MATHEWS, KEMBLE, AND MUSTAPHA THE CAT. 351

and many relations of its extraordinary powers of understanding its devoted attachment to its master's person, &c. were detailed to Mr. Mathews. Mustapha, Mr. Kemble declared, had much of human feeling of the best kind in his composition; he described how he watched his return home, mourned his absence, &c., and grew maudlin in its praise. The animal seemed happy in its master's presence; and looked up in his face as it composedly lay down before him. Mr. Mathews mewed: Mr. Kemble, turning round at this sound, which he believed to proceed from the cat, observed, 'There, my dear Mathews, do you hear that? Now that creature knows all I say of him, and is replying to it.' This amused my husband, and he repeated the experiment in all the varieties of feline intonation, mewing, purring, &c. Mr. Kemble, at last, said to him, in his slow and measured tones: Now, you don't know what he means by that, but I do. Mus. ! Mus!' (on every reiteration of this affectionate diminutive, raising his voice to its most tragic expression of tenderness)-'umph! My dear sir, that creature knows that it is beyond my usual time of sitting up, and he's uneasy! Mus.! Mus. !'-but Mus. was sleepy and inattentive, and his master resumed his criticisms upon the different readings of Shakspeare, talked also of Lope de Vega, and was again interrupted by a mew, as he believed, from the dissatisfied Mus. What,' asked his fond master, looking down upon him, what is it you desire, my good friend?' (Mus. alias Mathews, mewed once more, in a more supplicating and more touching tone.) Well, well! I understand you: you want to go to bed. Well, I suppose I must indulge you." Here Mr. Kemble deliberately arose, put down his book upon the table, with its face open at the page to which he had referred, took a measured pinch of snuff, and tottered to the door, which he with difficulty opened. He then awaited Mustapha's exit; but Mustapha having no voice in the affair, preferred remaining where he was; and his master kindly reproached him with being a little capricious in first asking to go, and then preferring to stay.' With a smile and look at my husband of the gentlest indulgence towards his favourite's humour, he tottered back again to his chair, resumed his declamatory observations upon the relative powers of dramatic writers, and their essential requisites, till the troublesome Mustapha again renewed his mewing solicitations. Mr. Kemble once more stopped, and looking again at the imaginary cause of his interruption, with philosophic patience, asked,—" Well, Mus. what would you have?" Then, after another pause, turning to his guest, said: "Now, my dear Mathews, you are fond of animals, and ought to know this one; he's a perfect character for you to study. Now, sir, that cat knows that I shall be ill to-morrow, and he's uneasy at my sitting up.' Then benevolently looking at the cat, added, Umph!-my dear Mus. I must beg your indulgence, my good friend; I really can-not go to bed yet.' Mus. whined his reply, and his master declared that the cat asked to be allowed to go away. On the door being a second time opened, after similar exertion on Mr. Kemble's part to effect this courtesy, and several grave chirpings in order to entice Mus. from the fireplace, the animal at length left the room. Mr. Kemble then returned, as before, to his seat, drank another glass of wine and water, and, just as he was comfortably re-established, the incorrigible Mus. was heard in the passage again, in loud lament, and importunate demand

6

for readmittance. Umph!' said Mr. Kemble, with another pinca of snuff,― now, that animal, sir, is not happy, after all, away from me. (Mus. was louder than ever at this moment.) Why, what ails the creature? Surely, there is more in this than we dream of, Mathews. You, who have studied such beings, ought to be able to explain.' Poor Mus. made another pathetic appeal for re-admission, and his master's heart was not made of flint. Mr. Kemble apologized to his guest for these repeated interruptions, and managed once more to make his way to the door. After opening it, and waiting a minute for the re-entrance of his favourite, but not seeing it, he smiled at my husband with the same indulgent expression as before, and remarked, 'Now, would you believe it, Mathews, that extraordinary animal was affronted at not being let in again on his first appeal?and now it is his humour not to come at all! Mus.!-Mustapha!— Mus.!' But as no Mus. appeared, the door was closed with the same deliberation, and Mr. Kemble once more contrived to regain his chair, and recommenced his comments, quite unobservant of the almost hysterical fit of laughter to which my husband was by this time reduced, at the imposition he had so successfully, though in the first place so unintentionally, practised upon the credulity of his grave and unsuspecting friend. But it did not end here; for Mr. Mathews reiterated his imitations, and Mr. Kemble again remarked upon his favourite's peculiarities of temper, &c. - again went to the door, again returned, till even Mr. Midnight' (as some friends of ours christened Mr. Mathews, from his love of late hours) felt it time to retire, and leave Mr. Kemble, which he did as he saw him fall asleep, in the act of representing his idea of the scene of the sick king in Henry IV, with his pocket-handkerchief spread over his head as a substitute for the characteristic drapery of the dying monarch."

"

From the forthcoming Conclusion to the "Memoirs of Charles Mathews," by Mrs. Mathews.

CELEBS IN SEARCH OF A CENOTAPH.

BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY, ESQ.

Poor Tray de mon Ami!

Dog-bury, and Vergers.

OH! where shall I bury my poor dog Tray,
Now his fleeting breath has pass'd away?
Seventeen years, I can venture to say,
Have I seen him gambol, and frolic, and play,
Evermore happy, and frisky, and gay,

As though every one of his months was May,
And the whole of his life one long holiday-
Now he's a lifeless lump of clay,

Oh! where shall I bury my faithful Tray?

