The Actress's Ways and Means.

]> The Actress's Ways and Means.Beverley, Elizabeth. Leigh Rios,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition45 KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956162001BeveEActre

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series82Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorThe actress's ways and means, to industriously raise the wind! containing the moral and entertaining poetical effusions of Mrs. R. Beverley, comedianBeverley, Elizabeth Printed for the author, by MacDonald and SonLondon, [1818?][This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. I:97. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:97mf.]

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[Title Page] THE ACTRESS'SWAYS AND MEANS,TO INDUSTRIOUSLYRAISE THE WIND!CONTAININGTHE MORAL AND ENTERTAININGPoetical Effusions OFMRS. R. BEVERLEY,COMEDIAN;PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION;AND AUTHOR OF THE POPULAR "CORONATION SERMON,""MODERN TIMES," &c. &c.All things change below,—'tis plain to common sense;For I, who CROWNS have worn, now write for pence!LONDON:Printed for the Author,BY MACDONALD AND SON, 30, GREAT SUTTON STREET,CLERKENWELL.Price One Shilling.[ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL.]THE ACTRESS'SWAYS AND MEANSTO INDUSTRIOUSLYRAISE THE WIND!&c. &c.AN APPROVED COMIC SONG,Sung by Mrs. BEVERLEY, at Bath, Brighton, &c. in her celebratedEntertainment, called "DRAMATIC METAMORPHOSES," andnever before published.TUNE—"The Dandy, O!"A TRUE mirror now I'll show,If attention you'll bestow,—The present times pourtray'd with its follies, O;Attention's all I ask,While the times I unmask;Your compliance now with this will be the dandy, O.With the Ladies to begin,Their draperies are so thin;But then you must know, 'tis the fashion, O;And a smart parasolIs esteem'd by short and tall;But from their soul they hate a beau a Dandy, O.Then Doctors too, you know,When to patients they do go,And look so wise in feeling of their pulses, O,Should we forget the fee,Our complaint they will not see;But if they feel our cash, that's their dandy, O.Then Lawyers look so grave,Their clients for to save,And in their cause are eloquent as can be, O;But then, would you believe it?They have a feeling in it,For to pocket just two‐thirds is quite their dandy, O.The Man of Parliament bows,And your interest, he vows,Shall ever be his chiefest study, O;But then self‐interest hereMost plainly does appear,For a seat in the Lower House is quite his dandy, O.Then bold in Freedom's cause,Our religion and our laws, He's caress'd by the people as an angel, O:But should the ministers bribe,His tongue, you know, is tied; A slice of the golden apple's quite his dandy, O.The drama, t'other day,Was fast falling to decay,And theatres were quite deserted, O: But now 'tis quite the rageTo put daughters on the stage,Since marriages with great men are quite the dandy, O.My song is at an end;I wish not to offend,—My lash is only aim'd at folly, O;If your plaudits I obtain,The end propos'd I gain,And your approbation now will be my dandy, O.FRIENDSHIP AN HEAVENLY FLAME.O'ER glass of punch, the other day,Two friends were chatting time away:TOM smil'd,—and then he gave a toast,Of which he always made great boast,'Twas Friendship! "NED, depend," said he,"That through life thy friend I'll be;FRIENDSHIP, I feel, 's an HEAVENLY FLAME!"Cries NED, "I think it but a name.""Nay, my dear friend, you wrong me much;Some only boast, but are not such.Depend, dear NED, if you e'er need,Then TOM you'll find 's a friend indeed;So doubt no more, but hands let shake.""Agreed!" cries NED; "your word I'll take."NED put well on a woeful face,And then began with solemn grace,"Dear TOM, I'm near a ruin'd man,—But you will save me, for you can.An hundred pounds is all my boon;Dear friend, you'll let me have it soon;'Twill save me from a dread arrest,And make both me and family blest!"TOM look'd surpris'd, and, stamm'ring said,"A pain severe shoots through my head;It makes me such dull company,That, NED, I'll wish thee now good‐bye.""One moment stay, and hear," cries NED," 'Twill ease the