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Title: Rejected Addresses; Or, The New Theatrum Poetarum
Author: Smith, Horace, Smith, James
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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Transcribed from the 1879 John Murray edition by David Price, email

                          [Picture: Book cover]

             [Picture: The authors of the Rejected Addresses]

                           REJECTED ADDRESSES:

                        THE NEW THEATRUM POETARUM

                      BY JAMES SMITH & HORACE SMITH.

                                * * * * *

    “Fired that the House reject him!  ’Sdeath, I’ll print it,
    And shame the Fools!”


                                * * * * *

                                * * * * *

                              _NEW EDITION_.

                                * * * * *

                      JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.

    “I think the ‘Rejected Addresses’ by far the best thing of the kind
    since ‘The Rolliad,’ and wish _you_ had published them.  Tell the
    author ‘I forgive him, were he twenty times over our satirist;’ and
    think his imitations not at all inferior to the famous ones of
    Hawkins Browne.”

                                LORD BYRON TO MR. MURRAY, _Oct._ 19, 1812.

    “I like the volume of ‘Rejected Addresses’ better and better.”

                                LORD BYRON TO MR. MURRAY, _Oct._ 19, 1812.

    “I take the ‘Rejected Addresses’ to be the very best imitations (and
    often of difficult originals) that ever were made; and considering
    their great extent and variety, to indicate a talent to which I do
    not know where to look for a parallel.  Some few of them descend to
    the level of parodies; but by far the greater part are of a much
    higher description.”

                       LORD JEFFREY (_in_ 1843), _Note in Essays_, iv. 470


JAMES SMITH and HORACE SMITH, authors of the _Rejected Addresses_; or,
_The New Theatrum Poetarum_, were the sons of Robert Smith, solicitor to
the Board of Ordnance.  James was born at No. 36, Basinghall Street,
London, on the 10th of February, 1775; and Horace in the same house on
the 31st of December, 1779.

James was educated under the Rev. Mr. Burford at Chigwell in Essex;
articled to his father on leaving school, subsequently taken into
partnership with him, and eventually succeeded to his father’s business,
as well as his appointment of solicitor to the Ordnance.  Horace received
the same education as his brother, became a member of the Stock Exchange
in London, acquired a fortune, and retired with his wife and family to
Brighton.  James, who lived and died single, was the author of several
small copies of verses, since collected by his brother; and Horace was
the author of “Brambletye House,” a novel in three volumes, well received
at the time of its publication.

The work by which the brothers are best known, and by which they will
long continue to be remembered, is the _Rejected Addresses_.  This
delightful volume—one of the luckiest hits in literature—appeared on the
re-opening of Drury Lane Theatre, in October, 1812; the idea, as Horace
relates, having been casualty started by the late Mr. Ward, secretary to
the theatre, exactly six weeks before the night when the opening Address
was to be spoken.  The hint thus thrown out was eagerly adopted.  The
brothers arranged what authors they should respectively imitate; and
James executed his portion in London, and Horace the remainder at
Cheltenham.  James supplied the imitations of Wordsworth, Southey,
Coleridge, Crabbe, and Cobbett, and Nos. 14, 16, 18, 19, and 20.  The
Byron was a joint effusion—James contributing the first stanza, and
Horace the remainder.  The Fitzgerald, the Sir Walter Scott, &c., were by
Horace.  The corrections which each supplied to the compositions of the
other seldom exceeded verbal alterations or the addition of a few lines.

The copyright, which had been originally offered to Mr. Murray for
20_l._, and refused without even looking at the MS., {0a} was purchased
by that gentleman in 1819, after the book had run through sixteen
editions, for 131_l._

James Smith died at his house, No. 27, Craven Street, Strand, on the 24th
December, 1839, in the 65th year of his age; and was buried in the vaults
of the church of St. Martin’s in the Fields.  Horace died at Tunbridge
Wells, on the 12th of July, 1849, in the 70th year of his age, and was
buried in the churchyard of Trinity Church, Tunbridge Wells.

                                                                     P. C.


ON the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement appeared in most
of the daily papers:—

                     “_Rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre_.

    “The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair competition
    for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of the Theatre, which
    will take place on the 10th of October next.  They have, therefore,
    thought fit to announce to the public, that they will be glad to
    receive any such compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the
    Treasury-office, in Drury Lane, on or before the 10th of September,
    sealed up, with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, on the
    cover, corresponding with the inscription on a separate sealed paper,
    containing the name of the author, which will not be opened unless
    containing the name of the successful candidate.”

Upon the propriety of this plan men’s minds were, as they usually are
upon matters of moment, much divided.  Some thought it a fair promise of
the future intention of the Committee to abolish that phalanx of authors
who usurp the stage, to the exclusion of a large assortment of dramatic
talent blushing unseen in the background; while others contended that the
scheme would prevent men of real eminence from descending into an
amphitheatre in which all Grub Street (that is to say, all London and
Westminster) would be arrayed against them.  The event has proved both
parties to be in a degree right, and in a degree wrong.  One hundred and
twelve _Addresses_ have been sent in, each sealed and signed, and
mottoed, “as per order,” some written by men of great, some by men of
little, and some by men of no talent.

Many of the public prints have censured the taste of the Committee, in
thus contracting for _Addresses_ as they would for nails—by the gross;
but it is surprising that none should have censured their _temerity_.
One hundred and eleven of the _Addresses_ must, of course, be
unsuccessful: to each of the authors, thus infallibly classed with the
_genus irritabile_, it would be very hard to deny six stanch friends, who
consider his the best of all possible _Addresses_, and whose tongues will
be as ready to laud him as to hiss his adversary.  These, with the potent
aid of the bard himself, make seven foes per address; and thus will be
created seven hundred and seventy-seven implacable auditors, prepared to
condemn the strains of Apollo himself—a band of adversaries which no
prudent manager would think of exasperating.

But, leaving the Committee to encounter the responsibility they have
incurred, the public have at least to thank them for ascertaining and
establishing one point, which might otherwise have admitted of
controversy.  When it is considered that many amateur writers have been
discouraged from becoming competitors, and that few, if any, of the
professional authors can afford to write for nothing, and, of course,
have not been candidates for the honorary prize at Drury Lane, we may
confidently pronounce that, as far as regards _number_, the present is
undoubtedly the Augustan age of English poetry.  Whether or not this
distinction will be extended to the _quality_ of its productions, must be
decided at the tribunal of posterity; though the natural anxiety of our
authors on this score ought to be considerably diminished when they
reflect how few will, in all probability, be had up for judgment.

It is not necessary for the Editor to mention the manner in which he
became possessed of this “fair sample of the present state of poetry in
Great Britain.”  It was his first intention to publish the whole; but a
little reflection convinced him that, by so doing, he might depress the
good, without elevating the bad.  He has therefore culled what had the
appearance of flowers, from what possessed the reality of weeds, and is
extremely sorry that, in so doing, he has diminished his collection to
twenty-one.  Those which he has rejected may possibly make their
appearance in a separate volume, or they may be admitted as volunteers in
the files of some of the newspapers; or, at all events, they are sure of
being received among the awkward squad of the Magazines.  In general,
they bear a close resemblance to each other; thirty of them contain
extravagant compliments to the immortal Wellington and the indefatigable
Whitbread; and, as the last-mentioned gentleman is said to dislike praise
in the exact proportion in which he deserves it, these laudatory writers
have probably been only building a wall against which they might run
their own heads.

The Editor here begs leave to advance a few words in behalf of that
useful and much abused bird the Phoenix; and in so doing he is biassed by
no partiality, as he assures the reader he not only never saw one, but
(_mirabile dictu_!) never caged one, in a simile, in the whole course of
his life.  Not less than sixty-nine of the competitors have invoked the
aid of this native of Arabia; but as, from their manner of using him
after they had caught him, he does not by any means appear to have been a
native of Arabia _Felix_, the Editor has left the proprietors to treat
with Mr. Polito, and refused to receive this _rara avis_, or black swan,
into the present collection.  One exception occurs, in which the
admirable treatment of this feathered incombustible entitles the author
to great praise: that Address has been preserved, and in the ensuing
pages takes the lead, to which its dignity entitles it.

Perhaps the reason why several of the subjoined productions of the MUSÆ
LONDINENSES have failed of selection, may be discovered in their being
penned in a metre unusual upon occasions of this sort, and in their not
being written with that attention to stage effect, the want of which,
like want of manners in the concerns of life, is more prejudicial than a
deficiency of talent.  There is an art of writing for the Theatre,
technically called _touch_ and _go_, which is indispensable when we
consider the small quantum of patience which so motley an assemblage as a
London audience can be expected to afford.  All the contributors have
been very exact in sending their initials and mottoes.  Those belonging
to the present collection have been carefully preserved, and each has
been affixed to its respective poem.  The letters that accompanied the
Addresses having been honourably destroyed unopened, it is impossible to
state the real authors with any certainty; but the ingenious reader,
after comparing the initials with the motto, and both with the poem, may
form his own conclusions.

The Editor does not anticipate any disapprobation from thus giving
publicity to a small portion of the _Rejected Addresses_; for unless he
is widely mistaken in assigning the respective authors, the fame of each
individual is established on much too firm a basis to be shaken by so
trifling and evanescent a publication as the present:

    — neque ego illi detrahere ausim
    Hærentem capiti multâ cum laude coronam.

Of the numerous pieces already sent to the Committee for performance, he
has only availed himself of three vocal Travesties, which he has
selected, not for their merit, but simply for their brevity.  Above one
hundred spectacles, melodramas, operas, and pantomimes have been
transmitted, besides the two first acts of one legitimate comedy.  Some
of these evince considerable smartness of manual dialogue, and several
brilliant repartees of chairs, tables, and other inanimate wits; but the
authors seem to have forgotten that in the new Drury Lane the audience
can hear as well as see.  Of late our theatres have been so constructed,
that John Bull has been compelled to have very long ears, or none at all;
to keep them dangling about his skull like discarded servants, while his
eyes were gazing at pieballs and elephants, or else to stretch them out
to an asinine length to catch the congenial sound of braying trumpets.
An auricular revolution is, we trust, about to take place; and as many
people have been much puzzled to define the meaning of the new era, of
which we have heard so much, we venture to pronounce that, as far as
regards Drury Lane Theatre, the new era means the reign of ears.  If the
past affords any pledge for the future, we may confidently expect from
the Committee of that House every thing that can be accomplished by the
union of taste and assiduity.

    [“We have no conjectures to offer as to the anonymous author of this
    amusing little volume.  He who is such a master of disguises may
    easily be supposed to have been successful in concealing himself,
    and, with the power of assuming so many styles, is not likely to be
    detected by his own.  We should guess, however, that he had not
    written a great deal in his own character—that his natural style was
    neither very lofty nor very grave—and that he rather indulges a
    partiality for puns and verbal pleasantries.  We marvel why he has
    shut out Campbell and Rogers from his theatre of living poets, and
    confidently expect to have our curiosity, in this and in all other
    particulars, very speedily gratified, when the applause of the
    country shall induce him to take off his mask.”]

                           LORD JEFFREY, _Edinburgh Review for Nov._ 1812.


IN the present publishing era, when books are like the multitudinous
waves of the advancing sea, some of which make no impression whatever
upon the sand, while the superficial traces left by others are destined
to be perpetually obliterated by their successors, almost as soon as they
are found, the authors of the _Rejected Addresses_ may well feel
flattered, after a lapse of twenty years, and the sale of seventeen large
editions, in receiving an application to write a Preface to a new and
more handsome impression.  In diminution, however, of any overweening
vanity which they might be disposed to indulge on this occasion, they
cannot but admit the truth of the remark made by a particularly candid
and good-natured friend, who kindly reminded them, that if their little
work has hitherto floated upon the stream of time, while so many others
of much greater weight and value have sunk to rise no more, it has been
solely indebted for its buoyancy to that specific levity which enables
feathers, straws, and similar trifles to defer their submersion until
they have become thoroughly saturated with the waters of oblivion, when
they quickly meet the fate which they had long before merited.

Our ingenuous and ingenious friend furthermore observed, that the
demolition of Drury Lane Theatre by fire, its reconstruction under the
auspices of the celebrated Mr. Whitbread, {0c} the reward offered by the
Committee for an opening address, and the public recitation of a poem
composed expressly for the occasion by Lord Byron, one of the most
popular writers of the age, formed an extraordinary concurrence of
circumstances which could not fail to insure the success of the _Rejected
Addresses_, while it has subsequently served to fix them in the memory of
the public, so far at least as a poor immortality of twenty years can be
said to have effected that object.  In fact, continued our impartial and
affectionate monitor, your little work owes its present obscure existence
entirely to the accidents that have surrounded and embalmed it,—even as
flies, and other worthless insects, may long survive their natural date
of extinction, if they chance to be preserved in amber, or any similar

    The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare—
    But wonder how the devil they got there!—POPE.

With the natural affection of parents for the offspring of their own
brains, we ventured to hint that some portion of our success might
perhaps be attributable to the manner in which the different imitations
were executed; but our worthy friend protested that his sincere regard
for us, as well as for the cause of truth, compelled him to reject our
claim, and to pronounce that, when once the idea had been conceived, all
the rest followed as a matter of course, and might have been executed by
any other hands not less felicitously than by our own.

Willingly leaving this matter to the decision of the public, since we
cannot be umpires in our own cause, we proceed to detail such
circumstances attending the writing and publication of our little work,
as may literally meet the wishes of the present proprietor of the
copyright, who has applied to us for a gossiping Preface.  Were we
disposed to be grave and didactic, which is as foreign to our mood as it
was twenty years ago, we might draw the attention of the reader, in a
fine sententious paragraph, to the trifles upon which the fate of
empires, as well as a four-and-sixpenny volume of parodies, occasionally
hangs in trembling balance.  No sooner was the idea of our work
conceived, than it was about to be abandoned in embryo, from the
apprehension that we had no lime to mature and bring it forth, as it was
indispensable that it should be written, printed, and published by the
opening of Drury Lane Theatre, which would only allow us an interval of
six weeks, and we had both of us other avocations that precluded us from
the full command of even that limited period.  Encouraged, however, by
the conviction that the thought was a good one, and by the hope of making
a lucky hit, we set to work _con amore_, our very hurry not improbably
enabling us to strike out at a heat what we might have failed to produce
so well, had we possessed time enough to hammer it into more careful and
elaborate form.

Our first difficulty, that of selection, was by no means a light one.
Some of our most eminent poets—such, for instance, as Rogers and
Campbell—presented so much beauty, harmony, and proportion in their
writings, both as to style and sentiment, that if we had attempted to
caricature them, nobody would have recognised the likeness; and if we had
endeavoured to give a servile copy of their manner, it would only have
amounted, at best, to a tame and unamusing portrait, which it was not our
object to present.  Although fully aware that their names would, in the
theatrical phrase, have conferred great strength upon our bill, we were
reluctantly compelled to forego them, and to confine ourselves to writers
whose style and habit of thought, being more marked and peculiar, was
more capable of exaggeration and distortion.  To avoid politics and
personality, to imitate the turn of mind as well as the phraseology of
our originals, and, at all events, to raise a harmless laugh, were our
main objects; in the attainment of which united aims, we were sometimes
hurried into extravagance, by attaching much more importance to the last
than to the two first.  In no instance were we thus betrayed into a
greater injustice than in the case of Mr. Wordsworth—the touching
sentiment, profound wisdom, and copious harmony of whose loftier writings
we left unnoticed, in the desire of burlesquing them; while we pounced
upon his popular ballads, and exerted ourselves to push their simplicity
into puerility and silliness.  With pride and pleasure do we now claim to
be ranked among the most ardent admirers of this true poet; and if he
himself could see the state of his works, which are ever at our right
hand, he would, perhaps, receive the manifest evidences they exhibit of
constant reference and delighted re-perusal, as some sort of _amende
honorable_ for the unfairness of which we were guilty when we were less
conversant with the higher inspirations of his muse.  To Mr. Coleridge,
and others of our originals, we must also do a tardy act of justice, by
declaring that our burlesque of their peculiarities has never blinded us
to those beauties and talents which are beyond the reach of all ridicule.

One of us {0d} had written a genuine Address for the occasion, which was
sent to the Committee, and shared the fate it merited, in being rejected.
To swell the bulk, or rather to diminish the tenuity of our little work,
we added it to the Imitations; and prefixing the initials of S. T. P. for
the purpose of puzzling the critics, were not a little amused, in the
sequel, by the many guesses and conjectures into which we had ensnared
some of our readers.  We could even enjoy the mysticism, qualified as it
was by the poor compliment, that our carefully written Address exhibited
no “very prominent trait of absurdity,” when we saw it thus noticed in
the _Edinburgh Review_ for November 1812:—“An Address by S. T. P. we can
make nothing of; and professing our ignorance of the author designated by
these letters, we can only add, that the Address, though a little
affected, and not very full of meaning, has no very prominent trait of
absurdity, that we can detect; and might have been adopted and spoken, so
far as we can perceive, without any hazard of ridicule.  In our
simplicity we consider it as a very decent, mellifluous, occasional
prologue; and do not understand how it has found its way into its present

Urged forward by hurry, and trusting to chance, two very bad coadjutors
in any enterprise, we at length congratulated ourselves on having
completed our task in time to have it printed and published by the
opening of the theatre.  But alas! our difficulties, so far from being
surmounted, seemed only to be beginning.  Strangers to the arcana of the
booksellers’ trade, and unacquainted with their almost invincible
objection to single volumes of low price, especially when tendered by
writers who have acquired no previous name, we little anticipated that
they would refuse to publish our _Rejected Addresses_, even although we
asked nothing for the copyright.  Such, however, proved to be the case.
Our manuscript was perused and returned to us by several of the most
eminent publishers. {0e}  Well do we remember betaking ourselves to one
of the craft in Bond-street, whom we found in a back parlour, with his
gouty leg propped upon a cushion, in spite of which warning he diluted
his luncheon with frequent glasses of Madeira.  “What have you already
written?” was his first question—an interrogatory to which we had been
subjected in almost every instance.  “Nothing by which we can be known.”
“Then I am afraid to undertake the publication.”  We presumed timidly to
suggest that every writer must have a beginning, and that to refuse to
publish for him until he had acquired a name, was to imitate the sapient
mother who cautioned her son against going into the water until he could
swim.  “An old joke—a regular Joe!” exclaimed our companion, tossing off
another bumper.  “Still older than Joe Miller,” was our reply; “for, if
we mistake not, it is the very first anecdote in the facetiæ of
Hierocles.”  “Ha, sirs!” resumed the bibliopolist, “you are learned, are
you?  So, sob!—Well, leave your manuscript with me; I will look it over
to-night, and give you an answer to-morrow.”  Punctual as the clock we
presented ourselves at his door on the following morning, when our papers
were returned to us with the observation—“These trifles are really not
deficient in smartness; they are well, vastly well, for beginners; but
they will never do—never.  They would not pay for advertising, and
without it I should not sell fifty copies.”

