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NOT ny nights ago I had e ho froseeing this etraordinary perforr in ckletop; and when I retired to  illow, his whiical ige still stuck by , in a nner as to threaten sleep. In ain I tried to diest self of it, by juring up the st opposi;cite藏书网;/citete associations. I resoled to be serious. I raised up the graest topics of life; priate sery, public caty. All would not do.
--------There the antic sate
Mog our state -
his queer isno -- his bewildering e -- all the strahings which he had raked together -- his serpentine rod, swagging about in his pocket -;rk;/rk- Cleopatras tear, and the rest of his relics -- OKeefes wild farce, and his wilder entary -- till the passion of ughter, like grief in ecess, relieed itself by its ow, initing the sleep whi the first insta had drien away.
But I was not to escape so easily. No sooner did Ibbr;/abbr fall into sluers, than the sa ige, only re perpleg, assailed in the shape of drea. Not one Munden, but fie hundred, were dang before , like the faces which, whether you will or no, e when you hae been taking opiu-- all the strange binations, which this stra of all straals eer shot his proper teo, frothe day he ca issioo dry up the tears of the town for the loss of the now alst fotten Edwin. O for the power of the pencil to hae fied thewhen I awoke! A season or two sihere was ehibited a Hallery. I do not see why there should not be a Munden gallery. In riess and ariety the tter would not fall far short of the forr.
There is one face of Farley, one face of Knight, one (but what a o is!) of Liston; but Munden has hat you  roperly pin down, and call his. When you think he has ehausted his battery of looks, in unatable warfare with yraity, suddenly he sprouts out airely new set of features, like Hydra. He is not one, but legion. Not so ch a edian, as a pany. If his nald be iplied like his te g;q.;/qht fill a py-bill. He, and he alone, literally kes faces: applied to any other person, the phrase is a re figure, denotiain difications of the hun tenance. Out of so inisible wardrobe he dips for faces, as his friend Suett used fs, aches theout as easily. I should not be surprised to see hiso day put out the head of a rier horse; or e forth a pewitt, or pwing, so feathered tarphosis.
I hae seen this gifted actor in Sir Christopher Curry -- in Old Dornton -- diffuse a glow of se which has de the pulse of a crowded theatre beat like that of one n; when he has e in aid of the pulpit, doing good to the ral heart of a people. I hae seen so faint approaches to this sort of ecellen other pyers. But in the grand grotesque of farce, Muands out as single and unapanied as Hogarth. Hogarth, strao tell, had no followers. The school of Munden began, and st end with hielf.
any n wonder, like hi any n see ghosts, like hi ht with his own shadow -- quot; sessa quot; -- as he does in that strangely-ed thing, the bbler of Preston -- where his aernations frothe bbler to the Magni, and frothe Magni to the bbler, keep the brain of the spectator in as wild a fernt, as if so Arabian Night were being acted before hi Who like hinbsp; throw, or eer atteted to throreternatural i oer the o daily-life objects? A table, or a joint stool, in his ception, rises into a dignity e;u;/uquialent to Cassiopeias chair. It is ied with steltory iortance. Yould not speak of it with re deference, if it were unted into the firnt. A beggar in the hands of Michael Angelo, says Fuseli, rose the Patriarch of Poerty. So the gusto of Munden antiquates and ennobles what it touches. His pots and his dles are as grand and pril as the seething-pots and hooks seen in old prophetic ision. A tub of butter, pted by hi aunts to a Ptonic idea. He uands a leg of tton in its quiddity. He stands w, ad the oerials of life, like prial n with the sun and stars about hi
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