"Ah, where thy legs--that witty pair? For 'great wits jump'--and so did they! Lord! how they leap'd in lamp-light air! Caper'd and bounced, and strode away. That years should tame the legs, alack! I've seen spring through an almanack! * * * * * "For who, like thee, could ever stride Some dozen paces to the mile! The motley, medley coach provide; Or, like Joe Frankenstein, compile The _vegetable man_ complete! A proper Covent Garden feat. "Oh, who, like thee, could ever drink, Or eat, swill, swallow--bolt, and choke! Nod, weep, and hiccup--sneeze, and wink! Thy very yawn was quite a joke! Though Joseph junior acts not ill, 'There's no Fool like the old Fool' still! "Joseph, farewell! dear, funny Joe! We met with mirth--we part in pain! For many a long, long year must go Ere fun can see thy like again; For Nature does not keep great stores Of perfect clowns--that are not _boors_!" Munden's Last Performance. In the year 1824, one of Charles Lamb's last ties to the theatre, as a scene of present enjoyment, was severed. Munden, the rich peculiarities of whose acting he has embalmed in one of the choicest _Essays of Elia_, quitted the stage in the mellowness of his powers. His relish for Munden's acting was almost a new sense: he did not compare him with the old comedians, as having common qualities with them, but regarded them as altogether of a different and original style. On the last night of his appearance, Lamb was very desirous to attend, but every place in the boxes had long been secured; and Charles was not strong enough to stand the tremendous rush, by enduring which, alone, he could hope to obtain a place in the pit; when Munden's gratitude for his exquisite praise anticipated his wish, by providing for him and Miss Lamb places in a corner of the orchestra, close to the stage. The play of the _Poor Gentleman_, in which Munden performed Sir Robert Bramble, had concluded and the audience were impatiently waiting for the farce, in which the great comedian was to delight them for the last time, when Lamb might be seen in a very novel position. In his hand, directly beneath the line of stage-lights glistened a huge pewter-pot, which he was draining; while the broad face of old Munden was seen thrust out from the door by which the musicians enter, watching the close of the draught, when he might receive and hide the portentous beaker from the gaze of the admiring neighbours. Some unknown benefactor had sent four pots of stout to keep up the veteran's heart during his last trial; and not able to drink them all, he bethought him of Lamb, and without considering the wonder which would be excited in the brilliant crowd who surrounded him, conveyed himself the cordial chalice to Lamb's parched lips. At the end of the same farce, Munden found himself unable