This was discouraging enough.  If the most experienced publishers feared
to be out of pocket by the work, it was manifest, _à fortiori_, that its
writers ran a risk of being still more heavy losers, should they
undertake the publication on their own account.  We had no objection to
raise a laugh at the expense of others; but to do it at our own cost,
uncertain as we were to what extent we might be involved, had never
entered into our contemplation.  In this dilemma, our _Addresses_, now in
every sense rejected, might probably have never seen the light, had not
some good angel whispered us to betake ourselves to Mr. John Miller, a
dramatic publisher, then residing in Bow Street, Covent Garden.  No
sooner had this gentleman looked over our manuscript, than he immediately
offered to take upon himself all the risk of publication, and to give us
half the profits, _should there be any_; a liberal proposition, with
which we gladly closed.  So rapid and decided was its success, at which
none were more unfeignedly astonished than its authors, that Mr. Miller
advised us to collect some _Imitations of Horace_, which had appeared
anonymously in the _Monthly Mirror_, {0f} offering to publish them upon
the same terms.  We did so accordingly; and as new editions of the
_Rejected Addresses_ were called for in quick succession, we were shortly
enabled to sell our half copyright in the two works to Mr. Miller for one
thousand pounds!  We have entered into this unimportant detail, not to
gratify any vanity of our own, but to encourage such literary beginners
as may be placed in similar circumstances; as well as to impress upon
publishers the propriety of giving more consideration to the possible
merit of the works submitted to them, than to the mere magic of a name.

To the credit of the _genus irritabile_ be it recorded, that not one of
those whom we had parodied or burlesqued ever betrayed the least soreness
on the occasion, or refused to join in the laugh that we had occasioned.
With most of them we subsequently formed acquaintanceship; while some
honoured us with an intimacy which still continues, where it has not been
severed by the rude hand of Death.  Alas! it is painful to reflect, that
of the twelve writers whom we presumed to imitate, five are now no more;
the list of the deceased being unhappily swelled by the most illustrious
of all, the _clarum et venerabile nomen_ of Sir Walter Scott!  From that
distinguished writer, whose transcendent talents were only to be equalled
by his virtues and his amiability, we received favours and notice, both
public and private, which it will be difficult to forget, because we had
not the smallest claim upon his kindness.  “I certainly must have written
this myself!” said that fine-tempered man to one of the authors, pointing
to the description of the Fire, “although I forget upon what occasion.”
Lydia White, {0g} a literary lady who was prone to feed the lions of the
day, invited one of us to dinner; but, recollecting afterwards that
William Spencer {0h} formed one of the party, wrote to the latter to put
him off, telling him that a man was to be at her table whom he “would not
like to meet.”  “Pray, who is this whom I should not like to meet?”
inquired the poet.  “O!” answered the lady, “one of those men who have
made that shameful attack upon you!”  “The very man upon earth I should
like to know!” rejoined the lively and careless bard.  The two
individuals accordingly met, and have continued fast friends ever since.
Lord Byron, too, wrote thus to Mr. Murray from Italy—“Tell him I forgive
him, were he twenty times over our satirist.”

It may not be amiss to notice, in this place, one criticism of a
Leicestershire clergyman, which may be pronounced unique: “I do not see
why they should have been rejected,” observed the matter-of-fact
annotator; “I think some of them very good!”  Upon the whole, few have
been the instances, in the acrimonious history of literature, where a
malicious pleasantry like the _Rejected Addresses_—which the parties
ridiculed might well consider more annoying than a direct satire—instead
of being met by querulous bitterness or petulant retaliation, has
procured for its authors the acquaintance, or conciliated the good-will,
of those whom they had the most audaciously burlesqued.

In commenting on a work, however trifling, which has survived the lapse
of twenty years, an author may almost claim the privileged garrulity of
age; yet even in a professedly gossiping Preface, we begin to fear that
we are exceeding our commission, and abusing the patience of the reader.
If we are doing so, we might urge extenuating circumstances, which will
explain, though they may not excuse, our diffuseness.  To one of us the
totally unexpected success of this little work proved an important event,
since it mainly decided him, some years afterwards, to embark in the
literary career which the continued favour of that novel-reading world
has rendered both pleasant and profitable to him.  This is the first, as
it will probably be the last, occasion upon which we shall ever intrude
ourselves personally on the public notice; and we trust that our now
doing so will stand excused by the reasons we have adduced.

LONDON, _March_, 1833


                                              Page       Written by
        I.  LOYAL EFFUSION.  By W. T. F.           1  _Horace_.
       II.  THE BABY’S DEBUT.  By W. W.            5  _James_.
      III.  AN ADDRESS WITHOUT A PHŒNIX.          10  _Horace_.
            By S. T. P.
       IV.  CUI BONO?  By Lord B.                 12  _James and
        V.  HAMPSHIRE FARMER’S ADDRESS.           20  _James_.
            By W. C.
       VI.  THE LIVING LUSTRES.  By T. M.         25  _Horace_.
      VII.  THE REBUILDING.  By R. S.             28  _James_.
     VIII.  DRURY’S DIRGE.  By Laura              38  _Horace_.
       IX.  A TALE OF DRURY LANE.  By W.          42  _Horace_.
        X.  JOHNSON’S GHOST                       51  _Horace_.
       XI.  THE BEAUTIFUL INCENDIARY.  By         56  _Horace_.
            the Hon. W. S.
      XII.  FIRE AND ALE.  By M. G. L.            61  _Horace_.
     XIII.  PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS.  By S. T.          65  _James_.
      XIV.  DRURY LANE HUSTINGS.  By a            69  _James_.
            Pic-Nic Poet
       XV.  ARCHITECTURAL ATOMS.  By Dr.          72  _Horace_.
      XVI.  THEATRICAL ALARM-BELL.  By            81  _James_.
            the Editor of the M. P.
     XVII.  THE THEATRE.  By the Rev. G.          85  _James_.
    XVIII.  MACBETH TRAVESTIE.  By Momus          94  _James_.
      XIX.  STRANGER TRAVESTIE.  By Momus         96  _James_.
       XX.  GEORGE BARNWELL TRAVESTIE.            98  _James_.
            By Ditto
      XXI.  PUNCH’S APOTHEOSIS.  By T. H.        102  _Horace_.



                               BY W. T. F.

                       [WILLIAM THOMAS FITZGERALD.]

              [Mr. Fitzgerald died 9th July, 1829, aged 70.]

    “Quicquid dicunt, lando: id rursum si negant,
    Lando id quoque.”  TERENCE.

   Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work!
   God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!
      Ye Muses! by whose aid I cried down Fox,
   Grant me in Drury Lane a private box,
   Where I may loll, cry Bravo! and profess
   The boundless powers of England’s glorious press;
   While Afric’s sons exclaim, from shore to shore,
   “Quashee ma boo!”—the slave-trade is no more!
      In fair Arabia (happy once, now stony,
   Since ruined by that arch apostate Boney),
   A Phoenix late was caught: the Arab host
   Long ponder’d—part would boil it, part would roast,
   But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies,
   Fledged, beak’d, and claw’d, alive they see him rise
   To heaven, and caw defiance in the skies.
   So Drury, first in roasting flames consumed,
   Then by old renters to hot water doom’d,
   By Wyatt’s {2} trowel patted, plump and sleek,
   Soars without wings, and caws without a beak.
   Gallia’s stern despot shall in vain advance
   From Paris, the metropolis of France;
   By this day month the monster shall not gain
   A foot of land in Portugal or Spain.
   See Wellington in Salamanca’s field
   Forces his favourite general to yield,
   Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted Marmont
   Expiring on the plain without his arm on;
   Madrid he enters at the cannon’s mouth,
   And then the villages still further south.
   Base Buonapartè, fill’d with deadly ire,
   Sets, one by one, our playhouses on fire.
   Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on
   The Opera House, then burnt down the Pantheon;
   Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames,
   Next at Millbank he cross’d the river Thames;
   Thy hatch, O Halfpenny! {3a} pass’d in a trice,
   Boil’d some black pitch, and burnt down Astley’s twice;
   Then buzzing on through ether with a vile hum,
   Turn’d to the left hand, fronting the Asylum,
   And burnt the Royal Circus in a hurry—
   (’Twas call’d the Circus then, but now the Surrey).
      Who burnt (confound his soul!) the houses twain
   Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane? {3b}
   Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork,
   (God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!)
   With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas,
   And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos?
   Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise?
   Who fills the butchers’ shops with large blue flies?
   Who thought in flames St. James’s court to pinch? {4a}
   Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch?—
   Why he, who, forging for this isle a yoke,
   Reminds me of a line I lately spoke,
   “The tree of freedom is the British oak.”
      Bless every man possess’d of aught to give;
   Long may Long Tylney Wellesley Long Pole live; {4b}
   God bless the Army, bless their coats of scarlet,
   God bless the Navy, bless the Princess Charlotte;
   God bless the Guards, though worsted Gallia scoff;
   God bless their pig-tails, though they’re now cut off;
   And, oh! in Downing Street should Old Nick revel,
   England’s prime minister, then bless the devil!


                                 BY W. W.

                          [WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.]

         Mr. Wordsworth died 23rd, April, 1850, in his 82nd year.

                                * * * * *

    “Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait.
    All thy false mimic fooleries I hate;
    For thou art Folly’s counterfeit, and she
    Who is right foolish hath the better plea;
    Nature’s true Idiot I prefer to thee”


[_Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake_, _a girl eight years of age_,
_who is drawn upon the stage in a child’s chaise by Samuel Hughes_, _her
uncle’s porter_.]

   MY brother Jack was nine in May, {5b}
   And I was eight on New-year’s-day;
      So in Kate Wilson’s shop
   Papa (he’s my papa and Jack’s)
   Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,
      And brother Jack a top.

   Jack’s in the pouts, and this it is,—
   He thinks mine came to more than his;
      So to my drawer he goes,
   Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!
   He pokes her head between the bars,
      And melts off half her nose!

   Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
   And tie it to his peg-top’s peg,
      And bang, with might and main,
   Its head against the parlour-door:
   Off flies the head, and hits the floor,
      And breaks a window-pane.

   This made him cry with rage and spite
   Well, let him cry, it serves him right.
      A pretty thing, forsooth!
   If he’s to melt, all scalding hot,
   Half my doll’s nose, and I am not
      To draw his peg-top’s tooth!

   Aunt Hannah heard the window break,
   And cried, “O naughty Nancy Lake,
      Thus to distress your aunt:
   No Drury-Lane for you to-day!”
   And while papa said, “Pooh, she may!”
      Mamma said, “No, she sha’n’t!”

   Well, after many a sad reproach,
   They got into a hackney coach,
      And trotted down the street.
   I saw them go: one horse was blind,
   The tails of both hung down behind,
      Their shoes were on their feet.

   The chaise in which poor brother Bill
   Used to be drawn to Pentonville,
      Stood in the lumber-room:
   I wiped the dust from off the top,
   While Molly mopp’d it with a mop,
      And brushed it with a broom.

   My uncle’s porter, Samuel Hughes,
   Came in at six to black the shoes,
      (I always talk to Sam:)
   So what does he, but takes, and drags
   Me in the chaise along the flags,
      And leaves me where I am.

   My father’s walls are made of brick,
   But not so tall, and not so thick
      As these; and, goodness me!
   My father’s beams are made of wood,
   But never, never half so good
      As those that now I see.

   What a large floor! ’tis like a town!
   The carpet, when they lay it down,
      Won’t hide it, I’ll be bound;
   And there’s a row of lamps!—my eye
   How they do blaze!  I wonder why
      They keep them on the ground.

   At first I caught hold of the wing,
   And kept away; but Mr. Thing-
      um bob, the prompter man,
   Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,
   And said, “Go on, my pretty love;
      Speak to ’em, little Nan.

   “You’ve only got to curtsey, whisp-
   er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp,
      And then you’re sure to take:
   I’ve known the day when brats, not quite
   Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; {8}
      Then why not Nancy Lake?”

   But while I’m speaking, where’s papa?
   And where’s my aunt? and where’s mamma?
      Where’s Jack?  O, there they sit!
   They smile, they nod; I’ll go my ways,
   And order round poor Billy’s chaise,
      To join them in the pit.

   And now, good gentlefolks, I go
   To join mamma, and see the show;
      So, bidding you adieu,
   I curtsey, like a pretty miss,
   And if you’ll blow to me a kiss,
      I’ll blow a kiss to you.

                                                 [_Blows a kiss and exit_.


                            BY S. T. P. {10b}

   “This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked.”

                                                          _What You Will_.

   WHAT stately vision mocks my waking sense?
   Hence, dear delusion, sweet enchantment, hence!
   Ha! is it real?—can my doubts be vain?
   It is, it is, and Drury lives again!
   Around each grateful veteran attends,
   Eager to rush and gratulate his friends,
   Friends whose kind looks, retraced with proud delight,
   Endear the past, and make the future bright:
   Yes, generous patrons, your returning smile
   Blesses our toils, and consecrates our pile.

      When last we met, Fate’s unrelenting hand
   Already grasped the devastating brand;
   Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize,
   Then burst resistless to the astonished skies.
   The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride,
   In trembling conflict stemmed the burning tide,
   Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall,
   Down rushed the thundering roof, and buried all!

      Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung,
   And raptured thousands on their music hung,
   Where Wit and Wisdom shone, by Beauty graced,
   Sat lonely Silence, empress of the waste;
   And still had reigned—but he, whose voice can raise
   More magic wonders than Amphion’s lays,
   Bade jarring bands with friendly zeal engage
   To rear the prostrate glories of the stage.
   Up leaped the Muses at the potent spell,
   And Drury’s genius saw his temple swell;
   Worthy, we hope, the British Drama’s cause,
   Worthy of British arts, and _your_ applause.

      Guided by you, our earnest aims presume
   To renovate the Drama with the dome;
   The scenes of Shakespeare and our bards of old
   With due observance splendidly unfold,
   Yet raise and foster with parental hand
   The living talent of our native land.
   O! may we still, to sense and nature true,
   Delight the many, nor offend the few.
   Though varying tastes our changeful Drama claim,
   Still be its moral tendency the same,
   To win by precept, by example warn,
   To brand the front of Vice with pointed scorn,
   And Virtue’s smiling brows with votive wreaths adorn.


                             BY LORD B. {12a}

                              [LORD BYRON.]

          [Lord Byron died 19th April, 1824, in his 37th year.]


      Sated with home, of wife, of children tired,
      The restless soul is driven abroad to roam; {12b}
      Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired,
      The restless soul is driven to ramble home;
      Sated with both, beneath new Drury’s dome
      The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine,
      There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome,
      Scorning to view fantastic Columbine,
   Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine. {14}


      Ye reckless dopes, who hither wend your way
      To gaze on puppets in a painted dome,
      Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,
      Like falling stars in life’s eternal gloom,
      What seek ye here?  Joy’s evanescent bloom?
      Woe’s me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave
      Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb.
      Man’s heart, the mournful urn o’er which they wave,
   Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.


      Has life so little store of real woes,
      That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?
      Or is it that from truth such anguish flows,
      Ye court the lying drama for relief?
      Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief:
      Or if one tolerable page appears
      In folly’s volume, ’tis the actor’s leaf,
      Who dries his own by drawing others’ tears,
   And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.


      Albeit, how like Young Betty {15a} doth he flee!
      Light as the mote that daunceth in the beam,
      He liveth only in man’s present e’e;
      His life a flash, his memory a dream,
      Oblivious down he drops in Lethe’s stream.
      Yet what are they, the learned and the great?
      Awhile of longer wonderment the theme!
      Who shall presume to prophesy _their_ date,
   Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate?


      This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt’s toil,
      Perchance than Holland’s edifice {15b} more fleet,
      Again red Lemnos’ artisan may spoil:
      The fire-alarm and midnight drum may beat,
      And all bestrewed ysmoking at your feet!
      Start ye? perchance Death’s angel may be sent
      Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat:
      And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent,
   May find, in pleasure’s fane, your grave and monument.


      Your debts mount high—ye plunge in deeper waste;
      The tradesman duns—no warning voice ye hear;
      The plaintiff sues—to public shows ye haste;
      The bailiff threats—ye feel no idle fear.
      Who can arrest your prodigal career?
      Who can keep down the levity of youth?
      What sound can startle age’s stubborn ear?
      Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth
   Men true to falsehood’s voice, false to the voice of truth?


      To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to make
      The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy,
      We dedicate the pile—arise! awake!—
      Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy
      Clear our new stage from reason’s dull alloy,
      Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth
      With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy!
      While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth, {17}
   Harps twang in Drury’s walls, and make her boards a booth.


      For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March?
      And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl?
      And what is Rolla?  Cupid steeped in starch,
      Orlando’s helmet in Augustin’s cowl.
      Shakespeare, how true thine adage “fair is foul!”
      To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,
      The song of Braham is an Irish howl,
      Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,
   And nought is everything, and everything is nought.


      Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above,
      Not laurel-crown’d, but clad in rusty black;
      Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè’s grove,
      But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack;
      What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack,
      Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long,
      Condemn’d to tread the bard’s time-sanction’d track,
      Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng,
   And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song.


      So fares the follower in the Muses’ train;
      He toils to starve, and only lives in death;
      We slight him, till our patronage is vain,
      Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe,
      And o’er his bones an empty requiem breathe—
      Oh! with what tragic horror would he start
      (Could he be conjured from the grave beneath)
      To find the stage again a Thespian cart,
   And elephants and colts down trampling Shakespeare’s art!


      Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules!
      Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface;
      Back, sister Muses, to your native schools;
      Here booted grooms usurp Apollo’s place,
      Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace,
      The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit,
      Man yields the drama to the Hou’yn’m race,
      His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit,
   The stage a stable-yard, a jockey-club the pit.


      Is it for these ye rear this proud abode?
      Is it for these your superstition seeks
      To build a temple worthy of a god,
      To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks?
      Then be the stage, to recompense your freaks,
      A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks,
      Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks,
      And Wisdom weeps, and Folly plays his pranks,
   And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks.


                                 BY W. C.

                            [WILLIAM CORBETT.]

               [Mr. Corbett died 18th June, 1835, aged 73.]

                                * * * * *



To the gewgaw fetters of _rhyme_ (invented by the monks to enslave the
people) I have a rooted objection.  I have therefore written an address
for your Theatre in plain, homespun, yeoman’s prose; in the doing whereof
I hope I am swayed by nothing but an _independent_ wish to open the eyes
of this gulled people, to prevent a repetition of the dramatic
_bamboozling_ they have hitherto laboured under.  If you like what I have
done, and mean to make use of it, I don’t want any such _aristocratic_
reward as a piece of plate with two griffins sprawling upon it, or a
_dog_ and a _jackass_ fighting for a ha’p’worth of _gilt gingerbread_, or
any such Bartholomew-fair nonsense.  All I ask is that the door-keepers
of your play-house may take all the _sets of my Register_ {20} now on
hand, and _force_ every body who enters your doors to buy one, giving
afterwards a debtor and creditor account of what they have received,
_post-paid_, and in due course remitting me the money and unsold
Registers, _carriage-paid_.

                                                                 I am, &c.
                                                                     W. C.

                                * * * * *


    —“Rabidâ qui concitus irâ
    Implevit pariter ternis latratibus auras,
    Et sparsit virides spumis albentibus agrot.”—OVID.