pain that's in thy head:First, know, that I thy aid don't need,But that I give thy heart its meed;Next, that FRIENDSHIP'S HEAVENLY FLAME,With thee, is nothing but a name.May Heav'n, in mercy, set me freeFrom needing, TOM, a friend like thee!"THE TEAR OF AFFECTION.ELIZA, for shame! for tears there's no need;Such arts to ensnare, can never succeed:With tears feign'd like those do not dim thy bright eyes,—'Tis the tear of affection alone that I prize.Believe me, the tears by hypocrites wornDisfigure the face, instead of adorn;Believe me, no tear can such joy e'er impart,As that which affection sends warm from the heart.The dew‐drops of morn,—the crystal so bright,—The planets which gild the dark face of night,—The lustre of pearl,—or the diamond's rich glare,Can ne'er with the tear of affection compare.ON BRIGHTON.Published in THE BRIGHTON HERALD, August 15, 1818.HAIL, favour'd spot, divine retreat!Sweet refuge from Sol's scorching heat!Here balmy zephyrs waft their wealth,And impregnate each breeze with health:Hither the sick and gay repair,To breathe thy salubrious air:Here harmless Pleasure holds her sway,Each face we meet is bright as day;No gloom,—all joyous as the morn,When Sol's first rays the sky adorn.Well may our much‐lov'd monarch hereUnbend awhile from state and care.Thrice happy spot! long may'st thou giveSweet health to him who bade thee live,Who, from the village, rose thy stateTo be a town superb and great.Here, too, with joy do oft repairThe world's pride—England's matchless fair:Their sylph‐like forms each eye delight;With beauty rare they sense unite;No upstart pride in them we find,(Sure index of an empty mind),But in each look true sweetness dwells,And throws around its magic spells.Blest place! at once in thee we viewAll Fancy's pencil ever drew.LOVE AND DUTY."DEAR Anna! why that falling tear?Dost weep, my love, because we part?My constancy thou need'st not fear;Thy Henry boasts a faithful heart."Or dost thou fear the sea's rough waveMay thy dear Henry's life destroy?Trust me, kind Providence can saveHis life, to give his Anna joy."Dearest love! once more, adieu!Stern duty calls,—I must obey;Strong beats my heart with love and you;Farewell, my life!—I dare not stay."To battle then the hero went:Amid contending armies' strife,An angel guard, by Heav'n sent,Preserv'd the gallant Henry's life.To Gallia's shore he bade adieu,The cover'd fields with heroes slain;On wings of love he homeward flew,His heart's dear treasure to obtain.His laurels at her feet were laid:"My life, my Anna, e'er command."Sweetly smil'd th' enraptur'd maid,And blest him with her willing hand.ADIEU.Published in THE BRIGHTON HERALD, September 19, 1818.WHAT moves the heart with trembling fear,And fills the eye with flowing tear?'Tis when, to those we love so true,We faulter out the word Adieu!How feels the lover, on the day,When forc'd to tear himself awayFrom her whose tender heart, he knew,Must break, to speak the word Adieu?How droop the husband and the wife,When honour calls to war's dread strife!Ah! then, indeed, it is too true,A thousand fears sound in Adieu!But when the hand of death is nearTo husband, wife, or children dear,Convulsive throbs too plainly shewHow dreadful is the last Adieu!IMPROMPTU.SAID poor Merit, one day,To a fair lady gay,"Dearest madam, vouchsafe me relief!"The fair dame, in reply,Said, "I vow may I die,That you bore me as does a church brief."THE CRUCIFIXION.HARK! what mean those piercing cries?Say, what means that dreadful groan?'Tis the GOD of Nature dies,To make a fall'n world his own!See the great Almighty LORD,Suff'ring on the tree, expire!JESU, GOD! incarnate WORD!Dies to free our souls from ire."Finish'd 'tis!" our JESU said,Bow'd, and yielded up the ghost:Alone for fall'n man he bled!Shout it loud, angelic host.Devils heard the mighty sound,When the earth convulsive crash'd;Griev'd mankind a CHRIST had found,—Fled, and hid their heads abash'd.THE ARTLESS CONSENT.SAID Edward, "Will you be my bride,Dearest Clara, tell me when?"Clara blush'd, and softly sigh'd,"When Edward pleases,—not till then."Edward strain'd her to his breast,And, pointing to the village spire,Exclaim'd, "Sweet girl, now make me blest;To make thee mine's my chief desire."THE FOLLY OF TRIFLING PURSUITS.OFT my soul, in study deep,Strives to scan the reason why,"Trifles light as air" engageThe minds of beings born to die.Born to die!