To the EDITOR of the GENERAL CHRONICLE. IR,-Having been lately cured of a very painful and dangerous disorder, I think it incumbent on me, in justice to the skilful operator who effected my cure; in good will to others who are, or may be afflicted in like manner, and in gratitude to Providence, which blessed the means used for my relief, to make my case publicly known.

The complaint under which I laboured was a cancer in my lip, which first appeared upwards of three years ago, in the nature of a chop or crack, and, growing worse, notwithstanding all the assistance I could procure in my own neighbourhood, I sought advice in London, and continued upwards of a twelvemonth to use the means which were prescribed. These, at first, seemed to promise success; but, after a time, they appeared to lose their efficacy, the disease manifestly growing worse. I then applied to several who were esteemed skilful in the treatment of cancers-by them' I was told, that the only mode of cure was to extirpate the cancer by a chirurgical operation; but to this I had an insuperable objection, partly on account of my advanced age, (being near seventy,) but more from the case of a deceased acquaintance, who died by the same complaint, after having twice endured the operation of excision. In this situation, I heard of a medical gentleman living near London, who had been very successful in the cure of cancers, and, upon conversing with him, he assured me, that he could make a perfect cure of mine, without the operation of cutting. I therefore put myself under his care, and have the satisfaction to say, that, in less than a week, the virulence of the disease was destroyed, and, in less than a month, the cancerous part having separated from the sound, my lip was restored to a state of perfect health. This was performed by an external application only-painful, to be surebut the pain soon subsiding, I enjoyed a state of ease which I had not experienced, day nor night, for more than a year before.

This information I am desirous to give the public (not with the concurrence, but rather against the will of the physician) through your channel; and any person who is desirous of hearing farther particulars, may, at any time, receive them from me, upon personal application at my house.

humble servant,

JOHN LEACH.

I am, Sir, your Merton Abbey, Surry, Sept. 1811.

SIR

To the EDITOR of the GENERAL CHRONICLE. IR,-Permit me to address you on a subject which appears to me of more importance than is generally acknowleged; I allude to the present degraded state of the stage, for degraded it must surely

be

be called, when the managers of our principal theatres are reduced to the necessity of calling in to their assistance such amusements as have hitherto been confined to theatres of an inferior description. The ancient and legitimate intention of the stage was to be a portraiture of life and manners; there, the effects of human passions were to be delineated, the workings of the mind displayed to view; 'to hold,' as our great dramatic poet forcibly expresses it, the mirror up to nature; to show vice her own likeness, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time its form and pres

sure.'

With this view, the genius of our best writers has been, from time to time, employed in the construction of a series of animated scenes, calculated to excite such an interest, for the characters represented, as their supposed situation would produce in the breast of their fellow-creatures; nor can there be found an entertainment more truly rational than this, nor one which, when properly conducted, has a greater tendency to improve the best dispositions of mankind, at the same time that it calls into exercise some of the finest feelings and emotions of our nature. When we witness the exhibition of our great bard's delineations of character, an Othello, excited to jealousy and murder by the artifice of a villain; a Hamlet suffering under the conflicting agitations of filial affection and just resentment; or, a Lear, lamenting how much sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child;' when we behold Macbeth, stimulated by an ambitious woman to the perpetration of the most atrocious crimes, and bemoaning the fatal consequence of his guilt in the dereliction of his dependents and friends; in these, and similar scenes, there is an exercise of the mind, an exertion of the soul, that render them lessons of morality, exciting, by turns, our vigilance, pity, and detestation.

The lighter scenes of the drama are, also, by no means without a beneficial effect, and afford both a pleasing and useful species of entertainment; while they describe, with genuine humour, the follies and eccentricities of mankind, and do not transgress the bounds of decorum, they appear calculated to serve the cause of virtue, by exposing many of our vices to just derision and contempt, and thus exercising the office of a benevolent censor.

The efforts of the tragic and comic muses seem, however, to have now lost their once powerful attractions; the crowds which formerly filled our theatres, drawn thither by the transcendant talents of Garrick, Prichard, Clive, Siddons, Kemble, Cooke, or Jordan, exerted to elucidate the scenes of Shakespear, Jonson, Congreve, Otway, Young, Cibber, Farquhar, Sheridan, or Murphy, are no longer to be assembled by such inducements; nor can our immense modern theatres be so filled as to remunerate their

proprietors,

proprietors, but by the introduction of a new species of performance, by the exertions of the four-footed race, and by a pompous display of gaudy dress and empty show: the sight is the only sense which claims present gratification, all the rest being lulled asleep by the influence of the goddess who makes so conspicuous a figure in the Dunciad; the theatre is no longer resorted to for the enjoyment of that 'feast of reason, and that flow of soul,' which it is well adapted to communicate, but to gratify a trivial curosity, and a depraved taste; to witness how far the ingenuity, and, I fear, we may add the cruelty, of man can operate on the abilities of a generous and useful animal, forced to a degree of exertion never intended by nature, to please those whom we may properly call' children of a larger growth:' and for such an exhibition the finest scenes of our first dramatic writers are suffered to pass by, unfelt and unapplauded.