WHEN persons address an audience from the stage, it is usual, either in
words or gesture, to say, “Ladies and Gentlemen, your servant.”  If I
were base enough, mean enough, paltry enough, and _brute beast_ enough,
to follow that fashion, I should tell two lies in a breath.  In the first
place, you are _not_ Ladies and Gentlemen, but I hope something better,
that is to say, honest men and women; and in the next place, if you were
ever so much ladies, and ever so much gentlemen, I am not, _nor ever will
be_, your humble servant.  You see me here, _most thinking people_, by
mere chance.  I have not been within the doors of a play-house before for
these ten years; nor, till that abominable custom of taking money at the
doors is discontinued, will I ever sanction a theatre with my presence.
The stage-door is the only gate of _freedom_ in the whole edifice, and
through that I made my way from Bagshaw’s {21} in Brydges Street, to
accost you.  Look about you.  Are you not all comfortable?  Nay, never
slink, mun; speak out, if you are dissatisfied, and tell me so before I
leave town.  You are now (thanks to _Mr. Whitbread_) got into a large,
comfortable house.  Not into a _gimcrack-palace_; not into a _Solomon’s
temple_; not into a frost-work of Brobdignag filigree; but into a plain,
honest, homely, industrious, wholesome, _brown brick playhouse_.  You
have been struggling for independence and elbow-room these three years;
and who gave it you?  Who helped you out of Lilliput?  Who routed you
from a rat-hole five inches by four, to perch you in a palace?  Again and
again I answer, _Mr. Whitbread_.  You might have sweltered in that place
with the Greek name {22} till doomsday, and neither _Lord Castlereagh_,
_Mr. Canning_, no, nor the _Marquess Wellesley_, would have turned a
trowel to help you out!  Remember that.  Never forget that.  Read it to
your children, and to your children’s children!  And now, _most thinking
people_, cast your eyes over my head to what the builder (I beg his
pardon, the architect) calls the _proscenium_.  No motto, no slang, no
popish Latin, to keep the people in the dark.  No _veluti in speculum_.
Nothing in the dead languages, properly so called, for they ought to die,
ay and be _damned_ to boot!  The Covent Garden manager tried that, and a
pretty business he made of it!  When a man says _veluti in speculum_, he
is called a man of letters.  Very well, and is not a man who cries O. P.
a man of letters too?  You ran your O. P. against his _veluti in
speculum_, and pray which beat?  I prophesied that, though I never told
any body.  I take it for granted, that every intelligent man, woman, and
child, to whom I address myself, has stood severally and respectively in
Little Russell Street, and cast their, his, her, and its eyes on the
outside of this building before they paid their money to view the inside.
Look at the brick-work, _English Audience_!  Look at the brick-work!  All
plain and smooth like a quakers’ meeting.  None of your Egyptian
pyramids, to entomb subscribers’ capitals.  No overgrown colonnades of
stone, {23a} like an alderman’s gouty legs in white cotton stockings, fit
only to use as rammers for paving Tottenham Court Road.  This house is
neither after the model of a temple in Athens, no, nor a _temple_ in
_Moorfields_, but it is built to act English plays in: and, provided you
have good scenery, dresses, and decorations, I daresay you wouldn’t break
your hearts if the outside were as plain as the pikestaff I used to carry
when I was a sergeant.  _Apropos_, as the French valets say, who cut
their masters’ throats {23b}—_apropos_, a word about dresses.  You must,
many of you, have seen what I have read a description of, Kemble and Mrs.
Siddons in Macbeth, with more gold and silver plastered on their doublets
than would have kept an honest family in butchers’ meat and flannel from
year’s end to year’s end!  I am informed, (now mind, I do not vouch for
the fact), but I am informed that all such extravagant idleness is to be
done away with here.  Lady Macbeth is to have a plain quilted petticoat,
a cotton gown, and a _mob cap_ (as the court parasites call it;—it will
be well for them if, one of these days, they don’t wear a mob cap—I mean
a _white cap_, with a _mob_ to look at them); and Macbeth is to appear in
an honest yeoman’s drab coat, and a pair of black calamanco breeches.
Not _Sala_manca; no, nor _Talavera_ neither, my most Noble Marquess; but
plain, honest, black calamanco stuff breeches.  This is right; this is as
it should be.  _Most thinking people_, I have heard you much abused.
There is not a compound in the language but is strung fifty in a rope,
like onions, by the Morning Post, and hurled in your teeth.  You are
called the mob; and when they have made you out to be the mob, you are
called the _scum_ of the people, and the _dregs_ of the people.  I should
like to know how you can be both.  Take a basin of broth—not _cheap
soup_, _Mr. Wilberforce_—not soup for the poor, at a penny a quart, as
your mixture of horses’ legs, brick-dust, and old shoes, was
denominated—but plain, wholesome, patriotic beef or mutton broth; take
this, examine it, and you will find—mind, I don’t vouch for the fact, but
I am told—you will find the dregs at the bottom, and the scum at the top.
I will endeavour to explain this to you: England is a large _earthenware
pipkin_; John Bull is the _beef_ thrown into it; taxes are the _hot
water_ he boils in; rotten boroughs are the _fuel_ that blazes under this
same pipkin; parliament is the _ladle_ that stirs the hodge-podge, and
sometimes—.  But, hold!  I don’t wish to pay _Mr. Newman_ {24a} a second
visit.  I leave you better off than you have been this many a day: you
have a good house over your head; you have beat the French in Spain; the
harvest has turned out well; the comet keeps its distance; {24b} and red
slippers are hawked about in Constantinople for next to nothing; and for
all this, _again and again_ I tell you, you are indebted to _Mr.


                              BY T. M. {25}

                             [THOMAS MOORE.]

         [Mr. Moore died 26th February, 1852, in his 73rd year.]

                                * * * * *

    “Jam te juvaverit
    Viros relinquere,
    Doctæque conjugis
    Sinu quiescere.”

                                                              SIR T. MORE.

                                * * * * *


   O WHY should our dull retrospective addresses
      Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire?
   Away with blue devils, away with distresses,
      And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!


   Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury,
      The richest to me is when woman is there;
   The question of houses I leave to the jury;
      The fairest to me is the house of the fair.


   When woman’s soft smile all our senses bewilders,
      And gilds, while it carves, her dear form on the heart,
   What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders?
      With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art?


   How well would our actors attend to their duties,
      Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit,
   In lieu of you lamps, if a row of young beauties
      Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit?


   The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge
      By woman were pluck’d, and she still wears the prize,
   To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college—
      I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.


   There too is the lash which, all statutes controlling,
      Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair;
   For man is the pupil, who, while her eye’s rolling,
      Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair.


   Bloom, Theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes
      Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile!
   And flourish, ye pillars, {26} as green as the rushes
      That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle!


   For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean,
      Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave,
   Whose sons, unaccustom’d to rebel commotion,
      Tho’ joyous, are sober—tho’ peaceful, are brave.


   The shamrock their olive, swore foe to a quarrel,
      Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows;
   Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel,
      Which flourishes rapidly over their brows.


   O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles
      Which each panting bosom indignantly names,
   Until not one goose at the capital cackles
      Against the grand question of Catholic claims.


   And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffey
      Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy,
   Hold the helm of the state, and dispense in a jiffy
      More fishes than ever he caught when a boy.


   And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows
      In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock,
   When bred to _our_ bar shall be Gibbses and Garrows,
      Assume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock.


   For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune,
      As Dian outshines each encircling star;
   And the spheres of the heavens could never have kept tune
      Till set to the music of Erin-go-bragh!


                              BY R. S. {28a}

                            [ROBERT SOUTHEY.]

           [Mr. Southey died March 13, 1843, in his 69th year.]

    —“Per audaces nova dithyrambos
    Verba devolvit numerisque fertur
    Lege solutis.”


                                * * * * *

                       [_Spoken by a Glendoveer_.]

         I AM a blessed Glendoveer: {28b}
      ’Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.
         Midnight, {28c} yet not a nose
      From Tower-hill to Piccadilly snored!
         Midnight, yet not a nose
      From Indra drew the essence of repose!
         See with what crimson fury,
   By Indra fann’d, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury

         Tops of houses, blue with lead,
      Bend beneath the landlord’s tread.
   Master and ’prentice, serving-man and lord,
            Nailor and tailor,
            Grazier and brazier,
      Through streets and alleys pour’d—
            All, all abroad to gaze,
         And wonder at the blaze.
      Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee,
         Mounted on roof and chimney, {29a}
      The mighty roast, the mighty stew
                  To see;
            As if the dismal view
      Were but to them a Brentford jubilee.
   Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phæton
      (By Greeks call’d Apollo {29b}),
         Sounds from thy harp proceed;
            Combustible as reed,
   The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs:
   From Drury’s top, dissever’d from thy pegs,
            Thou tumblest,
   Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high;
      While, by thy somerset excited, fly
            Ten million
      Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky.
   Now come the men of fire to quench the fires:
      To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run,
         Hope gallops first, and second Sun;
            On flying heel,
         See Hand-in-Hand
         O’ertake the band!
      View with what glowing wheel
            He nicks
   While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars—
            Drury Lane!  Drury Lane!
            Drury Lane!  Drury Lane!
      They shout and they bellow again and again.
               All, all in vain!
            Water turns steam;
            Each blazing beam
      Hisses defiance to the eddying spout:
   It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out!
         Drury Lane!  Drury Lane!
         See, Drury Lane expires!

   Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more,
               Shorn of his ray,
            Surya in durance lay:
         The workmen heard him shout,
         But thought it would not pay
            To dig him out.
      When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell,
            Solemn as lead,
         Judge of the dead,
      Sworn foe to witticism,
      By men call’d criticism,
      Came passing by that way:
   Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness!
         Behold the rival theatre!
         I’ve set O. P. at her, {31}
               Who, like a bull-dog bold,
         Growls and fastens on his hold.
      The many-headed rabble roar in madness;
         Thy rival staggers: come and spy her
      Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire.
   So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one,
            And crossing Russell Street,
            He placed him on his feet
      ’Neath Covent Garden dome.  Sudden a sound,
         As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose:
   Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper,
   Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes,
      From the knobb’d bludgeon to the taper switch, {32}
            Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards
   Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches;
         A sea of heads roll’d roaring in the pit;
            On paper wings O. P.’s
         Reclin’d in lettered ease;
         While shout and scoff,
            Ya! ya! off! off!
   Like thunderbolt on Surya’s ear-drum fell,
            And seemed to paint
      The savage oddities of Saint
            Bartholomew in hell.

         Tears dimm’d the god of light—
   “Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight;
         Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick,
            Oh! bury me again in brick;
         Shall I on New Drury tremble,
         To be O. P.’d like Kemble?
         Better remain by rubbish guarded,
      Than thus hubbubish groan placarded;
      Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick,
         And bury me again in brick.”
            Obedient Yamen
         Answered, “Amen,”
            And did
         As he was bid.

         There lay the buried god, and Time
         Seemed to decree eternity of lime;
      But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest
   Almighty Veeshnoo’s {34} adamantine breast:
            He, the preserver, ardent still
            To do whate’er he says he will,
            From South-hill wing’d his way,
            To raise the drooping lord of day.
   All earthly spells the busy one o’erpower’d;
            He treats with men of all conditions,
   Poets and players, tradesmen and musicians;
               Nay, even ventures
               To attack the renters,
               Old and new:
               A list he gets
         Of claims and debts,
   And deems nought done, while aught remains to do.

         Yamen beheld, and wither’d at the sight;
      Long had he aim’d the sunbeam to control,
            For light was hateful to his soul:
   “Go on!” cried the hellish one, yellow with spite,
   “Go on!” cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen,
      “Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca’s queen,
            I’ll toil to undo every night.”

         Ye sons of song, rejoice!
      Veeshnoo has still’d the jarring elements,
         The spheres hymn music;
            Again the god of day
         Peeps forth with trembling ray,
   Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine,
         And pours at intervals a strain divine.
   “I have an iron yet in the fire,” cried Yamen;
      “The vollied flame rides in my breath,
         My blast is elemental death;
   This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces;
      Ingross your deeds, assignments, leases,
         My breath shall every line erase
         Soon as I blow the blaze.”

   The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor,
   And Yamen’s visage grows blanker and blanker;
   The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown,
      And Yamen’s cheek is a russety brown:
         Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds;
               The solicitor reads,
            And, merit of merit!
         Red wax and green ferret
      Are fixed at the foot of the deeds!

         Yamen beheld and shiver’d;
      His finger and thumb were cramp’d;
      His ear by the flea in ’t was bitten,
   When he saw by the lawyer’s clerk written,
         Sealed and delivered,
         Being first duly stamped.

   “Now for my turn!” the demon cries, and blows
   A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose.
      Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend,
      Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell,
         Is judged in his turn;
         Parchment won’t burn!
   His schemes of vengeance are dissolved in air,
         Parchment won’t tear!!

      Is it not written in the Himakoot book
      (That mighty Baly from Kehama took),
            “Who blows on pounce
            Must the Swerga renounce?”
         It is! it is!  Yamen, thine hour is nigh:
            Like as an eagle claws an asp,
      Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp,
   And hurl’d him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls,
      Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain,
      Three times as high as Meru mountain,
            Which is
      Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul’s.

      Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew, {36}
            Who a durable grave meant
            To dig in the pavement
               Of Monument-yard:
      To earth by the laws of attraction he flew,
            And he fell, and he fell
            To the regions of hell;
   Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock,
   And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock,
         Like a pebble in Carisbrook well.

   Now Veeshnoo turn’d round to a capering varlet,
      Array’d in blue and white and scarlet,
   And cried, “Oh! brown of slipper as of hat!
         Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!”
   He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth;
         When lo! upstarting into birth
         A fabric, gorgeous to behold,
         Outshone in elegance the old,
   And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, “Hail, playhouse mine!”
         Then, bending his head, to Surya he said,
            “Soon as thy maiden sister Di
      Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky,
      And through the fissures of her clouded fan
         Peeps at the naughty monster man.
            Go mount yon edifice,
      And show thy steady face
         In renovated pride,
      More bright, more glorious than before!”
         But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge,
         Still smarted from his former singe;
            And to Veeshnoo replied,
            In a tone rather gruff,
      “No, thank you! one tumble’s enough!”


                         BY LAURA MATILDA. {38b}

    “You praise our sires; but though they wrote with force,
    Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse:
    We want their _strength_, agreed; but we atone
    For that, and more, by _sweetness_ all our own.”—GIFFORD.


   BALMY Zephyrs, lightly flitting,
      Shade me with your azure wing;
   On Parnassus’ summit sitting,
      Aid me, Clio, while I sing.


   Softly slept the dome of Drury
      O’er the empyreal crest,
   When Alecto’s sister-fury
      Softly slumb’ring sunk to rest.


   Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,
      Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,
   Cytherea yielding tamely
      To the Cyclops dark and dire.


   Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,
      Dulcet joys and sports of youth,
   Soon must yield to haughty sadness;
      Mercy holds the veil to Truth.


   See Erostratus the second
      Fires again Diana’s fane;
   By the Fates from Orcus beckon’d,
      Clouds envelope Drury Lane.


   Lurid smoke and frank suspicion
      Hand in hand reluctant dance:
   While the God fulfils his mission,
      Chivalry, resign thy lance.


   Hark! the engines blandly thunder,
      Fleecy clouds dishevell’d lie,
   And the firemen, mute with wonder,
      On the son of Saturn cry.


   See the bird of Ammon sailing,
      Perches on the engine’s peak,
   And, the Eagle firemen hailing,
      Soothes them with its bickering beak.


   Juno saw, and mad with malice,
      Lost the prize that Paris gave:
   Jealousy’s ensanguined chalice
      Mantling pours the orient wave.


   Pan beheld Patroclus dying,
      Nox to Niobe was turn’d;
   From Busiris Bacchus flying,
      Saw his Semele inurn’d.


   Thus fell Drury’s lofty glory,
      Levell’d with the shuddering stones;
   Mars, with tresses black and gory,
      Drinks the dew of pearly groans.


   Hark! what soft Eolian numbers
      Gem the blushes of the morn!
   Break, Amphion, break your slumbers,
      Nature’s ringlets deck the thorn.


   Ha! I hear the strain erratic
      Dimly glance from pole to pole;
   Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic
      Fire my everlasting soul.


   Where is Cupid’s crimson motion?
      Billowy ecstasy of woe,
   Bear me straight, meandering ocean,
      Where the stagnant torrents flow.


   Blood in every vein is gushing,
      Vixen vengeance lulls my heart:
   See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!
      Never, never let us part!


                              BY W. S. {42}

                           [SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

     [Sir Walter Scott died 21st September, 1832, in his 62nd year.]

                                * * * * *

[_To be spoken by Mr. Kemble_, _in a suit of the Black Prince’s armour_,
_borrowed from the Tower_.]

   SURVEY this shield, all bossy bright—
   These cuisses twain behold!
   Look on my form in armour dight
   Of steel inlaid with gold;
   My knees are stiff in iron buckles,
   Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.
   These once belong’d to sable prince,
   Who never did in battle wince;
   With valour tart as pungent quince,
      He slew the vaunting Gaul.
   Rest there awhile, my bearded lance,
   While from green curtain I advance
   To yon foot-lights—no trivial dance, {43a}
   And tell the town what sad mischance
      Did Drury Lane befall.

                                 THE NIGHT.

   On fair Augusta’s {43b} towers and trees
   Flitted the silent midnight breeze,
   Curling the foliage as it pass’d,
   Which from the moon-tipp’d plumage cast
   A spangled light, like dancing spray,
   Then re-assumed its still array;
   When, as night’s lamp unclouded hung,
   And down its full effulgence flung,
   It shed such soft and balmy power
   That cot and castle, hall and bower,
   And spire and dome, and turret height,
   Appeared to slumber in the light.
   From Henry’s chapel, Rufus’ hall,
   To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul;
   From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,
   To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown,
   No voice was heard, no eye unclosed,
   But all in deepest sleep reposed.
   They might have thought, who gazed around
   Amid a silence so profound,
      It made the senses thrill,
   That ’twas no place inhabited,
   But some vast city of the dead—
      All was so hush’d and still.

                                THE BURNING.

