.)
Pot-boy. Who pays the beer?
Pop.– I.
Pot-boy.– Here's a note. (To Mr. C.) Lord, but the man looks queer!