I am almost tempted to think it hard

That it may not be there, in yon sunny churchyard,
Where the green willows wave

O'er the peaceful grave,

Which holds all that once was honest and brave,
Kind, and courteous, and faithful, and true;

Qualities, Tray, that were found in you.
But it may not be-yon sacred ground,
By holiest feelings fenced around,
May ne'er within its hallow'd bound
Receive the dust of a soul-less hound.

I would not place him in yonder fane,
Where the mid-day sun through the storied pane
Throws on the pavement a crimson stain;
Where the banners of chivalry heavily swing
O'er the pinnacled tomb of the Warrior King,
With helmet and shield, and all that sort of thing.
No!-come what may,

My gentle Tray

Shan't be an intruder on bluff Harry Tudor,
Or panoplied monarchs yet earlier and ruder,
Whom you see on their backs,

In stone or in wax,

Though the sacristans now are "forbidden to ax
For what Mister Hume calls "a scandalous tax;"
While the Chartists insist they've a right to go snacks.
No!-Tray's humble tomb would look but shabby
'Mid the sculptured shrines of that gorgeous Abbey.
Besides, in the place

They say there's not space

To bury what wet-nurses call "a Babby."

Even "Rare Ben Jonson," that famous wight,

I am told, is interr'd there bolt upright,

In just such a posture, beneath his bust,
As Tray used to sit in to beg for a crust.
The epitaph, too,

Would scarcely do;

For what could it say, but "Here lies Tray,
A very good sort of a Dog in his day?"
And satirical folks might be apt to imagine it
Meant as a quiz on the House of Plantagenet.

No! no! The Abbey may do very well
For a feudal "Nob" or poetical "Swell,"

"Crusaders," or "Poets," or "Knights of St. John,"
Or Knights of St. John's Wood, who last month went on
To the Castle of Goode Lorde Eglintonne.

Count Fiddle-fumkin, and Lord Fiddle-faddle,

"Sir Craven," "Sir Gael," and "Sir Campbell of Saddell,"
(Who, as Mr. Hook said, when he heard of the feat,
"Was somehow knock'd out of his family-seat;")

The Esquires of the body

To my Lord Tom-noddy;

"Sir Fairlie," "Sir Lamb,"

And the "Knight of the Ram,"

The "Knight of the Rose," and the "Knight of the Dragon," Who, save at the flaggon,

And prog in the waggon,

The Newspapers tell us did little " to brag on;"

And more, though the Muse knows but little concerning 'em, "Sir Hopkins," "Sir Popkins," "Sir Gage," and "Sir Jerningham."

All Preux Chevaliers, in friendly rivalry

Who should best bring back the glory of Chi-valry.-—

(Pray be so good, for the sake of my song,

To pronounce here the ante-penultimate long;

Or some hyper-critic will certainly cry,

"Tom has fobb'd Bentley off with a "rhyme to the eye.'

And I own it is clear

A fastidious ear

Will be, more or less, always annoy'd with you when you insert any rhyme that's not perfectly genuine.

As to pleasing the "eye,"

'Tisn't worth while to try,

Since Moore and Tom Campbell themselves admit "spinach " Is perfectly antiphonetic to " Greenwich.")

But stay!-I say!

Let me pause while I may

This digression is leading me sadly astray

From my object-A grave for my poor dog Tray!

I would not place him beneath thy walls,

And proud, o'ershadowing dome, St. Paul's!

Though I've always consider'd Sir Christopher Wren,
As an architect, one of the greatest of men;

And,-talking of Epitaphs,-much I admire his
"Circumspice, si Monumentum requiris ;”
Which an erudite Verger translated to me,
"If you ask for his Monument, Sir-come-spy-see!"
No!-I should not know where

To place him there;

I would not have him by surly Johnson be ;

Or that queer-looking horse that is rolling on Ponsonby ;Or those ugly minxes

The sister Spynxes,

Mixed creatures, half lady, half lioness, ergo,
Denon says, the emblems of Leo and Virgo;
On one of the backs of which singular jumble,
Sir Ralph Abercrombie is going to tumble,

With a thump which alone were enough to despatch him,
If that Scotchman in front shouldn't happen to catch him.
No! I'd not have him there, nor nearer the door,
Where the Man and the Angel have got Sir John Moore,
And are quietly letting him down through the floor,
Near Gillespie, the one who escaped, at Vellore,
Alone from the row ;-

Neither he, nor Lord Howe

Would like to be plagued with a little Bow-wow.
No, Tray, we must yield,

And go farther a-field;

To lay you by Nelson were downright effront'ry;
We'll be off from the city, and look at the country.
It shall not be there,

In that sepulchred square,

Where folks are interr'd for the sake of the air,
(Though, pay but the dues, they could hardly refuse.
To Tray what they grant to Thuggs and Hindoos,
Turks, Infidels, Heretics, Jumpers, and Jews,)
Where the tombstones are placed

In the very best taste,

At the feet and the head

Of the elegant Dead,

And no one's received who's not "buried in lead:"

For, there lie the bones of Deputy Jones,

Whom the widow's tears and the orphan's groans

Affected as much as they do the stones

His executors laid on the Deputy's bones;

Little rest, poor knave!

Would he have in his grave;

Since Spirits, 'tis plain,

Are sent back again,

To roam round their bodies,-the bad ones in pain,—
Dragging after them sometimes a heavy jack-chain;

Whenever they met, alarmed by its groans, his
Ghost all night long would be barking at Jones's.

Nor shall he be laid

By that cross Old Maid,