   As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,
   Had slept in everlasting gloom,
   Started with terror and surprise
   When light first flash’d upon her eyes—
   So London’s sons in nightcap woke,
      In bed-gown woke her dames;
   For shouts were heard ’mid fire and smoke,
   And twice ten hundred voices spoke—
      “The playhouse is in flames!”
   And, lo! where Catherine Street extends,
   A fiery tail its lustre lends
      To every window-pane;
   Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
   And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
   And Covent Garden kennels sport
      A bright ensanguined drain;
   Meux’s new brewhouse shows the light,
   Rowland Hill’s Chapel, and the height
      Where Patent Shot they sell;
   The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
   Partakes the ray, with Surgeons’ Hall,
   The Ticket-Porters’ House of Call,
   Old Bedlam, close by London Wall, {45}
   Wright’s shrimp and oyster shop withal,
      And Richardson’s Hotel.
   Nor these alone, but far and wide,
   Across red Thames’s gleaming tide,
   To distant fields the blaze was borne,
   And daisy white and hoary thorn
   In borrow’d lustre seem’d to sham
   The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.
   To those who on the hills around
   Beheld the flames from Drury’s mound,
      As from a lofty altar rise,
   It seem’d that nations did conspire
   To offer to the god of fire
      Some vast, stupendous sacrifice!
   The summon’d firemen woke at call,
   And hied them to their stations all:
   Starting from short and broken snooze,
   Each sought his pond’rous hobnail’d shoes,
   But first his worsted hosen plied,
   Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,
      His nether bulk embraced;
   Then jacket thick, of red or blue,
   Whose massy shoulder gave to view
   The badge of each respective crew,
      In tin or copper traced.
   The engines thunder’d through the street,
   Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
   And torches glared, and clattering feet
      Along the pavement paced.
   And one, the leader of the band,
   From Charing Cross along the Strand,
   Like stag by beagles hunted hard,
   Ran till he stopp’d at Vin’gar Yard. {46a}
   The burning badge his shoulder bore,
   The belt and oil-skin hat he wore,
   The cane he had, his men to bang,
   Show’d foreman of the British gang—
   His name was Higginbottom.  Now
   ’Tis meet that I should tell you how
      The others came in view:
   The Hand-in-Hand the race begun, {46b}
   Then came the Phoenix and the Sun,
   Th’ Exchange, where old insurers run,
      The Eagle, where the new;
   With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole,
   Robins from Hockley in the Hole,
   Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl,
      Crump from St. Giles’s Pound:
   Whitford and Mitford join’d the train,
   Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane,
   And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain
      Before the plug was found.
   Hobson and Jobson did not sleep,
   But ah! no trophy could they reap,
   For both were in the Donjon Keep
      Of Bridewell’s gloomy mound!

   E’en Higginbottom now was posed,
   For sadder scene was ne’er disclosed
   Without, within, in hideous show,
   Devouring flames resistless glow,
   And blazing rafters downward go,
   And never halloo “Heads below!”
      Nor notice give at all.
   The firemen terrified are slow
   To bid the pumping torrent flow,
      For fear the roof should fall.
   Back, Robins, back!  Crump, stand aloof!
   Whitford, keep near the walls!
   Huggins, regard your own behoof,
   For, lo! the blazing rocking roof
   Down, down in thunder falls!
   An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
   And o’er the ruins volumed smoke,
   Rolling around its pitchy shroud,
   Conceal’d them from th’ astonish’d crowd.
   At length the mist awhile was clear’d,
   When lo! amid the wreck uprear’d,
   Gradual a moving head appear’d,
      And Eagle firemen knew
   ’Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,
      The foreman of their crew.
   Loud shouted all in signs of woe,
   “A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!”
      And pour’d the hissing tide:
   Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
   And strove and struggled all in vain,
   For, rallying but to fall again,
      He totter’d, sunk, and died!

   Did none attempt, before he fell,
   To succour one they loved so well?
   Yes, Higginbottom did aspire
   (His fireman’s soul was all on fire)
      His brother chief to save;
   But ah! his reckless generous ire
      Served but to abate his grave!
   ’Mid blazing beams and scalding streams.
   Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
      Where Muggins broke before:
   But sulphry stench and boiling drench
   Destroying sight o’erwhelm’d him quite,
      He sunk to rise no more.
   Still o’er his head, while fate he braved,
   His whizzing water-pipe he waved;
   “Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps,
   You, Clutterbuck, come stir your stumps,
   Why are you in such doleful dumps?
   A fireman, and afraid of bumps!—
   What are they fear’d on? fools! ’od rot ’em!”
   Were the last words of Higginbottom. {48}

                                THE REVIVAL.

   Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom,
   And toil rebuilds what fires consume!
   Eat we and drink we, be our ditty,
   “Joy to the managing committee!”
   Eat we and drink we, join to rum
   Roast beef and pudding of the plum!
   Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come,
   With bread of ginger brown thy thumb,
      For this is Drury’s gay day:
   Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops,
   And buy, to glad thy smiling chops,
   Crisp parliament with lollypops,
      And fingers of the Lady.

   Didst mark, how toil’d the busy train,
   From morn to eve, till Drury Lane
   Leap’d like a roebuck from the plain?
   Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,
      And nimble workmen trod;
   To realise bold Wyatt’s plan
   Rush’d many a howling Irishman;
   Loud clatter’d many a porter-can,
   And many a ragamuffin clan
      With trowel and with hod.

   Drury revives! her rounded pate
   Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate;
   She “wings the midway air” elate,
      As magpie, crow, or chough;
   White paint her modish visage smears,
   Yellow and pointed are her ears,
   No pendent portico appears
   Dangling beneath, for Whitbread’s shears {49}
      Have cut the bauble off.

   Yes, she exalts her stately head;
   And, but that solid bulk outspread
   Opposed you on your onward tread,
   And posts and pillars warranted
   That all was true that Wyatt said,
   You might have deemed her walls so thick
   Were not composed of stone or brick,
   But all a phantom, all a trick,
   Of brain disturb’d and fancy sick,
   So high she soars, so vast, so quick!


[_Ghost of Dr._ JOHNSON _rises from trap-door P. S._, _and Ghost of_
BOSWELL _from trap-door O. P._  _The latter bows respectfully to the
House_, _and obsequiously to the Doctor’s Ghost_, _and retires_.]

                        DOCTOR’S GHOST _loquitur_.

THAT which was organised by the moral ability of one has been executed by
the physical efforts of many, and DRURY LANE THEATRE is now complete.  Of
that part behind the curtain, which has not yet been destined to glow
beneath the brush of the varnisher, or vibrate to the hammer of the
carpenter, little is thought by the public, and little need be said by
the committee.  Truth, however, is not to be sacrificed for the
accommodation of either; and he who should pronounce that our edifice has
received its final embellishment would be disseminating falsehood without
incurring favour, and risking the disgrace of detection without
participating the advantage of success.

Professions lavishly effused and parsimoniously verified are alike
inconsistent with the precepts of innate rectitude and the practice of
external policy: let it not then be conjectured that because we are
unassuming, we are imbecile; that forbearance is any indication of
despondency, or humility of demerit.  He that is the most assured of
success will make the fewest appeals to favour, and where nothing is
claimed that is undue, nothing that is due will be withheld.  A swelling
opening is too often succeeded by an insignificant conclusion.
Parturient mountains have now produced muscipular abortions; and the
auditor who compares incipient grandeur with final vulgarity is reminded
of the pious hawkers of Constantinople, who solemnly perambulate her
streets, exclaiming, “In the name of the Prophet—figs!”

Of many who think themselves wise, and of some who are thought wise by
others, the exertions are directed to the revival of mouldering and
obscure dramas; to endeavours to exalt that which is now rare only
because it was always worthless, and whose deterioration, while it
condemned it to living obscurity, by a strange obliquity of moral
perception constitutes its title to posthumous renown.  To embody the
flying colours of folly, to arrest evanescence, to give to bubbles the
globular consistency as well as form, to exhibit on the stage the piebald
denizen of the stable, and the half-reasoning parent of combs, to display
the brisk locomotion of Columbine, or the tortuous attitudinizing of
Punch;—these are the occupations of others, whose ambition, limited to
the applause of unintellectual fatuity, is too innocuous for the
application of satire, and too humble for the incitement of jealousy.

Our refectory will be found to contain every species of fruit, from the
cooling nectarine and luscious peach to the puny pippin and the noxious
nut.  There Indolence may repose, and Inebriety revel; and the spruce
apprentice, rushing in at second account, may there chatter with
impunity; debarred, by a barrier of brick and mortar, from marring that
scenic interest in others, which nature and education have disqualified
him from comprehending himself.

Permanent stage-doors we have none.  That which is permanent cannot be
removed, for, if removed, it soon ceases to be permanent.  What
stationary absurdity can vie with that ligneous barricado, which,
decorated with frappant and tintinnabulant appendages, now serves as the
entrance of the lowly cottage, and now as the exit of a lady’s
bed-chamber; at one time insinuating plastic Harlequin into a butcher’s
shop, and, at another, yawning, as a flood-gate, to precipitate the
Cyprians of St. Giles’s into the embraces of Macheath?  To elude this
glaring absurdity, to give to each respective mansion the door which the
carpenter would doubtless have given, we vary our portal with the varying
scene, passing from deal to mahogany, and from mahogany to oak, as the
opposite claims of cottage, palace, or castle may appear to require.

Amid the general hum of gratulation which flatters us in front, it is fit
that some regard should be paid to the murmurs of despondence that assail
us in the rear.  They, as I have elsewhere expressed it, “who live to
please,” should not have their own pleasures entirely overlooked.  The
children of Thespis are general in their censures of the architect, its
having placed the locality of exit at such a distance from the oily
irradiators which now dazzle the eyes of him who addresses you.  I am,
cries the Queen of Terrors, robbed of my fair proportions.  When the
king-killing Thane hints to the breathless auditory the murders he means
to perpetrate, in the castle of Macduff, “ere his purpose cool;” so vast
is the interval he has to travel before he can escape from the stage,
that his purpose has even time to freeze.  Your condition, cries the Muse
of Smiles, is hard, but it is cygnet’s down in comparison with mine.  The
peerless peer of capers and congees {54a} has laid it down as a rule,
that the best good thing uttered by the morning visitor should conduct
him rapidly to the doorway, last impressions vying in durability with
first.  But when, on this boarded elongation, it falls to my lot to say a
good thing, to ejaculate “keep moving,” or to chant “_hic hoc horum
genitivo_,” many are the moments that must elapse ere I can hide myself
from public vision in the recesses of O. P. or P. S.

To objections like these, captiously urged and querulously maintained, it
is time that equity should conclusively reply.  Deviation from scenic
propriety has only to vituperate itself for the consequences it
generates.  Let the actor consider the line of exit as that line beyond
which he should not soar in quest of spurious applause: let him reflect,
that in proportion as he advances to the lamps, he recedes from nature;
that the truncheon of Hotspur acquires no additional charm from
encountering the cheek of beauty in the stage-box; and that the bravura
of Mandane may produce effect, although the throat of her who warbles it
should not overhang the orchestra.  The Jove of the modern critical
Olympus, Lord Mayor of the theatric sky, {54b} has, _ex cathedrâ_,
asserted that a natural actor looks upon the audience part of the theatre
as the third side of the chamber he inhabits.  Surely, of the third wall
thus fancifully erected, our actors should, by ridicule or reason, be
withheld from knocking their heads against the stucco.

Time forcibly reminds me that all things which have a limit must be
brought to a conclusion.  Let me, ere that conclusion arrives, recall to
your recollection, that the pillars which rise on either side of me,
blooming in virid antiquity, like two massy evergreens, had yet slumbered
in their native quarry but for the ardent exertions of the individual who
called them into life: to his never-slumbering talents you are indebted
for whatever pleasure this haunt of the Muses is calculated to afford.
If, in defiance of chaotic malevolence, the destroyer of the temple of
Diana yet survives in the name of Erostratus, surely we may confidently
predict that the rebuilder of the temple of Apollo will stand recorded to
distant posterity in that of—SAMUEL WHITBREAD.


                            BY THE HON. W. S.


          [Mr. Spencer died at Paris in October, 1834, aged 65.]

                                * * * * *

    Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas.—VIRGIL.

                                * * * * *

         _Scene draws_, _and discovers a Lady asleep on a couch_.

                            _Enter_ PHILANDER.



   SOBRIETY, cease to be sober, {56b}
      Cease, Labour, to dig and to delve;
   All hail to this tenth of October,
      One thousand eight hundred and twelve! {57}
   Ha! whom do my peepers remark?
      ’Tis Hebe with Jupiter’s jug;
   O no, ’tis the pride of the Park,
      Fair Lady Elizabeth Mugg.


   Why, beautiful nymph, do you close
      The curtain that fringes your eye?
   Why veil in the clouds of repose
      The sun that should brighten our sky?
   Perhaps jealous Venus has oiled
      Your hair with some opiate drug,
   Not choosing her charms should be foiled
      By Lady Elizabeth Mugg.


   But ah! why awaken the blaze
      Those bright burning-glasses contain,
   Whose lens with concentrated rays
      Proved fatal to old Drury Lane?
   ’Twas all accidental, they cry,—
      Away with the flimsy humbug!
   ’Twas fired by a flash from the eye
      Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg.


   Thy glance can in us raise a flame,
      Then why should old Drury be free?
   Our doom and its doom are the same,
      Both subject to beauty’s decree.
   No candles the workmen consumed
      When deep in the ruins they dug;
   Thy flash still their progress illumed,
      Sweet Lady Elizabeth Mugg.


   Thy face a rich fire-place displays:
      The mantel-piece marble—thy brows;
   Thine eyes are the bright beaming blaze;
      Thy bib, which no trespass allows,
   The fender’s tall barrier marks;
      Thy tippet’s the fire-quelling rug,
   Which serves to extinguish the sparks
      Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg.


   The Countess a lily appears,
      Whose tresses the pearl-drops emboss;
   The Marchioness, blooming in years,
      A rose-bud enveloped in moss;
   But thou art the sweet passion-flower,
      For who would not slavery hug,
   To pass but one exquisite hour
      In the arms of Elizabeth Mugg?


   When at Court, or some Dowager’s rout,
      Her diamond aigrette meets our view,
   She looks like a glow-worm dressed out,
      Or tulips bespangled with dew.
   Her two lips denied to man’s suit
      Are shared with her favourite Pug;
   What lord would not change with the brute,
      To live with Elizabeth Mugg?


   Could the stage be a large vis-à-vis,
      Reserved for the polished and great,
   Where each happy lover might see
      The nymph he adores tête-à-tête;
   No longer I’d gaze on the ground,
      And the load of despondency lug,
   For I’d book myself all the year round
      To ride with the sweet Lady Mugg.


   Yes, she in herself is a host,
      And if she were here all alone,
   Our house might nocturnally boast
      A bumper of fashion and ton.
   Again should it burst in a blaze,
      In vain would they ply Congreve’s plug, {59}
   For nought could extinguish the rays
      From the glance of divine Lady Mugg.


   O could I as Harlequin frisk,
      And thou be my Columbine fair,
   My wand should with one magic whisk
      Transport us to Hanover Square:
   St. George’s should lend us its shrine,
      The parson his shoulders might shrug,
   But a licence should force him to join
      My hand in the hand of my Mugg.


   Court-plaster the weapons should tip,
      By Cupid shot down from above,
   Which, cut into spots for thy lip,
      Should still barb the arrows of love.
   The God who from others flies quick,
      With us should be slow as a slug;
   As close as a leech he should stick
      To me and Elizabeth Mugg.


   For Time would, with us, ’stead of sand,
      Put filings of steel in his glass,
   To dry up the blots of his hand,
      And spangle life’s page as they pass.
   Since all flesh is grass ere ’tis hay, {60}
      O may I in clover live snug,
   And when old Time mows me away,
      Be stacked with defunct Lady Mugg!


                             BY M. G. L. {61}

                         [MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS.]

            [Mr. Lewis died 14th May, 1818, in his 43rd year.]

                                * * * * *

    Omnia transformat sese in miracula rerum.—VIRGIL.

   MY palate is parched with Pierian thirst,
      Away to Parnassus I’m beckoned;
   List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehearsed,
   I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first,
      And the birth of Miss Drury the second.

   The Fire King, one day, rather amorous felt;
      He mounted his hot copper filly;
   His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt
   Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt
      With the heat of the copper colt’s belly.

   Sure never was skin half so scalding as his!
      When an infant ’twas equally horrid;
   For the water, when he was baptized, gave a fizz,
   And bubbled and simmer’d and started off, whizz!
      As soon as it sprinkled his forehead.

   O! then there was glitter and fire in each eye,
      For two living coals were the symbols;
   His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry,
   It rattled against them, as though you should try
      To play the piano in thimbles.

   From his nostrils a lava sulphureous flows,
      Which scorches wherever it lingers;
   A snivelling fellow he’s call’d by his foes,
   For he can’t raise his paw up to blow his red nose
      For fear it should blister his fingers.

   His wig is of flames curling over his head,
      Well powder’d with white smoking ashes;
   He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead,
   Cream of tartar, and dines on hot spice gingerbread,
      Which black from the oven he gnashes.

   Each fire-nymph his kiss from her countenance shields,
      ’Twould soon set her cheekbone a frying;
   He spit in the Tenter-Ground near Spital-fields,
   And the hole that it burnt, and the chalk that it yields
      Make a capital lime-kiln for drying.

   When he open’d his mouth, out there issued a blast,
      (Nota bene, I do not mean swearing,)
   But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast,
   I’ve heard it from those who have seen it, surpass’d
      A shot manufactory flaring.

   He blazed, and he blazed, as be gallop’d to snatch
      His bride, little dreaming of danger;
   His whip was a torch, and his spur was a match,
   And over the horse’s left eye was a patch,
      To keep it from burning the manger.

   And who is the housemaid he means to enthral
      In his cinder-producing alliance?
   Tis Drury-Lane Playhouse, so wide and so tall,
   Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall,
      If she cannot set sparks at defiance.

   On his warming-pan kneepan he clattering roll’d,
      And the housemaid his hand would have taken,
   But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold,
   And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold
      All melted, like butter or bacon!

   Oh! then she look’d sour, and indeed well she might,
      For Vinegar Yard was before her;
   But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight,
   Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas light,
      To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her.

   Look! look! ’tis the Ale King, so stately and starch,
      Whose votaries scorn to be sober;
   He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch;
   Brown-stout is his doublet, he hops in his march,
      And froths at the mouth in October.

   His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung;
      He taps where the housemaid no more is,
   When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung
   A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young,
      And sported _in loco sororis_.

   Back, lurid in air, for a second regale,
      The Cinder King, hot with desire,
   To Brydges Street hied; but the Monarch of Ale,
   With uplifted spigot and faucet, and pail,
      Thus chided the Monarch of Fire:

   “Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew;
      I rule the roast here, dash the wig o’ me!
   If, spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you
   Come here with your tinderbox, courting the New
      I’ll have you indicted for bigamy!”


                             BY S. T. C. {65}

                        [SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.]

         [Mr. Coleridge died 25th July, 1814, in his 62nd year.]

                                * * * * *

    Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim
    Credebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquam
    Decurrens alio, neque si bene.


   MY pensive Public, wherefore look you sad?
   I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey
   To carry to the mart her crockery ware,
   And when that donkey look’d me in the face,
   His face was sad! and you are sad, my Public!

      Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October
   Again assembles us in Drury Lane.
   Long wept my eye to see the timber planks
   That hid our ruins; many a day I cried,
   Ah me!  I fear they never will rebuild it!
   Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve,
   As along Charles Street I prepared to walk,
   Just at the corner, by the pastrycook’s,
   I heard a trowel tick against a brick.
   I look’d me up, and straight a parapet
   Uprose at least seven inches o’er the planks.
   Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said:
   He of Blackfriars’ Road, {66} who hymned thy downfall
   In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied
   That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma,
   Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee,
   Has proved a lying prophet.  From that hour,
   As leisure offer’d, close to Mr. Spring’s
   Box-office door, I’ve stood and eyed the builders.
   They had a plan to render less their labours;
   Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder
   With hodded heads, but these stretch’d forth a pole
   From the wall’s pinnacle, they plac’d a pulley
   Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley;
   To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks
   Thus freighted, swung securely to the top,
   And in the empty basket workmen twain
   Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.