—that's not the end;—Eternity must then ensue!Triflers would their follies cease,Did they keep that truth in view.Motives, in vain, for such to find,Contemplation's field I've rang'd;Therefore conclude such beings areIn intellect, of course, derang'd.LOVE OF FAME.HOW anxious for the praise of Fame,Are those who wish an earthly name:At nothing will they stop,To gain that dear and valued prize,In man's opinion for to rise.Let them plod on; I envy notThat Fame, which useless is when got,And perishes so soon:My aim to nobler views is giv'n,'Tis to gain a name in HEAV'N!LINESOccasioned by my Child's being unfortunately burnt to death, at Plymouth Dock, in Devonshire.MY child—my child—my Emma's dead!What now avails this life to me?With Emma ev'ry joy hath fled;And nought remains but misery.Nature, in vain thy tears are shed,And vain the tempest in my breast;Can they recall my Emma dead,Or to my bursting heart bring rest?E'en now I hear the piercing cry;O father! father! haste to save!E'en now in flames I thee descry,Though thou art mould'ring in the grave.My child, my Emma, still I view,Imploring aid I could not give;—In vain to save I instant flew,For thou no longer wert to live!Could not Heav'n in mercy spareA father's eyes the horrid sight?Too much for mortal heart to bear,And not receive a deadly blight!Sweet through thee the blow was giv'n!To see, and not the power to save;Was the means decreed by Heav'n,To haste thy father to his grave. O, may my ashes soon with thineCommingle, in its parent dust;And may my soul thine happy join,In realms reserved for the just!TO ELIZABETH.O! WEEP not, fair maid, tho' the dark cloud of sorrowProsperity's bright sun for a moment obscure;From the willow disdain not a lesson to borrow,Which, to the storm yielding, its life doth insure.Only mark, though the oak so majestic doth stand,The pride of the forest, nor shrinks from the blast;Its stubbornness only destruction command,From the tempest, which harmless the willow hath past.May'st thou, like the willow, thy head meekly bendTo the storm, which now rages around thee so loud;Thy efforts, kind Heav'n will surely befriend, And thy life will pass happy, devoid of a cloud.ON A CERTAIN WISE GENTLEMAN,When Mayor of W—s, in Somersetshire.A STORY now I will unfold,(As true a one as e'er was told,)'Tis of a man, or rather ass,Who in low cunning doth surpass;In W—s he lives, puff'd up with pride,And a thousand follies else beside!—I see you fain would learn his name;The lines which follow tell the same:—An ass he was, but now, O rare!Transform'd the ass is to a m—y—r!From m—y—r to ass he'll change again,And ass from thence will e'er remain!!!No doubt you think it mighty strange,That e'er could be so great a change;But cease, I pray, your wond'rous looks,The riddle's solv'd in Georgy B***k*s.ON THE TOWN OF PORTSEA.SATAN a council conven'd, t'other day,To learn which of the towns him most did obey:Many they nam'd, but all did agree,For wickedness none beat that of Portsea.Satan swore, then, by the fam'd Stygian lake,(And hell with the oath to its centre did shake,)That on earth he would go, to prosper their race,And hence would make Portsea his chief dwelling‐place:The Furies all howl'd forth their strong approbation,And Portsea all hail as to hell a relation.ON A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN,Who attempted to FISH out the Secrets of a late lamentedand Illustrious Individual's LETTERS.THAT Peter a fisher was, all will agree,Of men; so were the sons of old Zebedee:But the F**h*r of Sarum thought time spent much betterIn trying secrets to fish from her H—n—ss's letter.THE ORIGIN OF BRISTOLIANS.THE origin of Bristolians you wish me to tell:—'Twas from Sycorax, and old Satan of hell;The first all ugliness, the second all art;He taught them low cunning to deal in the mart:That they might keep his statutes hereafter,He granted to them their fam'd city charter;And that his own he might know from that time and hence,He stamp'd on their foreheads, pounds, shillings, & pence.Extempore.ON THE SHERBONIANS.THE Sherbone people are all very civil,If you give them their way;—so is the Devil.ON A CERTAIN QUARTER‐WITTED LATEVICE‐CHANCELLOR,Not an hundred miles from the University of Oxford.FAREWELL to thee, fair O—f—d city!Gownsmen, I bid you all adieu!No doubt you'll say, it is a pity,That so soon I bid adieu:But souls like your's is not the lotOf every man, I plainly see;For some the souls of bears have got,But an ass's soul has Dr. L—.Witness the hand of little Mistress B.;He's A double S, as well as D. D.DEATH.