....

THE INCHCAPE ROCK.

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea;
The ship was still as she could be ;
Her sails from Heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign, or sound of their shock,
The waves flow'd o'er the Inchcape rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape bell.
The Abbot of Abberbrothok

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape rock.
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.

When the rock was hid by the surges' swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous rock,
And bless'd the Abbot of Abberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,
And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph, the Rover, walk'd his deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of Spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape rock,
And I'll plague the Abbot of Abberbrothok."

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

..............

Inchcape Rock.

.................

..............

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound,

The bubbles rose and burst around;

Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the rock

Won't bless the Abbot of Abberbrothok.

Sir Ralph, the Rover, sail'd away,
He scour'd the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plunder'd store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, " it will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon."
"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore."
"Now where we are, I can not tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell."
They hear no sound; the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fall'n they drift along,
"Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock;
"Oh Christ, it is the Inchcape rock!"

Sir Ralph, the Rover, tore his hair;
He curs'd himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on ev'ry side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear;
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell
The Devil below was ringing his knell.

.............

SYLVESTER DAGGERWOOD. SCENE. Fustian and Sylvester: (Daggerwood discovered a sleep in a chair.) the Clock strikes Eleven.

Fust. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, - Zounds! eleven o'clock; and here I have been waiting ever since nine, for an interview with the manager. (A Servant crosses the Stage, from R.H.) Harkye, young man, is your master visible yet?

Serv. Sir!

Fust. I say, can I see your master?

Serv. He has tw gentlemen with him at present.
Fust. Who is this gentleman asleep in the corner ?
Serv. Oh, that, sir, is a gentleman who wants to come out.
Fust. Come out! then wake him, and open the door.----Gad,

the greatest difficulty at this house is to get in.

Serv. Ha, ha! I mean he wants to appear on the stage; 'tis Mr. Sylvester Daggerwood, of the Dunstable Company. Fust. Oh, a country candidate for a London truncheon, a sucking Prince of Denmark,--D- m'me, hesnores like a tinker; fatigued with his journey, I suppose.

Serv. No, sir he has taken a nap in this room these five mornings-but has not been able to obtain an audience here yet. Fust. No, nor at Dunstable neither, I take it. Serv. I am loth to disturb him, poor gentleman, so I never

wake him till a full half hour after my master is gone out.

Fust. Upon my soul that's very obliging-I must keep watch here, I find, like a lynx. Well, friend, you'll let your master koow Mr. Fustian is here, when the two gentlemen have left him at leisure.

Serv. The moment they make their exit.
[Exit. L. H.
Fust. Make their exit! - this fellow must have lived here

some time, by his language, and I'll warrant him lies by rote like a parrot. -(Takes out a M.S) - If I could nail this manager for a minute, I'd read him such a tragedy.

Dag. "Nay, an thou'lt mouth, - I'll rant as well as thee."
Fust. Eh? dam'me, he's talking in his sleep, acting Ham-

let, before twelve tallow candles, in the country.
Dag." To be, or not to be?"

Fust. Yes, he's at it-let me see-(Turning over the leaves

of his Tragedy.) I think there's no doubt of its running.

Dag. "That is the question." - "Who would fardles bear?"

..................

Sylvester Daggerwood.

....

Fust. Zounds! there's no bearing you-his Grace's patronage will fill half the side boxes-and, I warrant, we'll stuff the critics into the pit.

Dag. "To groan and sweat"-" when he himself might his quietus make."

Fust. Quietus,-I wish with all my heart I could make yours-The countess of Crambo insists on the best places, for the first night of performance; she'il sit in the stage box.

Dag. With a bare bodkin."

Fust. O the devil! there's no enduring this. - Sir, sir, (Waking him.) do you intend to sleep any more?

Dag. (Waking.) Eh, what, when? -" Methought I heard a voice cry sleep no more."

Fust. Faith, sir, you heard something very like it, and that voice was mine.

Dag. Sir, I am your respective servant to command, Sy'vester Daggerwood-whose benefit is fixed for the eleventh of June, by particular desire of several persons of distinction You'd make an excellent Macbeth, sir.

Fust. Sir?

Dag." Macbeth doth murder sleep, -the innocent sleep, -balm of hurt minds, -great nature's second course."-Faith, and very often the first course, when a dinner is unavoidably deferred by your humble servant to command, Sylvester Daggerwood, whose benefit is fixed for the eleventh of June, by particular desire of several persons of distinction.

Fust. I am very sorry, sir, you should ever have occasion to postpone so pleasant a performance.

Dag. Eating, sir, is a popular entertainment for man and horse, as I may say, but I am apt to appear nice, sir-and somehow or other, I never could manage to sit down to dinner in a bad company.

Fust. Has your company been bad then, of late, sir? Dag. D-n'd bad, indeed, sir; -the Dunstable company -where I have eight shilings a week, four bits of candle, one wife, three shirts, and nine children

Fust. A very numerous family.

Dag. Acrowded house to be sure, sir, but not very profitable. Mrs. Daggerwood-a fine figure, but, unfortunately, stutters;

"

Sylvester Daggerwood.

so of no use in the theatrical line. Children too young to make a debut, except my eldest, Master Appollo Daggerwood, a youth of only eight years old, who has twice made his appearance in Tom Thumb, to an overflowing and brilliant barn-house, I mean-with unbounded and universal applause.

Fust. Have you been long on the stage, Mr. Daggerwood? Dag. Fifteen years since I first smelt the lamps, sir: my father was an eminent button-maker at Birmingham, and meant to marry me to Miss Molly Metre, daughter to the rich director of the coal-works, at Wolverhampton; but I had a soul above buttons, and ahhorred the idea of a mercenary marriage, -I panted for a liberal profession-so ran away from my father, and engaged with a travelling company of comedians; in my travels, I had soon the bappiness of forming a romantic attachment with the present Mrs. Daggerwood, wife to Sylvester Daggerwood, your humble servant to command, whose benefit is fixed for the eleventh of June, by particular desire of several persons of distinction -so you see, sir, I have a taste.

Fust, Have you?-then sit down, and I'll read you my tragedy: I am determined somebody shall hear it before I go out of the house. (Sits down.)

Dag. A tragedy! sir, I'll be ready for you in a moment; let me prepare for woe. (Tahes out a very ragged pocket-handkerchief) "This handkerchief did an Egyptian to my mother give."

Fust. Faith, I should think so-and to all appearance, one of the Norwood party. Dag. Now, sir, for your title, and then for the dramatis

personæ.

Fust. The title, I think, will strike: the fashion of plays, you know, is to rescue certain characters from the illiberal odium with which custom has marked them. Thus we have a generous Israelite, an amiable cynic-and so on. -Now, sir, I call my play The Humane Footpad!

Dag. What!

Fust. There's a title for you! Isn't it happy?--Eh, how do

you like my Footpad?

Dag. Humph - Why, I think he'll strike-but then he ought to be properly executed.