      Oh! ’twas a goodly sound, to hear the people
   Who watch’d the work, express their various thoughts!
   While some believed it never would be finish’d,
   Some, on the contrary, believed it would.

      I’ve heard our front that faces Drury Lane
   Much criticised; they say ’tis vulgar brick-work,
   A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth.
   One of the morning papers wish’d that front
   Cemented like the front in Brydges Street;
   As it now looks, they call it Wyatt’s Mermaid,
   A handsome woman with a fish’s tail.

      White is the steeple of St. Bride’s in Fleet Street;
   The Albion (as its name denotes) is white;
   Morgan and Saunders’ shop for chairs and tables
   Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun;
   White is Whitehall.  But not St. Bride’s in Fleet Street,
   The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders,
   Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury’s face.

      Oh, Mr. Whitbread! {67} fie upon you, sir!
   I think you should have built a colonnade;
   When tender Beauty, looking for her coach,
   Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower
   And draws the tippet closer round her throat,
   Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off,
   And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud
   Soaks through her pale kid slipper.  On the morrow
   She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa
   Cries, “There you go! this comes of playhouses!”
   To build no portico is penny wise:
   Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish!

      Hail to thee, Drury!  Queen of Theatres!
   What is the Regency in Tottenham Street,
   The Royal Amphitheatre of Arts,
   Astley’s, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil,
   Compared with thee?  Yet when I view thee push’d
   Back from the narrow street that christened thee,
   I know not why they call thee Drury Lane.

      Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions,
   It grieves me much to see live animals
   Brought on the stage.  Grimaldi has his rabbit,
   Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig;
   Fie on such tricks!  Johnson, the machinist
   Of former Drury, imitated life
   Quite to the life.  The Elephant its Blue Beard,
   Stuff’d by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis,
   As spruce as he who roar’d in Padmanaba. {68}
   Nought born on earth should die.  On hackney stands
   I reverence the coachman who cries “Gee,”
   And spares the lash.  When I behold a spider
   Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm,
   Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife
   Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton,
   Indeed, indeed, I’m very, very sick!

[Exit hastily.


                         A New Halfpenny Ballad.

                         BY A PIC-NIC POET. {69}

                                * * * * *

    This is the very age of promise: To promise is most courtly and
    fashionable.  Performance is a kind of will or testament, which
    argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it.—TIMON OF

  [_To be sung by_ MR. JOHNSON _in the character of_ LOONEY M’TWOLTER.]


   Mr. Jack, your address, says the Prompter to me,
   So I gave him my card—No, that a’nt it, says he;
   ’Tis your public address.  Oh! says I, never fear,
   If address you are bother’d for, only look here.

                                                [_Puts on hat affectedly_.
                                                       Tol de rol lol, &c.


   With Drurys for sartin we’ll never have done,
   We’ve built up another, and yet there’s but one;
   The old one was best, yet I’d say, if I durst,
   The new one is better—the last is the first.

                                                           Tol de rol, &c.


   These pillars are call’d by a Frenchified word,
   A something that’s jumbled of antique and verd;
   The boxes may show us some verdant antiques,
   Some old harridans who beplaster their cheeks.

                                                           Tol de rol, &c.


   Only look how high Tragedy, Comedy, stick,
   Lest their rivals, the horses, should give them a kick!
   If you will not descend when our authors beseech ye,
   You’ll stop there for life, for I’m sure they can’t reach ye.

                                                           Tol de rol, &c.


   Each one shilling god within reach of a nod is,
   And plain are the charms of each gallery goddess—
   You, Brandy-fac’d Moll, don’t be looking askew,
   When I talk’d of a goddess I didn’t mean you.

                                                           Tol de rol, &c.


   Our stage is so prettily fashion’d for viewing,
   The whole house can see what the whole house is doing:
   ’Tis just like the Hustings, we kick up a bother;
   But saying is one thing, and doing’s another.

                                                           Tol de rol, &c.


   We’ve many new houses, and some of them rum ones,
   But the newest of all is the new House of Commons;
   ’Tis a rickety sort of a bantling, I’m told,
   It will die of old age when it’s seven years old.

                                                           Tol de rol, &c.


   As I don’t know on whom the election will fall,
   I move in return for returning them all;
   But for fear Mr. Speaker my meaning should miss,
   The house that I wish ’em to sit in is this.

                                                           Tol de rol, &c.


   Let us cheer our great Commoner, but for whose aid
   We all should have gone with short commons to bed;
   And since he has saved all the fat from the fire,
   I move that the house be call’d Whitbread’s Entire. {71}

                                                           Tol de rol, &c.


                        TRANSLATED BY DR. B. {72}

                      [DR. THOMAS BUSBY, MUS. DOC.]

                                * * * * *

    Lege, Dick, Lege!—JOSEPH ANDREWS.

                                * * * * *

                 _To be recited by the Translator’s Son_.

   AWAY, fond dupes! who, smit with sacred lore,
   Mosaic dreams in Genesis explore,
   Doat with Copernicus, or darkling stray
   With Newton, Ptolemy, or Tycho Brahe!
   To you I sing not, for I sing of truth,
   Primeval systems, and creation’s youth;
   Such as of old, with magic wisdom fraught,
   Inspired LUCRETIUS to the Latians taught.

      I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb,
   Encounter’d casual cow-hair, casual lime;
   How rafters, borne through wondering clouds elate,
   Kiss’d in their slope blue elemental slate,
   Clasp’d solid beams in chance-directed fury,
   And gave to birth our renovated Drury.

      Thee, son of Jove! whose sceptre was confess’d,
   Where fair Æolia springs from Tethys’ breast;
   Thence on Olympus, ’mid celestials placed,
   GOD OF THE WINDS, and Ether’s boundless waste—
   Thee I invoke!  Oh _puff_ my bold design,
   Prompt the bright thought, and swell th’ harmonious line
   Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspire
   With Winsor’s {74} patent gas, or wind of fire,
   In whose pure blaze thy embryo form enroll’d,
   The dark enlightens, and enchafes the cold.

      But, while I court thy gifts, be mine to shun
   The deprecated prize Ulysses won;
   Who, sailing homeward from thy breezy shore,
   The prison’d winds in skins of parchment bore.
   Speeds the fleet bark till o’er the billowy green
   The azure heights of Ithaca are seen;
   But while with favouring gales her way she wins,
   His curious comrades ope the mystic skins;
   When, lo! the rescued winds, with boisterous sweep,
   Roar to the clouds and lash the rocking deep;
   Heaves the smote vessel in the howling blast,
   Splits the stretch’d sail, and cracks the tottering mast.
   Launch’d on a plank, the buoyant hero rides
   Where ebon Afric stems the sable tides,
   While his duck’d comrades o’er the ocean fly,
   And sleep not in the whole skins they untie.

      So, when to raise the wind some lawyer tries,
   Mysterious skins of parchment meet our eyes;
   On speeds the smiling suit—“Pleas of our Lord
   The King” shine sable on the wide record;
   Nods the prunella’d bar, attorneys smile,
   And syren jurors flatter to beguile;
   Till stript—nonsuited—he is doom’d to toss
   In legal shipwreck and redeemless loss!
   Lucky if, like Ulysses, he can keep
   His head above the waters of the deep.

      Æolian monarch!  Emperor of Puffs!
   We modern sailors dread not thy rebuffs;
   See to thy golden shore promiscuous come
   Quacks for the lame, the blind, the deaf, the dumb;
   Fools are their bankers—a prolific line,
   And every mortal malady’s a mine.
   Each sly Sangrado, with his poisonous pill,
   Flies to the printer’s devil with his bill,
   Whose Midas touch can gild his ass’s ears,
   And load a knave with folly’s rich arrears.
   And lo! a second miracle is thine,
   For sloe-juice water stands transformed to wine.
   Where Day and Martin’s patent blacking roll’d,
   Burst from the vase Pactolian streams of gold;
   Laugh the sly wizards, glorying in their stealth,
   Quit the black art, and loll in lazy wealth.
   See Britain’s Algerines, the lottery fry,
   Win annual tribute by the annual lie!
   Aided by thee—but whither do I stray?—
   Court, city, borough, own thy sovereign sway;
   An age of puffs an age of gold succeeds,
   And windy bubbles are the spawn it breeds.

      If such thy power, O hear the Muse’s prayer!
   Swell thy loud lungs and wave thy wings of air;
   Spread, viewless giant, all thy arms of mist
   Like windmill-sails to bring the poet grist;
   As erst thy roaring son, with eddying gale,
   Whirl’d Orithyia from her native vale—
   So, while Lucretian wonders I rehearse,
   Augusta’s sons shall patronise my verse.

      I sing of ATOMS, whose creative brain,
   With eddying impulse, built new Drury Lane;
   Not to the labours of subservient man,
   To no young Wyatt appertains the plan—
   We mortals stalk, like horses in a mill,
   Impassive media of atomic will;
   Ye stare! then Truth’s broad talisman discern—
   ’Tis demonstration speaks—attend, and learn!

      From floating elements in chaos hurl’d,
   Self-form’d of atoms, sprang the infant world:
   No great _First Cause_ inspired the happy plot,
   But all was matter—and no matter what.
   Atoms, attracted by some law occult,
   Settling in spheres, the globe was the result;
   Pure child of _Chance_, which still directs the ball,
   As rotatory atoms rise or fall.
   In ether launch’d, the peopled bubble floats,
   A mass of particles and confluent motes,
   So nicely poised, that if one atom flings
   Its weight away, aloft the planet springs,
   And wings its course through realms of boundless space.
   Outstripping comets in eccentric race
   Add but one atom more, it sinks outright
   Down to the realms of Tartarus and night.
   What waters melt or scorching fires consume,
   In different forms their being re-assume:
   Hence can no change arise, except in name,
   For weight and substance ever are the same.

      Thus with the flames that from old Drury rise
   Its elements primeval sought the skies;
   There pendulous to wait the happy hour
   When new attractions should restore their power:
   So, in this procreant theatre elate,
   Echoes unborn their future life await;
   Here embryo sounds in ether lie conceal’d,
   Like words in northern atmosphere congeal’d.
   Here many a foetus laugh and half encore
   Clings to the roof, or creeps along the floor;
   By puffs concipient some in ether flit,
   And soar in bravos from the thundering pit;
   Some forth on ticket-nights {77} from tradesmen break,
   To mar the actor they design to make;
   While some this mortal life abortive miss,
   Crush’d by a groan, or strangled by a hiss.
   So, when “Dog’s-meat” re-echoes through the streets,
   Rush sympathetic dogs from their retreats,
   Beam with bright blaze their supplicating eyes,
   Sink their hind-legs, ascend their joyful cries;
   Each, wild with hope, and maddening to prevail,
   Points the pleased ear, and wags the expectant tail.

      Ye fallen bricks! in Drury’s fire calcined,
   Since doom’d to slumber, couch’d upon the wind,
   Sweet was the hour, when, tempted by your freaks,
   Congenial trowels smooth’d your yellow cheeks.
   Float dulcet serenades upon the ear,
   Bends every atom from its ruddy sphere,
   Twinkles each eye, and, peeping from its veil,
   Marks in the adverse crowd its destined male.
   The oblong beauties clap their hands of grit,
   And brick-dust titterings on the breezes flit;
   Then down they rush in amatory race,
   Their dusty bridegrooms eager to embrace.
   Some choose old lovers, some decide for new,
   But each, when fix’d, is to her station true.
   Thus various bricks are made, as tastes invite—
   The red, the grey, the dingy, or the white.

      Perhaps some half-baked rover, frank and free,
   To alien beauty bends the lawless knee,
   But of unhallow’d fascinations sick,
   Soon quite his Cyprian for his married brick;
   The Dido atom calls and scolds in vain,
   No crisp Æneas soothes the widow’s pain.

      So in Cheapside, what time Aurora peeps,
   A mingled noise of dustmen, milk, and sweeps
   Falls on the housemaid’s ear: amazed she stands,
   Then opes the door with cinder-sabled hands,
   And “Matches” calls.  The dustman, bubbled flat,
   Thinks ’tis for him and doffs his fan-tail’d hat;
   The milkman, whom her second cries assail,
   With sudden sink unyokes the clinking pail;
   Now louder grown, by turns she screams and weeps—
   Alas! her screaming only brings the sweeps.
   Sweeps but put out—she wants to raise a flame,
   And calls for matches, but ’tis still the same.
   Atoms and housemaids! mark the moral true—
   If once ye go astray, no _match_ for you!

      As atoms in one mass united mix,
   So bricks attraction feel for kindred bricks;
   Some in the cellar view, perchance, on high,
   Fair chimney chums on beds of mortar lie;
   Enamour’d of the sympathetic clod,
   Leaps the red bridegroom to the labourer’s hod:
   And up the ladder bears the workman, taught
   To think he bears the bricks—mistaken thought!
   A proof behold! if near the top they find
   The nymphs or broken-corner’d or unkind,
   Back to the base, “resulting with a bound,” {79}
   They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground!

      So legends tell along the lofty hill
   Paced the twin heroes, gallant Jack and Jill;
   On trudged the Gemini to reach the rail
   That shields the well’s top from the expectant pail,
   When, ah! Jack falls; and, rolling in the rear,
   Jill feels the attraction of his kindred sphere;
   Head over heels begins his toppling track,
   Throws sympathetic somersets with Jack,
   And at the mountain’s base bobs plump against him, whack!

      Ye living atoms, who unconscious sit,
   Jumbled by chance in gallery, box, and pit,
   For you no Peter opes the fabled door,
   No churlish Charon plies the shadowy oar;
   Breathe but a space, and Boreas’ casual sweep
   Shall bear your scatter’d corses o’er the deep,
   To gorge the greedy elements, and mix
   With water, marl, and clay, and stones, and sticks;
   While, charged with fancied souls, sticks, stones, and clay
   Shall take your seats, and hiss or clap the play.

      O happy age! when convert Christians read
   No sacred writings but the Pagan creed—
   O happy age! when, spurning Newton’s dreams,
   Our poets’ sons recite Lucretian themes,
   Abjure the idle systems of their youth,
   And turn again to atoms and to truth;—
   O happier still! when England’s dauntless dames,
   Awed by no chaste alarms, no latent shames,
   The bard’s fourth book unblushingly peruse,
   And learn the rampant lessons of the stews!

      All hail, Lucretius! renovated sage!
   Unfold the modest mystics of thy page;
   Return no more to thy sepulchral shelf,
   But live, kind bard—that I may live myself!


                     BY THE EDITOR OF THE M. P. {81}

                             [MORNING POST.]

                                * * * * *

    “Bounce, Jupiter, bounce!”—O’HARA.


As it is now the universally-admitted, and indeed
pretty-generally-suspected, aim of Mr. Whitbread and the infamous,
bloodthirsty, and, in fact, illiberal faction to which he belongs, to
burn to the ground this free and happy Protestant city, and establish
himself in St. James’s Palace, his fellow committeemen have thought it
their duty to watch the principles of a theatre built under his auspices.
The information they have received from an undoubted
authority—particularly from an old fruit-woman who has turned king’s
evidence, and whose name, for obvious reasons, we forbear to mention,
though we have had it some weeks in our possession—has induced them to
introduce various reforms—not such reforms as the vile faction clamour
for, meaning thereby revolution, but such reforms as are necessary to
preserve the glorious constitution of the only free, happy, and
prosperous country now left upon the face of the earth.  From the
valuable and authentic source above alluded to, we have learnt that a
sanguinary plot has been formed by some United Irishmen, combined with a
gang of Luddites, and a special committee sent over by the Pope at the
instigation of the beastly Corsican fiend, for destroying all the loyal
part of the audience on the anniversary of that
deeply-to-be-abhorred-and-highly-to-be-blamed stratagem, the Gunpowder
Plot, which falls this year on Thursday the fifth of November.  The whole
is under the direction of a delegated committee of O. P.’s whose
treasonable exploits at Covent Garden you all recollect, and all of whom
would have been hung from the chandeliers at that time, but for the
mistaken lenity of Government.  At a given signal, a well-known O. P. was
to cry out from the gallery, “Nosey!  Music!” whereupon all the O. P.’s
were to produce from their inside pockets a long pair of shears, edged
with felt, to prevent their making any noise, manufactured expressly by a
wretch at Birmingham, one of Mr. Brougham’s evidences, and now in
custody.  With these they were to cut off the heads of all the loyal N.
P.’s in the house, without distinction of sex or age.  At the signal,
similarly given, of “Throw him over!” which it now appears always alluded
to the overthrow of our
constitution, all the heads of the N. P.’s were to be thrown at the
fiddlers, to prevent their appearing in evidence, or perhaps as a false
and illiberal insinuation that they have no heads of their own.  All that
we know of the further designs of these incendiaries is, that they are

The Manager has acted with his usual promptitude on this trying occasion.
He has contracted for 300 tons of gun powder, which are at this moment
placed in a small barrel under the pit; and a descendant of Guy Faux,
assisted by Col. Congreve, has undertaken to blow up the house, when
necessary, in so novel and ingenious a manner, that every O. P. shall be
annihilated, while not a whisker of the N. P.’s shall be singed.  This
strikingly displays the advantages of loyalty and attachment to
government.  Several other hints have been taken from the theatrical
regulations of the
not-a-bit-the-less-on-that-account-to-be-universally-execrated monster
Bonaparte.  A park of artillery, provided with chain-shot, is to be
stationed on the stage, and play upon the audience, in case of any
indication of misplaced applause or popular discontent (which accounts
for the large space between the curtain and the lamps); and the public
will participate our satisfaction in learning that the indecorous custom
of standing up with the hat on is to be abolished, as the Bow-street
officers are provided with daggers, and have orders to stab all such
persons to the heart, and send their bodies to Surgeons’ Hall.  Gentlemen
who cough are only to be slightly wounded.  Fruit-women bawling “Bill of
the Play!” are to be forthwith shot, for which purpose soldiers will be
stationed in the slips, and ball-cartridge is to be served out with the
lemonade.  If any of the spectators happen to sneeze or spit, they are to
be transported for life; and any person who is so tall as to prevent
another seeing, is to be dragged out and sent on board the tender, or, by
an instrument to be taken out of the pocket of Procrustes, to be
forthwith cut shorter, either at the head or foot, according as his own
convenience may dictate.

Thus, ladies and gentlemen, have the committee, through my medium, set
forth the not-in-a-hurry-to-be-paralleled plan they have adopted for
preserving order and decorum within the walls of their magnificent
edifice.  Nor have they, while attentive to their own concerns, by any
means overlooked those of the cities of London and Westminster.  Finding
on enumeration that they have, with a with-two-hands-and-one-tongue-to
be-applauded liberality, contracted for more gunpowder than they want,
they have parted with the surplus to the mattock-carrying and
hustings-hammering high-bailiff of Westminster, who has, with his own
shovel, dug a large hole in the front of the parish-church of St. Paul,
Covent Garden, that, upon the least symptom of ill-breeding in the mob at
the general election, the whole of the market may be blown into the air.
This, ladies and gentlemen, may at first make provisions _rise_, but we
pledge the credit of our theatre that they will soon _fall_ again, and
people be supplied, as usual, with vegetables, in the
with-lamps market of Covent Garden.