—An Acrostic.DEATH, grim king, in solemn dread array,Enthroned sits, where never gleams the day,And reigns despotic over worms of clay.Thanks be to him, who made our souls his care!Hosannah to the LAMB, Death's conqueror.MODERN PIETY.TWO ladies fair, in lively chat,Began to talk of this and that:—Cries Celia, "Why within the doorOf church d'ye go? 'tis quite a bore,As grave to sit as Simon Pure;I vow 'twill make your phiz demure;So dull and stupid is the place,Indeed 'twill spoil your pretty face.""Dear friend," cries Ann, "you quite mistake;—Explain I will, love, for your sake:To church we go, though not to pray;'Tis not polite to stay away:Besides, we go to hear the news,And each our neighbour's faults abuse:In talking, laughing, all the whileOf service, we the time beguile;New faces and new dresses see,And are as blithe as blithe can be:Then ogle beaux, their hearts to take;Each sabbath we new conquests make.Next, eyes we lift, as though to heav'n,To shew the blessing to us giv'n;Their glances steal away each mind,—The man of GOD may preach to wind:Our dress, too, on the sabbath day,We can with elegance display:Our friends next strive we to outvie,And make them for our splendour sigh.Such ends to gain, I'm sure no more,You cannot style the church a bore.THE QUESTION RESOLVED.MIRA ask'd, in sportive way,Why lovers, women, angels call?"Because," says I, " 'tis plain as day,That, ever since our mother's fall,O'er our minds have held their sway,Vanity and Flattery.Men, to gain our foolish hearts,Will with flattery assail,—Ply us with those pleasing darts,'Cause they know our nature's frail.When they've gain'd our hands, depend,Flattery will be banish'd quite;—No longer will the ingrates bend,Nor will they call us angels bright.ACROSTIC.JOIN each heart in thankful praise,Ev'ry voice in triumph raise;Sing a dying Saviour's love:Unto GOD who reigns above,Sinners, shout almighty love.THE UNCEREMONIOUS VISIT.YOUNG Celia gay,The other day,Before her mirror standing,Exclaim'd "My form is nature's pride;How godlike and commanding!To night, no doubt,At Fidgeum's rout,New conquests I shall make;I'll dress with taste, and smile divine;'Twill make each beau's heart ache."Her aim to please, With thoughts like these,The room she enter'd gay;Her darts she dealt without remorse,—All own'd her magic sway.The sequel mind,—Death stood behind,With dart so keenly pointed,He aim'd a blow,—alas! too sure,—Which her's for ever blunted.ON VIEWING THE GRAVE OF A BELOVED INFANT,THE EVENING BEFORE A JOURNEY.DEAR spot, where rests the mould'ring clayOf her I lov'd, farewell!My pangs these falling tears betray,Which now my bosom swell.How oft I've held within my armsThe form which rests below!How fondly gaz'd on infant charms,Doom'd ne'er, alas! to blow!How oft her balmy lips I've press'dWith rapture close to mine,And with a parent's fondness bless'dThe babe I thought divine!How oft has Hope her mantle spread,And cheer'd my sinking heart!But Hope, dear babe, with thee has fled,And Grief hath fixed its dart.Thy dying scene keen Mem'ry bringsFull oft before mine eyes;With the deep groan mine ear still rings,Which snapt thy earthly ties.Ah! who the anguish'd grief can paint,Which did my bosom swell?E'en eloquence itself would faint,To tell the story well.How oft I press'd the senseless clay,With anguish to my heart;With tearful eyes then turn'd away,And cried, Ah! must we part?At length the dreadful hour arriv'd,When she from me was borne;—And now the earth must ever hideThat dear and much‐lov'd form.No more, alas! these aching