JOYOUSEST of once embodied spirits, whither at length hast thou flown? to what genial region are we permitted to jecture that thou hast flitted.
Art thou sowing thy WILD OATS yet (the harvest time was still to e with thee) upon casual sands of Avernus? or art thou enag Rover (as we would gladlier think) by wandering Elysian streams?
This mortal frame, while thou didst play thy brief antics amongst us, was in truth any thing but a prison to thee, as the vain Platonist dreams of this body to be er than a ty gaol, forsooth, of some house of durance vile, whereof the five senses are the fetters. Thou k better than to be in a hurry to cast off those gyves; and had notice to quit, I fear, before thou wert quite ready to abandon this fleshly te. It was thy Pleasure House, thy Palace of Dainty Devices; thy Louvre, or thy White Hall.
What new mysterious lodgings dost thou tenant now? or when may we expect thy aerial house-warming?
Tartarus we know, and we have read of the Blessed Shades; now ot I intelligibly fancy thee iher.
Is it too much to hazard a jecture, that (as the sen admitted a receptacle apart for Patriarchs and un-chrisom Babes) there may exist -- not far perce from that storehouse of all vanities, which Milton saw in visions -- a LIMBO somewhere for PLAYERS? and that
Up thither like aerial vapours fly
Both all Stage things, and all that in Stage things
Built their fond hopes of glory, or lasting fame?
All the unaplishd works of Authors hands,
Abortive, monstrous, or unkindly mixd,
Damnd upoh, fleet thither----
Play, Opera, Farce, with all their trumpery----
There, by the neighb moon (by some not improperly supposed thy Regent Pla upoh) mayst thou not still be ag thy managerial pranks, great disembodied Lessee? but Lessee still, and still a Manager.
In Green Rooms, impervious to mortal eye, the muse beholds thee wielding posthumous empire.
Thin ghosts of Figurantes (never plump oh) circle thee in endlessly, and still their song is Fye on sinful Phantasy.
Magnifit were thy capriccios on this globe of earth, ROBERT William Elliston! for as yet we know not thy new name in heaven.
It irks me to think, that, stript of thy regalities, thou shouldst ferry Over, a poor forked shade, in crazy Stygian wherry. Methinks I hear the old boatman, paddling by the weedy wharf, with raucid voice, bawling "Sculls, Sculls:" to which, with waving hand, and majestic a, thou deig no reply, other than in two curt monosyllables, "No: Oars."
But the laws of Plutos kingdom know small differeween king, and cobbler; manager, and call-boy; and, if haply your dates of life were terminant, you are quietly taking your passage, cheek by cheek (O ignoble levelling of Death) with the shade of some retly departed dle-snuffer.
But mercy! what strippings, what tearing off of histrionic robes, and private vanities! what denudations to the bone, before the surly Ferryman will admit you to set a foot within his battered liner!
s, sceptres; shield, sword, and trun; thy own ation robes (for thou hast brought the whole property mans wardrobe with thee, enough to sink a navy); the judges ermihe bs wig; the snuff-box a la Foppington -- all must overboard, he positively swears -- and that a mariner brooks no denial; for, sihe tiresome monodrame of the old Thra Harper, Charon, it is to be believed, hath shown small taste for theatricals,
Aye, now `tis d