I should expatiate more largely on the other advantages of the glorious
constitution of these by-the-whole-of-Europe-envied realms, but I am
called away to take an account of the ladies and other artificial flowers
at a fashionable rout, of which a full and particular account will
hereafter appear.  For the present, my fashionable intelligence is
scanty, on account of the opening of Drury Lane; and the ladies and
gentlemen who honour me will not be surprised to find nothing under my
usual head!!


                          BY THE REV. G. C. {85}

                        [THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE.]

         [Mr. Crabbe died 3rd February, 1832, in his 78th year.]

                                * * * * *

    “Nil intentatum nostri liquêre poetæ,
    Nec minimum meruêre decus, veetigia Græca
    Ausi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta.”



IF the following poem should be fortunate enough to be selected for the
opening address, a few words of explanation may be deemed necessary, on
my part, to avert invidious misrepresentation.  The animadversion I have
thought it right to make on the noise created by tuning the orchestra
will, I hope, give no lasting remorse to any of the gentlemen employed in
the band.  It is to be desired that they would keep their instruments
ready tuned, and strike off at once.  This would be an accommodation to
many well-meaning persons who frequent the theatre, who, not being blest
with the ear of St. Cecilia, mistake the tuning for the overture, and
think the latter concluded before it is begun.

    —“One fiddle will
    Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still,”

was originally written “one hautboy will;” but, having providentially
been informed, when this poem was on the point of being sent off, that
there is but one hautboy in the band, I averted the storm of popular and
manageria indignation from the head of its blower: as it now stands, “one
fiddle” among many, the faulty individual will, I hope, escape detection.
The story of the flying play-bill is calculated to expose a practice much
too common, of pinning play-bills to the cushions insecurely, and
frequently, I fear, not pinning them at all, if these lines save one
play-bill only front the fate I have recorded, I shall not deem my labour
ill employed.  The concluding episode of Patrick Jennings glances at the
boorish fashion of wearing the hat in the one-shilling gallery.  Had
Jennings thrust his between his feet at the commencement of the play, he
might have leaned forward with impunity, and the catastrophe I relate
would not have occurred.  The line of handkerchiefs formed to enable him
to recover his loss, is purposely so crossed in texture and materials as
to mislead the reader in respect to the real owner of any one of them:
for, in the statistical view of life and manners which I occasionally
present, my clerical profession has taught me how extremely improper it
would be, by any allusion, however slight, to give any uneasiness,
however trivial, to any individual, however foolish or wicked.

                                                                G. C. {88}


Interior of a Theatre described.—Pit gradually fills.—The
Check-taker.—Pit full.—The Orchestra tuned.—One fiddle rather
dilatory.—Is reproved—and repents.—Evolutions of a Playbill.—Its final
Settlement on the Spikes.—The Gods taken to task—and why.—Motley Group of
Play-goers.—Holywell Street, St. Pancras.—Emanuel Jennings binds his Son
apprentice—not in London—and why.—Episode of the Hat.

   ’Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,
   Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,
   Touch’d by the lamplighter’s Promethean art,
   Start into light, and make the lighter start;
   To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane
   Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane;
   While gradual parties fill our widen’d pit,
   And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.

      At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease,
   Distant or near, they settle where they please;
   But when the multitude contracts the span,
   And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

      Now the full benches to late-comers doom
   No room for standing, miscall’d _standing-room_.

      Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,
   And bawling “Pit full!” gives the check he takes;
   Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram,
   Contending crowders shout rise frequent damn,
   And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam.

      See to their desks Apollo’s sons repair—
   Swift rides the rosin o’er the horse’s hair
   In unison their various tones to tune,
   Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon;
   In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute,
   Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute,
   Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,
   Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling harp;
   Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in,
   Attunes to order the chaotic din.
   Now all seems hush’d—but no, one fiddle will
   Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still.
   Foil’d in his crash, the leader of the clan
   Reproves with frowns the dilatory man:
   Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow,
   Nods a new signal, and away they go.

      Perchance, while pit and gallery cry “Hats off!”
   And awed Consumption checks his chided cough,
   Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love
   Drops, reft of pin, her play-bill from above;
   Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,
   Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;
   But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,
   And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;
   Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,
   It settles, curling, on a fiddler’s curl,
   Who from his powder’d pate the intruder strikes,
   And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

      Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues?
   Who’s that calls “Silence!” with such leathern lungs?
   He who, in quest of quiet, “Silence!” hoots,
   Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

      What various swains our motley walls contain!—
   Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane;
   Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,
   Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;
   From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,
   Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;
   The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark,
   The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;
   Boys who long linger at the gallery-door,
   With pence twice five—they want but twopence more,
   Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,
   And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.

      Critics we boast who ne’er their malice balk,
   But talk their minds—we wish they’d mind their talk;
   Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live—
   Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;
   Jews from St. Mary Axe, {91} for jobs so wary,
   That for old clothes they’d even axe St. Mary;
   And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,
   Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait;
   Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse
   With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

      Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow,
   Where scowling Fortune seem’d to threaten woe.

      John Richard William Alexander Dwyer
   Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire;
   But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues,
   Emanuel Jennings polish’d Stubbs’s shoes.
   Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy
   Up as a corn-cutter—a safe employ;
   In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred
   (At number twenty-seven, it is said),
   Facing the pump, and near the Granby’s Head:
   He would have bound him to some shop in town,
   But with a premium he could not come down.
   Pat was the urchin’s name—a red-hair’d youth,
   Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

      Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe,
   The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.

      Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat,
   But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat
   Down from the gallery the beaver flew,
   And spurn’d the one to settle in the two.
   How shall he act?  Pay at the gallery-door
   Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four?
   Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait,
   And gain his hat again at half-past eight?
   Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,
   John Mullens whispers, “ Take my handkerchief.”
   “Thank you,” cries Pat; “but one won’t make a line.”
   “Take mine,” cried Wilson; and cried Stokes, “Take mine.”
   A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,
   Where Spitalfields with real India vies.
   Like Iris’ bow down darts the painted clue,
   Starr’d, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,
   Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.
   George Green below, with palpitating hand,
   Loops the last ’kerchief to the beaver’s band—
   Uproars the prize!  The youth, with joy unfeign’d,
   Regain’d the felt, and felt what he regain’d;
   While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
   Made a low bow, and touch’d the ransom’d hat.



Happening to be wool-gathering at the foot of Mount Parnassus, I was
suddenly seized with a violent travestie in the head.  The first symptoms
I felt were several triple rhymes floating about my brain, accompanied by
a singing in my throat, which quickly communicated itself to the ears of
everybody about me, and made me a burthen to my friends and a torment to
Doctor Apollo; three of whose favourite servants—that is to say, Macbeth,
his butcher; Mrs. Haller, his cook; and George Barnwell, his
book-keeper—I waylaid in one of my fits of insanity, and mauled after a
very frightful fashion.  In this woeful crisis, I accidentally heard of
your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, which cures every disorder
incident to Grub Street.  I send you inclosed a more detailed specimen of
my case: if you could mould it into the shape of an address, to be said
or sung on the first night of your performance, I have no doubt that I
should feel the immediate effects of your invaluable New Patent Hissing
Pit, of which they tell me one hiss is a dose.

                                                                I am, &c.,
                                                             MOMUS MEDLAR.

CASE, No. I.

[_Enter_ MACBETH _in a red nightcap_.  PAGE _following with a torch_.]

   GO, boy, and thy good mistress tell
      (She knows that my purpose is cruel),
   I’d thank her to tingle her bell
      As soon as she’s heated my gruel.
   Go, get thee to bed and repose—
      To sit up so late is a scandal;
   But ere you have ta’en off your clothes,
      Be sure that you put out that candle.
         Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.

   My stars, in the air here’s a knife!
      I’m sure it cannot be a hum;
   I’ll catch at the handle, add’s life!
      And then I shall not cut my thumb.
   I’ve got him!—no, at him again!
      Come, come, I’m not fond of these jokes;
   This must be some blade of the brain—
      Those witches are given to hoax.

   I’ve one in my pocket, I know,
      My wife left on purpose behind her;
   She bought this of Teddy-high-ho,
      The poor Caledonian grinder.
   I see thee again! o’er thy middle
      Large drops of red blood now are spill’d,
   Just as much as to say, diddle diddle,
      Good Duncan, pray come and be kill’d.

   It leads to his chamber, I swear;
      I tremble and quake every joint—
   No dog at the scent of a hare
      Ever yet made a cleverer point.
   Ah, no! ’twas a dagger of straw—
      Give me blinkers, to save me from starting;
   The knife that I thought that I saw
      Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin.

   Now o’er this terrestrial hive
      A life paralytic is spread;
   For while the one half is alive,
      The other is sleepy and dead.
   King Duncan, in grand majesty,
      Has got my state-bed for a snooze;
   I’ve lent him my slippers, so I
      May certainly stand in his shoes.

   Blow softly, ye murmuring gales!
      Ye feet, rouse no echo in walking!
   For though a dead man tells no tales,
      Dead walls are much given to talking.
   This knife shall be in at the death—
      I’ll stick him, then off safely get!
   Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth.
      For he’d ne’er stick at anything yet.

   Hark, hark! ’tis the signal, by goles!
      It sounds like a funeral knell;
   O, hear it hot, Duncan! it tolls
      To call thee to heaven or hell.
   Or if you to heaven won’t fly,
      But rather prefer Pluto’s ether,
   Only wait a few years till I die,
      And we’ll go to the devil together.
         Ri fol de rol, &c.


   WHO has e’er been at Drury must needs know the Stranger
   A wailing old Methodist, gloomy and wan,
   A husband suspicious—his wife acted Ranger,
   She took to her heels, and left poor Hypocon.
   Her martial gallant swore that truth was a libel,
   That marriage was thraldom, elopement no sin;
   Quoth she, I remember the words of my Bible—
   My spouse is a Stranger, and I’ll take him in.
      With my sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar ’em,
      And pathos and bathos delightful to see;
      And chop and change ribs, à-la-mode Germanorum,
      And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.

   To keep up her dignity no longer rich enough,
   Where was her plate?—why, ’twas laid on the shelf;
   Her land fuller’s earth, and her great riches kitchen-stuff—
   Dressing the dinner instead of herself.
   No longer permitted in diamonds to sparkle,
   Now plain Mrs. Haller, of servants the dread,
   With a heart full of grief, and a pan full of charcoal,
   She lighted the company up to their bed.

   Incensed at her flight, her poor Hubby in dudgeon
   Roam’d after his rib in a gig and a pout,
   Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeon
   Sat down and blubber’d just like a church-spout.
   One day, on a bench as dejected and sad he laid,
   Hearing a squash, he cried, Damn it, what’s that?
   ’Twas a child of the count’s, in whose service lived Adelaide,
   Soused in the river, and squall’d like a cat.

   Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, it
   Appear’d that himself was all dripping, I swear;
   No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket,
   Exposed as he was to the count’s _son_ and _heir_.
   Dear Sir, quoths the count, in reward of your valour,
   To show that my gratitude is not mere talk,
   You shall eat a beefsteak with my cook, Mrs. Haller,
   Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork.

   Behold, now the count gave the Stranger a dinner,
   With gunpowder-tea, which you know brings a ball,
   And, thin as he was, that he might not glow thinner,
   He made of the Stranger no stranger at all.
   At dinner fair Adelaide brought up a chicken—
   A bird that she never had met with before;
   But, seeing him, scream’d, and was carried off kicking,
   And he bang’d his nob ’gainst the opposite door.

   To finish my tale without roundaboutation,
   Young master and missee besieged their papa;
   They sung a quartetto in grand blubberation—
   The Stranger cried Oh!  Mrs. Haller cried Ah!
   Though pathos and sentiment largely are dealt in,
   I have no good moral to give in exchange;
   For though she, as a cook, might be given to melting,
   The Stranger’s behaviour was certainly strange,
      With this sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar ’em,
      And pathos and bathos delightful to see,
      And chop and change ribs, à-la-mode Germanorum,
      And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.


   George Barnwell stood at the shop-door,
   A customer hoping to find, sir;
   His apron was hanging before,
   But the tail of his coat was behind, sir.
   A lady, so painted and smart,
   Cried, Sir, I’ve exhausted my stock o’ late;
   I’ve got nothing left but a groat—
   Could you give me four penn’orth of chocolate?
         Rum ti, &c.

   Her face was rouged up to the eyes,
   Which made her look prouder and prouder;
   His hair stood on end with surprise,
   And hers with pomatum and powder.
   The business was soon understood;
   The lady, who wish’d to be more rich,
   Cries, Sweet sir, my name is Milwood,
   And I lodge at the Gunner’s in Shoreditch.
         Rum ti, &c.

   Now nightly he stole out, good lack!
   And into her lodging would pop, sir;
   And often forgot to come back,
   Leaving master to shut up the shop, sir.
   Her beauty his wits did bereave—
   Determined to be quite the crack O,
   He lounged at the Adam and Eve,
   And call’d for his gin and tobacco.
         Rum ti, &c.

   And now—for the truth must be told,
   Though none of a ’prentice should speak ill—
   He stole from the till all the gold,
   And ate the lump-sugar and treacle.
   In vain did his master exclaim,
   Dear George, don’t engage with that dragon;
   She’ll lead you to sorrow and shame,
   And leave you the devil a rag on.
         Your rum ti, &c.

   In vain he entreats and implores
   The weak and incurable ninny,
   So kicks him at last out of doors,
   And Georgy soon spends his last guinea.
   His uncle, whose generous purse
   Had often relieved him, as I know,
   Now finding him grow worse and worse,
   Refused to come down with the rhino.
         Rum ti, &c.

   Cried Milwood, whose cruel heart’s core
   Was so flinty that nothing could shock it,
   If ye mean to come here any more,
   Pray come with more cash in your pocket:
   Make Nunky surrender his dibs,
   Rub his pate with a pair of lead towels,
   Or stick a knife into his ribs—
   I’ll warrant he’ll then show some bowels.
         Rum ti, &c.

   A pistol he got from his love—
   ’Twas loaded with powder and bullet;
   He trudged off to Camberwell Grove,
   But wanted the courage to pull it.
   There’s Nunky as fat as a hog,
   While I am as lean as a lizard;
   Here’s at you, you stingy old dog!—
   And he whips a long knife in his gizzard.
         Rum ti, &c.

   All you who attend to my song,
   A terrible end of the farce shall see,
   If you join the inquisitive throng
   That follow’d poor George to the Marshalsea.
   If Milwood were here, dash my wigs,
   Quoth he, I would pummel and lam her well;
   Had I stuck to my prunes and figs,
   I ne’er had stuck Nunky at Camberwell.
         Rum ti, &c.

   Their bodies were never cut down;
   For granny relates with amazement,
   A witch bore ’em over the town,
   And hung them on Thorowgood’s casement,
   The neighbours, I’ve heard the folks say,
   The miracle noisily brag on;
   And the shop is, to this very day,
   The sign of the George and the Dragon,
         Rum ti, &c.


                              BY T. H. {102}

           [Mr. Hook died 24th August, 1841, in his 53rd year.]

                                * * * * *

    “Rhymes the rudders are of verses,
    With which, like ships, they steer their courses.”


                                * * * * *

_Scene draws_, _and discovers_ PUNCH _on a throne_, _surrounded by_ LEAR,
addresses them in the following_


   As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is,
   So I with you am master of the ceremonies—
   These grand rejoicings.  Let me see, how name ye ’em?—
   Oh, in Greek lingo ’tis E-pi-thalamium.
   October’s tenth it is: toss up each hat to-day,
   And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday!

   On this great night ’tis settled by our manager,
   That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a jeer,
   Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillion,
   And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion;
   That every soul, whether or not a cough he has,
   May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus.
   So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini, {103a}
   Spin up a tetotum like Angiolini: {103b}
   That John and Mrs. Bull, from ale and tea-houses,
   May shout huzza for Punch’s Apotheosis!

                          _They dance and sing_.

                   AIR, “_Sure such a day_.”—TOM THUMB.


   Dance, Regan! dance, with Cordelia and Goneril—
   Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross;
   Stop, Cordelia! do not tread upon her heel,
   Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse.
   See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub,
   And t’other’s clack, who pats her back, is louder far than hell’s
   They tweak my nose, and round it goes—I fear they’ll break the ridge
   of it,
   Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of it.


   Round let us bound, for this is Punch’s holyday,
   Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!


   _I_ kill’d the king; my husband is a heavy dunce;
   He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud.
   One loves long gloves; for mittens, like king’s evidence,
   Let truth with the fingers out, and won’t hide blood.


   When spoonys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery,
   To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry;
   With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her,
   Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk’d about by Lucifer.


   Round let us bound, for this is Punch’s holyday,
   Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!


   Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did,
   Spit the feathers from your mouth, and munch roast beef;
   Iago he may go and be toss’d in the coverlet
   That smother’d you, because you pawn’d my handkerchief.


   Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate?
   Milwood shows for hanging us they’ve got an ugly knack o’ late;
   If on beauty ’stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees,
   Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices.


   Round let us bound, for this is Punch’s holyday,
   Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!


   I’m Hamlet in camlet; my ap and peri-helia
   The moon can fix, which lunatics makes sharp or flat.
   I stuck by ill luck, enamour’d of Ophelia,
   Old Polony like a sausage, and exclaim’d, “Rat, rat!”


   Let Gertrude sup the poison’d cup—no more I’ll be an actor in
   Such sorry food, but drink home-brew’d of Whitbread’s manufacturing.


   I’ll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy O;
   But as for tunes, I have but one, and that is Drops of Brandy O.


   Round let us bound, for this is Punch’s holyday,
   Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!


   I’m Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore—
   A hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall.


   And I am the friar, who so corpulent a belly bore.


   And that is why poor skinny I have none at all.


   I’m the resurrection-man, of buried bodies amorous.


   I’m fagg’d to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous;
   For though my paunch is round and stanch, I ne’er begin to feel it ere
   Feel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military.


   Round let us bound, for this is Punch’s holyday,
   Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

                                                        [_Exeunt dancing_.

                                * * * * *

                                 THE END.

                                * * * * *


                                * * * * *


{0a}  See Note at p. xiv.

{0b}  12mo., 1833.  The first published by Mr. Murray.  The “Preface” was
written by Horace Smith; the “Notes” to the Poems by James Smith.

{0c}  Samuel Whitbread, M.P.  He died by his own hand in 1815.

{0d}  This was Horatio, the writer of the present Preface.  The envelope
which enclosed his Address to the Committee was sold with two volumes of
the original Addresses at Mr. Winston’s sale, Dec. 14, 1849, and was
inscribed inside “Horatio Smith, 36, Basinghall Street.”

{0e}  The passage, as originally written, continued thus: “and among
others, so difficult is it to form a correct judgment in catering to the
public taste, by the very bibliopolist who has now, after an interval of
twenty [_only_ seven] years, purchased the copyright from a brother
bookseller, and ventured upon the present edition.”  To this, on the
proof-sheet, the late Mr. Murray appended the following note:—“I never
saw or even had the MS. in my possession; but knowing that Mr. Smith was
brother-in-law to Mr. Cadell, I took it for granted that the MS. had been
previously offered to him and declined.”  Mr. H. Smith consequently drew
his pen through the passage.