I am sorry to perceive an evident disposition to encroachment in the present system of conducting our theatres; formerly we had some for the winter-season and others for the summer; and it was understood that their patents were so limited as to allow to each its peculiar time of acting; this, however, it should seem, was one of those errors to which the public are continually exposed: the principal winter-theatre now continues open throughout the year, except for about two months; and, as if that was not a sufficient drawback on those theatres which exhibit only during the summer, it has adopted a species of amusement which used to be exclusively confined to one or two of them; a sort of theatrical monopoly, calculated to engross various descriptions of spectators, and to attract such as might not otherwise be inclined to visit this theatre; for who, can it be supposed, will resort to the Amphitheatre, or the Olympic Pavilion, while the horses at Covent Garden exhibit with such unbounded applause to overflowing houses.

Willingly, however, Mr. Editor, would I entertain the hope, that this is but the phrenzy of the day; that true taste and rational feeling will soon return, and the stage become what it was originally intended to be. Let the sensible part of the public show their disapproval of this innovation, and we may once more hope to enjoy the interesting scenes of our drama, and to see our actors resume their places on the stage, never again to be superseded by the exploits of animals, nor again to behold the theatre, which was erected for the performance of regular drama, degraded by the introduction of such a puerile species of entertainment.

Your's, &c.

PHILO-THESPIDIS.

August 1st, 1811.

Το

To the EDITOR of the GENERAL CHRONICLE. SIR, Though our great prophet, almanac-maker, and physician, Mr. Francis Moore, has not been quite so happy as Halley or Clairault on the present occasion of a comet's appearance, (for to speak plainly, this Vox Stellarum seems not to have uttered a syllable upon the subject,) yet I find that such, as, like myself, are believers through all trials, still persuade themselves, that however little the London Magus has said, it was no small matter that he knew, when he composed his present annual book of knowledge. In a word, they are satisfied, and I too, that he clearly foresaw the arrival of the comet, and of all its disastrous concomitants. Comets, we know, upon the authority of great men, are mere incendiaries among the planets, addicted, from their birth, to petit and grand arson, (terms which lawyers at least can explain,)-and behold! Mr. Moore concludes his Babylonish verses for the month August in no other than the following words:

London! beware of Fires, and Beasts of Prey,

And something else—but what I will not say.

Now as to the danger by fire, (if, indeed, that part of the admonition be not altogether figurative, and capable of an interpretation which common persons can neither explain for themselves, nor understand when explained for them by others,) that danger, no doubt, has been incurred, and, so far as it has been avoided, why so much the better, and thanks to Moore's Almanac, and our stars! But as to beasts of prey, I call the newspapers to witness, if ever the adventures of the times were more decidedly in unison with prophetical inuendos, than in the month of August! Sir, along with the comet, came a common town-talk of the Little Lion, and the Great Bear, and I know not what, of their paws, and heads, and tails, (deliver me from all of them!) of which no body has heard more than I, who live next door to the gentleman at M-Grove, Brompton, that looks at the comet on Sunday evenings, and sends letters about it to the Chronicle on Monday mornings, and who has just discovered, that comets and truth are to be sought for in the same place; viz. the bottom of a deep well. And this is far from the end of the story; or, rather, to talk like other people, the end of the tale. The first public confirmation of Moore's Almanac came almost as soon as August had commenced, and is recorded in these terms:

London, August 8, 1811.

PICCADILLY IN AN UPROAR.

On Monday evening, a caravan, which was coming down Piccadilly, laden with tigers, bears, and various other wild beasts, on their journey to the several fairs shortly to be held near the metropolis,

broke

broke down in the middle of the street. As the materials of the vehicle were very old and rotten, it was feared that the passengers, who expressed their impatience in many a horrid and lengthened roar from within, would get out, and pursue the road on foot. In this apprehension, all the inhabitants of Piccadilly and its neighbourhood were thrown into consternation, some bringing ropes and other articles of use to the driver, some giving their personal assistance, till a growl from the mouth of the white bear, or the whisking of the tiger's tail in their faces, drove them aghast from the spot, and obliged them to take refuge with that less adventurous sort, which had employed the fearful moments in fastening their doors and windows. Fortunately, the driver and his assistant were able, after some time, to patch together their crazy carriage, and continue their journey, without the occurrence of any of the serious consequences which might have resulted from the accident, and against which it is so necessary to beware.'

Sir, a few days only had elapsed, when this occurrence was followed by another of the very same complexion, though perhaps a little more serious in its physiognomy. As before, I quote chapter and verse; and here it is:

London, August 17, 1811.

'ALARMING ACCIDENT.

"Yesterday morning, while a man employed by the ostler of the Swan Inn in Holborn, was sweeping the yard, the royal tiger, which was confined in a caravan that had put up at the Swan, contrived to get loose, and instantly leaped upon the man, whose back was toward him, and on each of whose shoulders he put one of his paws. Happily, the keeper of the royal tiger was in the yard at the time. He instantly called to the man to remain silent und motionless, and at the same time approached him, speaking authoritatively to the royal tiger, and holding a small stick, which happened to be in his hand, in a menacing posture. At his appearance, the beast of prey immediately let go his hold, but turned toward another quarter of the yard. At this juncture, a young hen, frightened at what was going forward, flew into the caravan, left open on the tiger's escape, and the tiger, following her into his old den, was easily secured.'

Nor were the destinies of August exhausted, even when September itself was half run out; an assertion of the truth of which we have the following proof:

London, September 13, 1811.

• TIGERS BROKE LOOSE,

Considerable alarm was given on Tuesday last to the inhabitants of St. James's-square, in consequence of a sudden departure from their dens of two royal hunting tigers, which were lately sent over to this country as a present to the Duke of Norfolk, and were deposited in the stables belonging to his Grace. It appeared, that they had broken the door of the den, and made their escape into the hay-loft over the

stables,

1