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;
Promises making,

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?
Dear! dear! what can the matter be?
Good lack! what can the matter be?

Mr. P. is so late with his pen !

We can never go on! why, he gets worse and worse!
He promis'd to send me a budget of Verse,

And a morsel of Prose which he calls The Old Nurse ;'
And see-ha'nt he chous'd us again?"

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,
He'd fill a volume very thick,

While Courtenay nibs his pen ;

Ay! sure as I expect to dine,
Courtenay can write but half a line
While Bellamy writes ten."

CHORUS.

“Well, well, we needn't make a fuss,
We needn't now be bother'd thus,
For sure the Number's nought to us,

Whether it's out or not;

And so instead of all this noise,

Suppose we hold our tongues, my Boys,
And pass about the Pot!"

(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,
You're worse than a Turk or a Jew;

For look ye, you won't give a line to the Press,
And you won't give the Devil his due."

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?'
An Echo answers- - Where?""

MR. COURTENAY.

"Abus'd and maltreated in this sort of fashion,
By his Majesty's crown I shall be in a passion!
Shall I work till my head

Has a marvellous ache?
Shall I dine on dry bread

When I sigh for a steak?
Shall I sport' midnight tapers?
And fly from Quadrille ! Oh !

Betimes at my papers,

And late on my pillow?
Shall I write till my eyes

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,
So, pray ye, set your types to work,
Here's copy in my sack!—
Nay, nay,-paws off, good Master Gruff!
I find Blue Devils quite enough,
And may be spared the Black!"

CHORUS.

"Hurra!-Hurra!—

The Number is sure to be out to its day.
Mr. Peregrine Courtenay's come out of the west,
Through all the wide country his pens are the best;
And he's brought a fresh stock of his puffing and puns,
To be laugh'd at by all but the Vandals and Huns;
Let us laugh and hurra! put our heart in our voice-
With our Long Primer, Small Pica, Mignon, Bourgeois!

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!
Meantime I'll sit me down in quiet,

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
For joys of country or of town!
So, in the absence of my crew,
ForKing of Clubs' what can I do?
What sly device, or cunning plan,
Will serve instead of my Divan?
Shall I, grown weary of the vapours,
Write boldly, like the daily papers,
Give my imagination play,
And tell as many lies as they ?

Shall I report, the Club sat down,
Dinner-the Anchor and the Crown-
Delicious meat-the choicest wine-
Spirits and speeches-all divine.'
Or shall I let what will befal,
And have no King of Clubs at all?
Or shall I pour a Preface long
From Mr. Courtenay's single tongue?
Or shall I sleep, and write a Dream ?—
Alas? whate'er may be the scheme,
I'm sure the reader will excuse !-

Yet I should like to tax my Muse!
Hem-hem-"

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,
My visit to the Devils!"

PEREGRINE COURTENAY.