{0f}  Between 1807 and 1810.  The _Monthly Mirror_ was edited by Edward
Du Bois, author of “My Pocket-Book,” and by Thomas Hill; the original
Paul Pry; and the Hull of Mr. Theodore Hook’s novel of “Gilbert Gurney.”

{0g}  Miss Lydia White, celebrated for her lively wit and for her
blue-stocking parties, unrivalled, it is said, in “the soft realm of
_blue_ May Fair.”  She died in 1827, and is mentioned in the diaries of
Scott and Byron.

{0h}  See note on “The Beautiful Incendiary,” p. 56.

{1}  “The first piece, under the name of the loyal Mr. Fitzgerald, though
as good we suppose as the original, is not very interesting.  Whether it
be very like Mr. Fitzgerald or not, however, it must be allowed that the
vulgarity, servility, and gross absurdity of the newspaper scribblers is
well rendered.”—JEFFREY, _Edinburgh Review_.

WILLIAM THOMAS FITZGERALD.—The annotator’s first personal knowledge of
this gentleman was at Harry Greville’s Pic-Nic Theatre, in
Tottenham-street, where he personated Zanga in a wig too small for his
head.  The second time of seeing him was at the table of old Lord Dudley,
who familiarly called him Fitz, but forgot to name him in his will.  The
Viscount’s son (recently deceased), however, liberally supplied the
omission by a donation of five thousand pounds.  The third and last time
of encountering him was at an anniversary dinner of the Literary Fund, at
the Freemasons’ Tavern.  Both parties, as two of the stewards, met their
brethren in a small room about half an hour before dinner.  The
lampooner, out of delicacy, kept aloof from the poet.  The latter,
however, made up to him, when the following dialogue took place:

Fitzgerald (with good humour).  “Mr. —, I mean to recite after dinner.”

Mr. —.  “Do you?”

Fitzgerald.  “Yes: you’ll have more of ‘God bless the Regent and the Duke
of York!’”

The whole of this imitation, after a lapse of twenty years, appears to
the Authors too personal and sarcastic; but they may shelter themselves
under a very broad mantle:

       “Let hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
    His creaking couplets in a tavern-hall.”—Byron.

Fitzgerald actually sent in an address to the Committee on the 31st of
August, 1812.  It was published among the other _Genuine Rejected
Addresses_, in one volume, in that year.  The following is an extract:—

    “The troubled shade of Garrick, hovering near,
    Dropt on the burning pile a pitying tear.”

What a pity that, like Sterne’s recording angel, it did not succeed in
blotting the fire out for ever!  That failing, why not adopt Gulliver’s

{2}  Mr. B. Wyatt, architect of Drury Lane Theatre, son of James Wyatt,
architect of the Pantheon.

{3a}  In plain English, the Halfpenny hatch, then a footway through
fields; but now, as the same bards sing elsewhere—

    “St. George’s Fields are fields no more,
       The trowel supersedes the plough;
    Swamps huge and inundate of yore,
       Are changed to civic villas now.”

{3b}  Covent Garden Theatre was burnt down 20th September, 1808; Drury
Lane Theatre (as before stated) 24th February, 1809.

{4a}  The east end of St. James’s Palace was destroyed by fire, 21 Jan.,
1809.  The wardrobe of Lady Charlotte Finch (alluded to in the next line)
was burnt in the fire.

{4b}  Honourable William Wellesley Pole, now (1854) Earl of Mornington,
married, 14th March, 1812, Catherine, daughter and heir of Sir James
Tylney Long, Bart; upon which occasion he assumed the additional names of
Tylney and Long.

{5a}  “The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the
higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry; but has succeeded perfectly
in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and
nursery stammering.  We hope it will make him ashamed of his _Alice
Fell_, and the greater part of his last volumes—of which it is by no
means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering,
imitation.”—JEFFERY, _Edinburgh Review_.

{5b}  Jack and Nancy, as it was afterwards remarked to the Authors, are
here made to come into the world at periods not sufficiently remote.  The
writers were then bachelors.  One of them [James], unfortunately, still
continues so, as he has thus recorded in his niece’s album:

    “Should I seek Hymen’s tie,
    As a poet I die—
    Ye Benedicks, mourn my distresses!
       For what little fame
       Is annexed to my name
       Is derived from _Rejected Addresses_.”

The blunder, notwithstanding, remains unrectified.  The reader of poetry
is always dissatisfied with emendations: they sound discordantly upon the
ear, like a modern song, by Bishop or Braham, introduced in _Love in a

{8}  This alludes to the Young Betty mania.  The writer was in the
stage-box at the height of this young gentleman’s popularity.  One of the
other occupants offered, in a loud voice, to prove that Young Betty did
not understand Shakespeare.  “Silence!” was the cry; but he still
proceeded.  “Turn him out!” was the next ejaculation.  He still
vociferated.  “He does not understand Shakespeare;” and was consequently
shouldered into the lobby.  “I’ll prove it to you,” said the critic to
the doorkeeper.  “Prove what, sir?”  “That he does not understand
Shakespeare.”  This was Molière’s housemaid with a vengeance.

Young Betty may now [1833] be seen walking about town—a portly personage,
aged about forty—clad in a furred and frogged surtout; probably muttering
to himself (as he has been at college), “O mihi præteritos!” &c.  [He is
still alive, 1854.  Master Betty, or the “Young Roscius,” was born in
1791, and made his first appearance on a London stage as Achmet in
“Barbarossa,” at Covent Garden Theatre, on the lst of December, 1804.  He
was, therefore, “not quite thirteen.”  He lasted two seasons.]

{10a}  A “Phoenix” was perhaps excusable.  The first theatre in Drury
Lane was called “The Cock-pit or Phoenix Theatre.”  Whitbread himself
wrote an address, it is said, for the occasion; like the others, it had
of course a Phoenix.  “But Whitbread,” said Sheridan, “made more of the
bird than any of them; he entered into particulars, and described its
wings, beak, tail, &c.; in short, it was a _poulterer’s_ description of a

{10b}  For an account of this anonymous gentleman, see Preface, xiii.

{12a}  “The author has succeeded better in copying the melody and
misanthropic sentiments of _Childe Harold_, than the nervous and
impetuous diction in which his noble biographer has embodied them.  The
attempt, however, indicates very considerable power; and the flow of the
verse and the construction of the poetical period are imitated with no
ordinary skill.”—JEFFREY, _Edinburgh Review_.

{12b}  This would seem to show that poet and prophet are synonymous, the
noble bard having afterwards returned to England, and again quitted it,
under domestic circumstances painfully notorious.  His good-humoured
forgiveness of the Authors has already been alluded to in the Preface.
Nothing of this illustrious poet, however trivial, can be otherwise than
interesting.  “We know him well.”  At Mr. Murray’s dinner-table the
annotator met him and Sir John Malcolm.  Lord Byron talked of intending
to travel in Persia.  “What must I do when I set off?” said he to Sir
John.  “Cut off your buttons!”  “My buttons! what, these metal ones!”
“Yes; the Persians are in the main very honest fellows; but if you go
thus bedizened, you will infallibly be murdered for your buttons!”  At a
dinner at Monk Lewis’s chambers in the Albany, Lord Byron expressed to
the writer his determination not to go there again, adding, “I never will
dine with a middle-aged man who fills up his table with young ensigns,
and has looking-glass panels to his book-cases.”  Lord Byron, when one of
the Drury-lane Committee of Management, challenged the writer to sing
alternately (like the swains in Virgil) the praises of Mrs. Mardyn, the
actress, who, by-the-bye, was hissed off the stage for an imputed
intimacy of which she was quite innocent.

The contest ran as fellows:

   “Wake, muse of fire, your ardent lyre,
      Pour forth your amorous ditty,
   But first profound, in duly bound,
      Applaud the new Committee;
   Their scenic art from Thespis’ cart
      All jaded nags discarding,
   To London drove this queen of love,
      Enchanting Mrs. Mardyn.

   Though tides of love around her rove,
      I fear she’ll choose Pactolus—
   In that bright surge bards ne’er immerge.
      So I must e’en swim solus.
   ‘Out, out, alas!’ ill-fated gas,
      That shin’st round Covent Garden,
   Thy ray how flat, compared with that
      From eye of Mrs. Mardyn!”

And so on.  The reader has, no doubt, already discovered “which is the
justice, and which is the thief.”

Lord Byron at that time wore a very narrow cravat of white sarsnet, with
the shirt-collar falling over it; a black coat and waist-coat, and very
broad white trousers to hide his lame foot—these were of Russia duck in
the morning, and jean in the evening.  His watch-chain had a number of
small gold seals appended to it, and was looped up to a button of his
waistcoat.  His face was void of colour; he wore no whiskers.  His eyes
were grey, fringed with long black lashes; and his air was imposing, but
rather supercilious.  He under-valued David Hume; denying his claim to
genius on account of his bulk, and calling him, from the Heroic Epistle,

    “The fattest hog in Epicurus’ sly.”

One of this extraordinary man’s allegations was, that “fat is an oily
dropsy.”  To stave off its visitation, he frequently chewed tobacco in
lieu of dinner, alleging that it absorbed the gastric juice of the
stomach, and prevented hunger.  “Pass your hand down my side,” said his
Lordship to the writer; “can you count my ribs?”  “Every one of them.”
“I am delighted to hear you say so.  I called last week on Lady —; ‘Ah,
Lord Byron,’ said she, ‘how fat you grow!’  But you know Lady — is fond
of saying spiteful timings!”  Let this gossip be summed up with the words
of Lord Chesterfield, in his character of Bolingbroke: “Upon the whole,
on a survey of this extraordinary character, what can we say, but ‘Alas,
poor human nature!’”

His favourite Pope’s description of man is applicable to Byron

    “Chaos of thought and passion all confused,
    Still by himself abused or disabused;
    Created part to rise and part to fall,
    Great lord of all things, yet a slave to all;
    Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled—
    The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.”

The writer never heard him allude to his deformed foot except upon one
occasion, when, entering the green-room of Drury-lane, he found Lord
Byron alone, the younger Byrne and Miss Smith the dancer having just left
him, after an angry conference about a _pas suel_.  “Had you been here a
minute sooner,” said Lord B., “you would have heard a question about
dancing referred to me:—me! (looking mournfully downward) whom fate from
my birth has prohibited from taking a single step.”

{14}  The first stanza (see Preface) was written by James Smith; the
remainder by Horace.

{15a}  See Note, p. 8.

{15b}  “Holland’s edifice.”  The late theatre was built by Holland the
architect.  The writer visited it on the night of its opening [April 21,
1794].  The performances were _Macbeth_ and the _Virgin Unmasked_.
Between the play and the farce, an excellent epilogue, written by George
Colman, was excellently spoken by Miss Farren.  It referred to the iron
curtain which was, in the event of fire, to be let down between the stage
and the audience, and which accordingly descended, by way of experiment,
leaving Miss Farren between the lamps and the curtain.  The fair speaker
informed the audience, that should the fire break out on the stage (where
it usually originates), it would thus be kept from the spectators;
adding, with great solemnity—

    “No! we assure our generous benefactors
    ’Twill only burn the scenery and the actors!”

A tank of water was afterwards exhibited, in the course of the epilogue,
in which a wherry was rowed by a real live man, the band playing—

    “And did you not hear of a jolly young waterman?”

Miss Farren reciting—

       “Sit still, there’s nothing in it,
    We’ll undertake to drown you in a single minute.”

“O vain thought!” as Othello says.  Notwithstanding the boast in the

    “Blow, wind—come, rack, in ages yet unborn,
    Our castle’s strength shall laugh a siege to scorn”—

the theatre fell a victim to the flames within fifteen years from the
prognostic!  These preparations against fire always presuppose presence
of mind and promptness in those who are to put them into action.  They
remind one of the dialogue, in Morton’s _Speed the Plough_, between Sir
Able Handy and his son Bob:

    “_Bob_.  Zounds, the castle’s on fire!

    _Sir A_.  Yes.

    _Bob_.  Where’s your patent liquid for extinguishing fire?

    _Sir A_.  It is not mixed.

    _Bob_.  Then where’s your patent fire-escape?

    _Sir A_.  It is not fixed.

    _Bob_.  You are never at a loss?

    _Sir A_.  Never.

    _Bob_.  Then what do you mean to do?

    _Sir A_.  I don’t know.”

{17}  A rather obscure mode of expression for _Jews’_-harp; which some
etymologists allege, by the way, to be a corruption of _Jaws’_-harp.  No
connection, therefore, with King David.

{20}  The Weekly Register, which he kept up without the failure of a
single week from its first publication till his death—a period of above
thirty-three years.

{21}  Bagshaw.  At that time the publisher or Cobbett’s Register.

{22}  The old Lyceum Theatre, pulled down by Mr. Arnold.  That since
destroyed by fire [16th Feb., 1830] was erected on its site.  [The Drury
Lane Company performed at the Lyceum till the house was rebuilt.]

{23a}  The present colonnade in Little Russell Street formed no part of
the original design, and was erected only a few years back.

{23b}  An allusion to a murder then recently committed on Barnes Terrace.
[The murder (22nd July, 1812) of the Count and Countess D’Antraigues
(distantly related to the Bourbons), by a servant out of livery of the
name of Laurence—an Italian or Piedmontese, who made away with himself
immediately after.]

{24a}  At that time keeper of Newgate.  The present superintendent (1833)
is styled Governor!

{24b}  A portentous one that made its appearance in the year 1811; in the
midst of the war,

       “with fear of change
    Perplexing nations.”

{25}  “_The Living Lustres_ appears to us a very fair imitation of the
fantastic verses which that ingenious person, Mr. Moore, indites when he
is merely gallant, and, resisting the lures of voluptuousness, is not
enough in earnest to be tender.” —JEFFREY, _Edinburgh Review_.

{26}  This alludes to two massive pillars of verd antique which then
flanked the proscenium, but which have since been removed.  Their colour
reminds the bard of the Emerald Isle, and this causes him (_more suo_) to
fly off at a tangent, and Hibernicise the rest of the poem.

{28a}  “_The Rebuilding_ is in the name of Mr. Southey, and is one of the
best in the collection.  It is in the style of the Kehama of that
multifarious author, and is supposed to be spoken in the character of one
of his Glendoveers.  The imitation of the diction and measure, we think,
is nearly almost perfect; and the descriptions as good as the original.
It opens with an account of the burning of the old theatre, formed upon
the pattern of the Funeral of Arvalan.”—JEFFREY, _Edinburgh Review_.

{28b}  For the Glendoveer, and the rest of the dramatis persona of this
imitation, the reader is referred to the “Curse of Kehama.”

{28c}  “Midnight, and yet no eye
Through all the Imperial City closed in sleep.”


{29a}  This couplet was introduced by the Authors by way of bravado, in
answer to one who alleged that the English language contained no rhyme to

{29b}  Apollo.  A gigantic wooden figure of this deity was erected on the
roof.  The writer (_horrescit referens_!) is old enough to recollect the
time when it was first placed there.  Old Bishop, then one of the masters
of Merchant Tailors’ School, wrote an epigram upon the occasion, which,
referring to the aforesaid figure, concluded thus:

    “Above he fills up Shakespeare’s place.
    And Shakespeare fills up his below.”

Very antithetical; but quære as to the meaning?  The writer, like Pluto,
“long puzzled his brain” to find it out, till he was immersed “in a lower
deep” by hearing Madame de Staël say, at the table of the late Lord
Dillon, “Buonaparte is not a man, but a system.”  Inquiry was made in the
course of the evening of Sir James Mackintosh as to what the lady meant?
He answered, “Mass!  I cannot tell.”  Madame de Staël repeats this
apophthegm in her work on Germany.  It is probably understood _there_.

{31}  O. P.  This personage, who is alleged to have growled like a
bull-dog, requires rather a lengthened note, for the edification of the
rising generation.  The “horns, rattles, drums,” with which he is
accompanied, are no inventions of the poet.  The new Covent Garden
Theatre opened on the 18th Sept., 1809, when a cry of “Old Prices”
(afterwards diminished to O. P.) burst out from every part of the house.
This continued and increased in violence till the 23rd, when rattles,
drums, whistles, and cat-calls having completely drowned the voices of
the actors, Mr. Kemble, the stage-manager, came forward and said that a
committee of gentlemen had undertaken to examine the finances of the
concern, and that until they were prepared with their report the theatre
would continue closed.  “Name them!” was shouted from all sides.  The
names were declared, viz., Sir Charles Price, the Solicitor-General, the
Recorder of London, the Governor of the Bank, and Mr. Angerstein.  “All
shareholders!” bawled a wag from the gallery.  In a few days the theatre
re-opened: the public paid no attention to the report of the referees,
and the tumult was renewed for several weeks with even increased
violence.  The proprietors now sent in hired bruisers, to _mill_ the
refractory into subjection.  This irritated most of their former friends,
and, amongst the root, the annotator, who accordingly wrote the song of
“Heigh-ho, says Kemble,” which was caught up by the ballad-singers, and
sung under Mr. Kemble’s house-windows in Great Russell-street.  A dinner
was given at the Crown and Anchor Tavern in the Strand, to celebrate the
victory obtained by W. Clifford in his action against Brandon the
box-keeper, for assaulting him for wearing the letters O. P. in his hat.
At this dinner Mr. Kemble attended, and matters were compromised by
allowing the advanced price (seven shillings) to the boxes.  The writer
remembers a former riot of a similar sort at the same theatre (in the
year 1792), when the price to the boxes was raised from five shillings to
six.  That tumult, however, only lasted three nights.

{32}  “From the knobb’d bludgeon to the taper switch.”  This image is not
the creation of the poets: it sprang from reality.  The Authors happened
to be at the Royal Circus when “God save the King” was called for,
accompanied by a cry of “Stand up!” and “Hats off!”  An inebriated naval
lieutenant, perceiving a gentleman in an adjoining box slow to obey the
call, struck his hat off with his stick, exclaiming, “Take off your hat,
sir!”  The other thus assaulted proved to be, unluckily for the
lieutenant, Lord Camelford, the celebrated bruiser and duellist.  A
set-to in the lobby was the consequence, where his lordship quickly
proved victorious.  “The devil is not so black as he is painted,” said
one of the Authors to the other; “let us call upon Lord Camelford, and
tell him that we were witnesses of his being first assaulted.”  The visit
was paid on the ensuing morning at Lord Camelford’s lodgings, in
Bond-street.  Over the fire place in the drawing-room were ornaments
strongly expressive of the pugnacity of the peer.  A long thick bludgeon
lay horizontally supported by two brass hooks.  Above this was placed
parallel one of lesser dimensions, until a pyramid of weapons gradually
arose, tapering to a horsewhip:

    “Thus all below was strength, and all above was grace.”

Lord Camelford received his visitants with great civility, and thanked
them warmly for the call; adding, that their evidence would be material,
it being his intention to indict the lieutenant for an assault.  “All I
can say in return is this,” exclaimed the peer with great cordiality, “if
ever I see you engaged in a row, upon my soul I’ll stand by you.”  The
Authors expressed themselves thankful for so potent an ally, and
departed.  In about a fortnight afterwards [March 7, 1804] Lord Camelford
was shot in a duel with Mr. Best.

