THE ETONIAN. No. VII. The King of Clubs. SCENE-THE PRINTING-OFFICE. CHORUS OF DEVILS. "ALL'S lost! All's lost! Not a penn'orth o'copy is come per post! Not a line in hand, The Press at a stand! And we're coming so close to the First of May, That the Number will never be out to its day. I'm certain and sure, Though he looks so demure, Mr. Courtenay's a deuce of a cool one; For, day after day, He blarneys away, And feeds up our hopes, With his figures and tropes; And promises breaking, As if he delighted to fool one. Sulphur and nitre! all's lost, all's lost! Not a penn'orth o' copy is come per post!" FIRST COMPOSITOR. "Oh! dear! what can the matter be? Mr. P. is so late with his pen ! We can never go on! why, he gets worse and worse! And a morsel of Prose which he calls The Old Nurse ;' SECOND COMPOSITOR. "Good Mr. Courtenay, Sir, you see, Has but a drowsy head; Why wasn't Mr. Bellamy The Editor instead? He writes so quick, so wond'rous quick, While Courtenay nibs his pen ; Ay! sure as I expect to dine, CHORUS. “Well, well, we needn't make a fuss, Whether it's out or not; And so instead of all this noise, Suppose we hold our tongues, my Boys, (Enter Mr. Peregrine Courtenay, booted and spurred, with a long face and a bundle; Devils stare and put down the Beer.-A pause!) MR. COURTENAY. "What is't ye do? All idling here, And drinking of beer, When our Number's so late, And our hurry so great, And our moments of leisure so few?" FIRST COMPOSITOR. "Oh Lord! Mr. Courtenay, I vow and profess, For look ye, you won't give a line to the Press, CHORUS. (Crowding round.) "And where are all the papers, Sir, You promis'd you would send ; For how can any Printer stir When his copy's at an end?" (Devils speak alternately, Mr. Courtenay looking miserable.) "And where's 'The Bachelor?""-and where Good Mr. Sterling's 'Thoughts on Prayer?"""And Burton's Verses on the Stocks?""— "And Lozell's Prose on Weathercocks?'". "And where is Martin on the Martyrs?"" “And 'The Mistake?'”—and 'Changing Quarters?' "Those Sonnets?"- -" and "The Welcome Guest?"". "On Calumny?'". "On Interest?'" "How all your vast professions fall! You speak us soft and fair; But when we ask, 'Where are they all?' MR. COURTENAY. "Abus'd and maltreated in this sort of fashion, Has a marvellous ache? When I sigh for a steak? Betimes at my papers, And late on my pillow? Grow drowsy, and blink, To be harassed with lies, And bespatter'd with ink? Ay! this is the way! If a man is of use, He has for his pay Little else but abuse! Why! I've been writing like a Turk, CHORUS. "Hurra!-Hurra!— The Number is sure to be out to its day. Hurra! Hurra! The Number is sure to be out to its day!" MR. COURTENAY. "You Bawlers! every moment adds New danger to delay! Go! work the Number off, my lads, With all the speed you may! Upon a brace of tubs, And, when I'm freed from all this riot, I'll write the ' King of Clubs.' (Exeunt Devils, Compositors, &c., making a great noise; manet Mr.Courtnay. -He sits for some time in a brown study;—then soliloquizes:) "Alas! no King of Clubs can meet, When all its Members fly and fleet; And leave their writing and renown Shall I report, the Club sat down, Yet I should like to tax my Muse! Mr. Courtenay noddeth-yawneth-sleepeth.-A Devil cometh for the "Bing of Clubs.”—He pulleth Mr. Courtenay by the nose.-Mr. Courtenay is thereby awakened ;-he pincheth the Devil with the tongs, in imitation of St. Dunstan. He taketh pen, ink, and paper, and writeth for the space of two hours.-He then thus exclaimeth: "Enough, enough-the feat is done! And at the setting of the Sun I'm rid of all my evils! Having much labour'd to rehearse, In something between prose and verse, PEREGRINE COURTENAY. |