eyesA sight of her can haveOn earth;—stern Fate that boon denies:—She moulders in the grave.Farewell, dear babe! nor time, nor place,From Recollection's cell Can ever thy dear mem'ry chase,Till tolls my passing bell.And then my soul, on wings of love,Shall mount, thy shade to meet,And range the fields of joy above,Sweet babe, till thee it greet.REFLECTIONS ON VIEWING A ROSE.SWEET, lovely rose! too soon thou'lt die,And wither'd drop upon the ground;Yet though thou dead and prostrate lie,Sweet fragrance in thy leaves are found.Bright emblem of the good and just,Whose bodies to the grave consign'd,Though mould'ring in their native dust,Their deeds still leave a sweet behind.THE INVITATION.An Acrostic.Come and welcome, sinners all!Harden'd sinners, hear my call!Rich saving grace I offer free;I would that all men come to me:Sinners, hear the joyful news,That I will not one refuse!LINES TO A PAWNBROKER.Thou sov'reign of the needy poor,What swarms of wretches throng thy door!The old, the young, by turns succeed,And call on thee to help their need:Among the changing motley crowd,Are seen the thoughtless, and the proud,Who to thy mighty nod attend,Compell'd to own thee for a friend,And often stoop to meanness low,For cash which thou hast to bestow;And though they oft at mis'ry frown,Are in thy presence, then, brought down:Next, wretches, to obtain their end,To thee their bodies servile bend;Whilst thou, in answer to their cant,Roughly bawl out—"What d'ye want?"Yet thou a useful person art,And yield'st relief to many a heart;And though thou art so much abus'd,Thou'rt good, when thou'rt rightly us'd;Yet, to speak truth, I freely own,I'd rather not to thee be known.THE AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER,A Fact.AUTHOR."GOOD morning, Sir;—I'm come to sellA Work, no doubt, may suit you well;'Tis styl'd The Gamester, and may beA book of some utility."PUBLISHER."I'll read it soon, and then can tellIf what you've wrote is like to sell;—Pray call again some other day,You'll then hear more what I've to say."At length the wish'd‐for day arriv'd;The Author hop'd his work had thriv'd;And early call'd, his fate to know:—What Author but would have done so?PUBLISHER."Good morning, Sir; your work I've read;To deal sincere,—the subject's dead;But, as I wish to serve you, pray,What price for it am I to pay?"AUTHOR."Sir, Twenty Pounds you'll not think dear,For labour which has tak'n a year?"PUBLISHER."Twenty Pounds! why, sure you're mad!If Five you get, you should feel glad;To tell you truth, no more I'll give,For Publishers, you know, must live."AUTHOR."From profit of the books you sell,You live, and Authors must as well;Five Pounds per year will not sufficeTo feed us, though we are not nice;Believe me, Sir, when I declare,That Authors cannot live on air.Good day, my friend! your price wont do,—You've lost a chance, perhaps, you'll rue."To Patrons then he next apply'd,And gain'd a boon before deny'd;They money lent to print his book—'Twas done—and with the public took:—Two Hundred Pounds, the produce clear,Came in, the Author's heart to cheer:The Publisher repented sore,He had not offered something more.AN INTRODUCTORY SONG,Intended to have been sung by Mrs. BEVERLEY, in her"Dramatic Metamorphoses."To town I am come, as good folks you may see,Pray what do you think now, my object may be?'Tis to read and recite from fam'd Milton and Pope,For in town, they all told me, that genius had scope.At Bath, and at Brighton, I oft did recite,—They told me my efforts to please gave delight;It sure did me honour, but still I'd in view,That I ne'er could feel pleas'd till approv'd of by you.With faults great and many I sure am possess'd,—With perfection below few people are bless'd;But if nourished and rear'd by your fostering care,I'll be grateful for ever, I vow and declare.'Tis with fear, hope, and terror, your presence I meet;Oh, should you but smile, and my efforts now greet,My faults I'll correct, and to life's latest dayWill prove that your goodness was not thrown away.SONG.THE tear which trembles in thy eye,Of more than pearly white,I will with loving kisses dry,My love, my soul's delight!Thou weep'st to think I