{34}  Veeshnoo.  The late Mr. Whitbread.

{36}  Levy.  An insolvent Israelite who [18th January, 1810] threw
himself from the top of the Monument a short time before.  An inhabitant
of Monument-yard informed the writer that he happened to be standing at
his door talking to a neighbour, and looking up at the top of the pillar,
exclaimed, “Why, here’s the flag coming down.”  “Flag!” answered the
other, “it’s a man.”  The words were hardly uttered when the suicide fell
within ten feet of the speakers.

{38a}  “‘Drury’s Dirge,’ by Laura Matilda, is not of the first quality.
The verses, to be sure, are very smooth, and very nonsensical—as was
intended; but they are not so good as Swift’s celebrated Song by a Person
of Quality; and are so exactly in the same measure, and on the same plan,
that it is impossible to avoid making the comparison.”—JEFFREY,
_Edinburgh Review_.

{38b}  The Authors, as in gallantry bound, wish this lady to continue

{42}  From the parody of Walter Scott we know not what to select—it is
all good.  The effect of the fire on the town, and the description of a
fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as amusing specimens of
the _misapplication_ of the style and metre of Mr. Scott’s admirable
romances.—_Quarterly Review_.

“‘A Tale of Drury,’ by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably
executed; though the introduction is rather tame.  The burning is
described with the mighty minstrel’s characteristic love of localities .
. . The catastrophe is described with a spirit not unworthy of the name
so venturously assumed by the describer.”—JEFFREY, _Edinburgh Review_.

“Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the style
his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating, as neat as he could,
their very phrase.”—DON QUIXOTE.

                                * * * * *

Sir Walter Scott informed the annotator, that at one time he intended to
print his collected works, and had pitched upon this identical quotation
as a motto;—a proof that sometimes great wits jump with little ones.

{43a}  Alluding to the then great distance between the picture-frame, in
which the green curtain was set, and the band.  For a justification of
this, see below—“DR. JOHNSON.”

{43b}  The old name for London:

    For poets you can never want ’em
    Spread through Augusta Trinobantum—SWIFT.

Thomson in his “Seasons” calls it “huge Augusta.”

{45}  Old Bedlam, at that time, stood “close by London Wall.”  It was
built after the model of the Tuileries, which is said to have given the
French king great offence.  In front of it Moorfields extended, with
broad gravel walks crossing each other at right angles.  These the writer
well recollects; and Rivaz, an underwriter at Lloyd’s, his told him that
he remembered when the merchants of London would parade these walks on a
summer evening with their wives and daughters.  But now, as a punning
brother bard sings,—

    “Moorfields are fields no more.”

{46a}  A narrow passage immediately adjoining Drury Lane Theatre, and so
called from the vineyard attached to Covent or Convent Garden.

{46b}  The Hand-in-Hand Insurance Office was one of the very first
insurance offices established in London.  To make the engineer of the
office thus early in the race is a piece of historical accuracy intended
it is said, on the part of the writer.

{48}  Charge, Chester, charge!  On, Stanley, on!
Were the last words of Marmion.

{49}  Whitbread’s shears.  An economical experiment of that gentleman.
The present portico, towards Brydges-street, was afterwards erected under
the lesseeship of Elliston, whose portrait in the Exhibition was thus
noticed in the Examiner “Portrait of the great Lessee, in his favourite
character of Mr. Elliston.”

{52}  “Samuel Johnson is not so good: the measure and solemnity of his
sentences, in all the limited variety of their structure, are indeed
imitated with singular skill; but the diction is caricatured in a vulgar
and unpleasing degree.  To make Johnson call a doer ‘a ligneous
barricado,’ and its knocker and bell its ‘frappant and tintinnabulant
appendages,’ is neither just nor humorous; and we are surprised that a
writer who has given such extraordinary proofs of his talent for finer
ridicule and fairer imitation, should have stooped to a vein of
pleasantry so low, and so long ago exhausted; especially as, in other
passages of the same piece, he has shown how well qualified he was both
to catch and to render the true characteristics of his original.  The
beginning, for example, we think excellent.”—JEFFREY, _Edinburgh Review_.

{54a}  The celebrated Lord Chesterfield, whose Letters to his Son,
according to Dr. Johnson, inculcate “the manners of a dancing-master and
the morals of a —,” &c.

{54b}  Lord Mayor of the theatric sky.  This alludes to Leigh Hunt, who,
in _The Examiner_, at this time kept the actors in hot water.  Dr.
Johnson’s argument is, like many of his other arguments, specious, but
untenable; that which it defends has since been abandoned as
impracticable.  Mr. Whitbread contended that the actor was like a
portrait in a picture, and accordingly placed the green curtain in a
gilded frame remote from the foot-lights; alleging that no performer
should mar the illusion by stepping out of the frame.  Dowton was the
first actor who, like Manfred’s ancestor in the _Castle of Otranto_, took
the liberty of abandoning the canon.  “Don’t tell me of frames and
pictures,” ejaculated the testy comedian; “if I can’t be heard by the
audience in the frame, I’ll walk out of it!”  The proscenium has since
been new-modelled, and the actors thereby brought nearer to the audience.

{56a}  “‘The Beautiful Incendiary,’ by the Honourable W. Spencer, is also
an imitation of great merit.  The flashy, fashionable, artificial style
of this writer, with his confident and extravagant compliments, can
scarcely be said to be parodied in such lines.”—JEFFREY, _Edinburgh

{56b}  Sobriety, &c.  The good-humour of the poet upon occasion of this
parody has been noticed in the Preface.  “It’s all very well for once,”
said he afterwards, in comic confidence, at his villa at Petersham, “but
don’t do it again.  I had been almost forgotten when you revived me; and
now all the newspapers and reviews ring with this fashionable, trashy
author.’”  The sand and “filings of glass,” mentioned in the last stanza,
are referable to the well-known verses of the poet apologising to a lady
for having paid an unconscionably long morning visit; and where, alluding
to Time, he says—

    “All his sands are diamond sparks,
    That glitter as they pass.”

Few men in society have more “gladdened life” than this poet.  He now
[1833] resides in Paris, and may thence make the grand tour without an
interpreter—speaking, as he does, French, Italian, and German, as
fluently as English.

{57}  10th of October, 1812, the day of opening.

{59}  Congreve’s plug.  The late Sir William Congreve had made a model of
Drury Lane Theatre, to which was affixed an engine that, in event of
fire, was made to play from the stage into every box in the house.  The
writer, accompanied by Theodore Hook, went to see the model at Sir
William’s house in Cecil-street.  “Now I’ll duck Whitbread!” said Hook,
seizing the water-pipe whilst he spoke, and sending a torrent of water
into the brewer’s box.

{60}  See Byron, _afterwards_, its _Don Juan_:—

    “For flesh is grass, which Time mows down to hay.”

But as Johnson says of Dryden, “His known wealth was so great, he might
borrow without any impeachment of his credit.”

{61}  “‘Fire and Ale,’ by M. G. Lewis, exhibits not only a faithful copy
of the spirited, loose, and flowing versification of that singular
author, but a very just representation of that mixture of extravagance
and jocularity which has impressed most of his writings with the
character of a sort of farcical horror.”—JEFFREY, _Edinburgh Review_.

MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, commonly called _Monk_ Lewis, from his once
popular romance of that name, was a good-hearted man, and, like too many
of that fraternity, a disagreeable one—verbose, disputatious and
paradoxical.  His _Monk_ and _Castle Spectre_ elevated him into fame; and
he continued to write ghost-stories till, following as he did in the wake
of Mrs. Radcliffe, he quite overstocked the market.  Lewis visited his
estates in Jamaica, and came back perfectly negro-bitten.  He promulgated
a new code of laws in the island, for the government of his sable
subjects: one may serve for a specimen: “Any slave who commits murder
shall have his heed shaved, and be confined three days and nights in a
dark room.”  Upon occasion of printing these parodies, _Monk_ Lewis said
to Lady H[olland], “Many of them are very fair, but mine is not at all
like; they have made me write burlesque, which I never do” “You don’t
know your own talent,” answered the lady.

Lewis aptly described himself, as to externals, in the verses affixed to
his _Monk_, as having

    “A graceless form and dwarfish stature”

He had, moreover, large grey eyes, thick features, and an inexpressive
countenance.  In talking, he had a disagreeable habit of drawing the
fore-finger of his right hand across his tight eye-lid.  He affected, in
conversation, a sort of dandified, drawling tone: young Harlowe, the
artist, did the same.  A foreigner who had but slight knowledge of the
English language might have concluded, from their cadences, that they
were little better than fools—“just a born goose,” as Terry the actor
used to say.  Lewis died on his passage homeward from Jamaica, owing to a
dose of James’s powders injudiciously administered by “his own mere
motion.”  He wrote various plays, with various success, he had admirable
notions of dramatic construction, but the goodness of his scenes and
incidents was marred by the badness of his dialogue.

{65}  “Mr. Coleridge will not, we fear, be as much entertained as we were
with his ‘Playhouse Musings,’ which begin with characteristic pathos and
simplicity, and put us much in mind of the affecting story of old
Poulter’s mare.”—_Quarterly Review_.

“‘Playhouse Musings,’ by Mr. Coleridge, a piece which is unquestionably
Lakish, though we cannot say that we recognise in it any of the peculiar
traits of that powerful and misdirected genius whose name it has
borrowed.  We rather think, however, that the tuneful brotherhood will
consider it as a respectable eclogue.”—JEFFREY, _Edinburgh Review_.

{66}  “He of Blackfriars’ Road,” viz. the late Rev. Rowland Hill, who is
said to have preached a sermon congratulating his congregation on the
catastrophe.  [See before:—

    Meux’s new brewhouse shows the light,
    Rowland Hill’s Chapel, and the height
    Where Patent Shot they sell.]

{67}  “Oh, Mr. Whitbread!”  Sir William Grant, then Master of the Rolls,
repeated this passage aloud at a Lord Mayor’s dinner, to the no small
astonishment of the writer, who happened to sit within ear-shot.

{68}  “Padmanaba,” viz., in a pantomime called _Harlequin in Padmanaba_.
This elephant [Chunee], some years afterwards, was exhibited over Exeter
’Change, where, the reader will remember, it was found necessary [March,
1826] to destroy the poor animal by discharges of musketry.  When he made
his entrance in the pantomime above mentioned, Johnson, the machinist of
the rival house, exclaimed, “I should be very sorry if I could not make a
better elephant than that!”  Johnson was right: we go to the theatre to
be pleased with the skill of the imitator, and not to look at the

{69}  “‘A New Halfpenny Ballad,’ by a Pic-Nic Poet, is a good imitation
of what was not worth imitating—that tremendous mixture of vulgarity,
nonsense, impudence, and miserable puns, which, under the name of
humorous songs, rouses our polite audiences to a far higher pitch of
rapture than Garrick or Siddons ever was able to inspire.”—JEFFREY,
_Edinburgh Review_.

{71}  Mr. Whitbread—it need hardly be added for the present generation of
Londoners—was a celebrated brewer.  Fifty years hence, and the allusion
in the text may require a note which, perhaps even now (1854), is
scarcely out of place.

{74}  “Winsor’s patent gas”—at that time in its infancy.  The first place
illumined by it was [Jan. 28, 1807] the Carlton-house side of Pall Mall;
the second, Bishopsgate Street.  The writer attended a lecture given by
the inventor: the charge of admittance was three shillings, but, as the
inventor was about to apply to parliament, members of both houses were
admitted gratis.  The writer and a fellow-jester assumed the parts of
senators at a short notice.  “Members of parliament!” was their important
ejaculation at the door of entrance.  “What places, gentlemen?”  “Old
Sarum and Bridgewater.”  “Walk in, gentlemen.”  Luckily, the real Simon
Pures did not attend.  This Pall Mall illumination was further noticed in
_Horace in London_:—

    “And Winsor lights, with flame of gas.
    Home, to King’s Place, his mother.”

{77}  “Ticket-nights.”  This phrase is probably unintelligible to the
untheatrical portion of the community, which may now be said to be all
the world except the actors.  Ticket-nights are those whereon the
inferior actors club for a benefit: each distributes as many tickets of
admission as he is able among his friends.  A motley assemblage is the
consequence; and as each actor is encouraged by his own set, who are not
in general play-going people, the applause comes (as Chesterfield says of
Pope’s attempts at wit) “generally unseasonably, and too often

{79}  Originally:—“Back to the _bottom leaping with a bound_,” altered

{81}  “This journal was, at the period in question, rather remarkable for
the use of the figure called by the rhetoricians _catachresis_.  The Bard
of Avon may be quoted in justification of its adoption, when he writes of
taking arms against a sea, and seeking a bubble in the mouth of a cannon.
The _Morning Post_, in the year 1812, congratulated its readers upon
having stripped off Cobbett’s mask and discovered his cloven foot;
adding, that it was high time to give the hydra-head of Faction a rap on
the knuckles!”

{85}  The Rev. George Crabbe.—The writer’s first interview with this
poet, who may be designated Pope in worsted stockings, took place at
William Spencer’s villa at Petersham, close to what that gentleman called
his gold-fish pond, though it was scarcely three feet in diameter,
throwing up a _jet d’eau_ like a thread.  The venerable bard, seizing
both the hands of his satirist exclaimed with a good-humoured laugh, “Ah!
my old enemy, how do you do?”  In the course of conversation, he
expressed great astonishment at his popularity in London; adding, “In my
own village they think nothing of me.”  The subject happening to be the
inroads of time upon beauty, the writer quoted the following lines:—

    “Six years had pass’d, and forty ere the six,
    When Time began to play his usual tricks:
    My locks, once comely in a virgin’s sight,
    Locks of pure brown, now felt th’ encroaching white;
    Gradual each day I liked my horses less,
    My dinner more—I learnt to play at chess.”

“That’s very good!” cried the bard;—“whose to it?”  “Your own.”  “Indeed!
hah! well, I had quite forgotten it.”  Was this affectation, or was it
not?  In sooth, he seemed to push simplicity to puerility.  This
imitation contained in manuscript the following lines, after describing
certain Sunday newspaper critics who were supposed to be present at a new
play, and who were rather heated in their politics:—

    “Hard is the task who edits—thankless job!—
    A Sunday journal for the factious mob
    With bitter paragraph and caustic jest,
    He gives to turbulence the day of rest;
    Condemn’d, this week, rash rancour to instil,
    Or thrown aside, the next, for one who will:
    Alike undone or if he praise or rail
    (For this affects his safety, that his sale),
    He sinks at last, in luckless limbo set,
    If loud for libel, and if dumb for debt.”

They were, however, never printed; being, on reflection, considered too
serious for the occasion.

It is not a little extraordinary that Crabbe, who could write with such
rigour, should descend to such lines as the following:—

    “Something bad happen’d wrong about a bill
    Which was not drawn with true mercantile skill,
    So, to amend it, I was told to go
    And seek the firm of Clutterbuck and Co.”

Surely “Emanuel Jennings,” compared with the above, rises to sublimity.

[“‘The Theatre,’ by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think, is the best
piece in the collection.  It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation,
not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of
description of that most original author; and can hardly be said to be in
any respect a caricature of that style or manner—except in the excessive
profusion of puns and verbal jingles—which, though undoubtedly to be
ranked among his characteristics, are never so thick sown in his original
works as in this admirable imitation.  It does not aim, of course, at any
shadow of his pathos or moral sublimity, but seems to us to be a
singularly faithful copy of his passages of mere description,”—JEFFREY,
_Edinburgh Review_.]

{88}  You were more feeling than I was, when you read the excellent
parodies of the young men who wrote the “Rejected Addresses.”  There is a
little ill-nature—and I take the liberty of adding, undeserved
ill-nature—in their prefatory address; but in their versification they
have done me admirably.  They are extraordinary men; but it is easier to
imitate style than to furnish matter.—CRABBE (_Works_, 1 vol.  Ed., p.

{91}  A street and parish in Lime Street Ward, London—chiefly inhabited
by Jews.

{93}  “We come next to three ludicrous parodies—of the story of _The
Stranger_, of _George Barnwell_, and of the dagger-scene in Macbeth,
under the signature of Momus Medlar.  They are as good, we think, as that
sort of thing can be, and remind us of the happier efforts of Colman,
whose less successful fooleries are professedly copied in the last piece
in the volume.”—JEFFREY, _Edinburgh Renew_.

{96}  A translation from Kotzebue by Thompson, and first acted at Drury
Lane, 24th March, 1798.  Mrs. Siddons was famous in the part of Mrs.

{98}  See Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, vol. iii.; and
Lillo’s tragedy, “The London Merchant; or, the History of George
Barnwell.”  8vo. 1731.

{102}  Theodore Hook, at that time a very young man, and the companion of
the annotator in many wild frolics.  The cleverness of his subsequent
prose compositions has cast his early stage songs into oblivion.  This
parody was, in the second edition, transferred from Colman to Hook.

{103a}  Then Director of the Opera House.

{103b}  At that time the chief dancer at this establishment.

{103c}  Vauxhall Bridge then, like the Thames Tunnel at present [1833],
stood suspended in the middle of that river.

{72}  Dr. Busby gave living recitations of his translation of
_Lucretius_, with tea and bread-and-butter.  He sent in a real Address to
the Drury Lane committee, which was really rejected.  The present
imitation professes to be recited by the translator’s son.  The poet
here, again, was a prophet.  A few evenings after the opening of the
Theatre Dr. Busby sat with his son in one of the stage-boxes.  The latter
to the astonishment of the audience, at the end of the play, stepped from
the box upon the stage, with his father’s real rejected address in his
hand, and began to recite it as follows:—

    “When energising objects men pursue,
    What are the prodigies they cannot do?”

Raymond, the stage-manager, accompanied by a constable, at this moment
walked upon the stage, and handed away the juvenile _dilettante_

The Doctor’s classical translation was thus noticed in one of the
newspapers of the day, in the column of births:—“Yesterday, at his house
in Queen Anne-street, Dr. Busby of a still-born _Lucretius_.”  [Bushy’s
Monologue was parodied by Lord Byron: see Byron’s works, p. 553.]

“In one single point the parodist has failed—there is a certain Dr.
Busby, whose supposed address is a translation called ‘Architectural
Atoms, intended to be recited by the translator’s son.’  Unluckily,
however, for the wag who had prepared this fun, the genuine serious
absurdity of Dr. Busby and his son has cast all his humour into the
shade.  The Doctor from the boxes, and the son from the stage, have
actually endeavoured, it seems, to recite addresses, which they call
_monologues_ and _unalogues_; and which, for extravagant folly, tumid
meanness, and vulgar affectation, set all the powers of parody at utter
defiance.”—_Quarterly Review_.

“Of ‘Architectural Atoms,’ translated by Dr. Busby, we can say very
little more than that they appear to us to be far more capable of
combining into good poetry than the few lines we were able to read of the
learned Doctor’s genuine address in the newspapers.  They might pass,
indeed, for a very tolerable imitation of Darwin.”—JEFFREY, _Edinburgh

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