false may prove;—Ah, silly maid! give o'er;For thee, and thee alone, I love,And ever shall adore.Where'er I roam, thy image willPossess my constant breast:Thy charms my waking thoughts will fill,Nor quit me when I rest.SONG.THE rosy tint of morn I love,And Ev'ning's sober shade;When through the charming woods I rove,In quest of my dear maid.I love to hear the Blackbird's note,When warbling in the vale;And Philomel's sweet tuneful throatResounding through the gale.Add dear to me the hour of night,When Luna climbs the sky:—But dearer far, to ear and sight,The maid for whom I die.TO A GENTLEMAN,WHO COMPOSED SOME PATHETIC LINES ON THE DEATHOF MY BROTHER.WERE I bless'd with Milton's soul;Could I in sweet numbers roll,Like Pope: or could I catch a ray,Which animates thy well‐tuned lay,I'd justice do thy well‐tun'd song:—But, vain attempt my feeble voice to raise!"Expressive silence best can muse it's praise."LINES ON LADY JAMES FITZGERALD.AT a synod of gods, great Jove in the chair,Each god in his turn was his mind to declare'Bout women, the subject, with virtue much blest,(For the gods ne'er trouble their heads 'bout the rest.)One nam'd Lady R. but said she was proud;Another in Lady B.'s praises was loud:—A great number they nam'd; but faults they had all.Jove then to Apollo for his vote did call:Said Apollo, "On earth, at Weymouth, I've been,At nine in the Crescent, a Lady I've seen,A liberal soul, with a mind quite refin'd,And in her is true wit and genius combin'd;That he'd dwelt in the house, and therefore was sure'Twould be useless in them to name any more."Jove paus'd for a moment, then beckon'd the herald,And bade him through heav'n proclaim Lady Fitzgerald.THE AUTHOR TO HER READERS.The Poetical Olio, now, you've read through,Little Mistress B.'s at your mercy, I trow:From the Ladies, she knows, there is nothing to fear,—If they like not the book, why the leaves will curl hair.'Tis the Lords of creation the little soul fears;A true woman, no doubt, in this she appears;For howe'er we may vapour, believe what I say,There's engraved on our hearts, Love! Honour! Obey!Man's applause we all value, 'cause we very well know,They're Lords over all things created below;Not woman excepted,—yet most of us say,They seldom or ne'er abuse their great sway;Or should one, he's hunted like owl at noon‐day.The Authoress now your protection doth ask;—To grant it, I'm sure you'll not think a hard task,When she tells you, depend on the words you pronounce,If eating, and writing, she together renounce:Therefore, let your verdict in favour be given,For mercy, you know, is the child of high Heav'n.TO THE PUBLIC.

FAILING to obtain, notwithstanding unwearied application, a situation in her legitimate profession, the STAGE, (which the unbought commendations of persons qualified, from their critical knowledge of dramatic talent, to judge, entitle her, without incurring a charge of vanity, to lay claim to,) and having lately failed in an attempt to establish herself in business, is the only apology the Authoress can make to her generous patrons for again offering a portion of her writings to their notice.

Formerly, to have possessed merit was a sure passport to fame and profit; but, in the present day, even an opportunity of displaying talent is too often denied to a professional person, unless backed by some weighty patronage. That this is the case, every unbiased person must acknowledge, when informed that Mrs. BEVERLEY has made repeated offers to the different Managers, to play two or three nights, to give the public an opportunity of judging whether her claims to merit are founded in justice or not. This has not been granted; and the only alternative left is, to submit her case to that Public, to whom she has ever looked up to with confidence in every emergency. For their former patronage she must ever be grateful; and should an happier æra in her life arrive, it will be her pride to acknowledge, that she owes it entirely to the generosity of her patrons, who, by encouraging her very humble efforts, enabled her to sustain "buffets of outrageous fortune."

Printed by Macdonald and Son, 30, Great Sutton Street, Clerkenwell.