SCENE IV.--_A Wood.
_Enter_ FUSBOS.
_Fusbos._ This day is big with fate: just as I set My foot across the threshold, lo! I met A man whose squint terrific struck my view; Another came, and lo! he squinted too; And ere I'd reach'd the corner of the street, Some ten short paces, 'twas my lot to meet A third who squinted more--a fourth, and he Squinted more vilely than the other three. Such omens met the eye when Cæsar fell, But cautioned him in vain; and who can tell Whether those awful notices of fate Are meant for kings or ministers of state; For rich or poor, old, young, or short or tall, The wrestler Love trips up the heels of all.
SONG.--"_My Lodging is on the Cold Ground._"
My lodging is in Leather Lane, A parlour that's next to the sky; 'Tis exposed to the wind and the rain, But the wind and the rain I defy: Such love warms the coldest of spots, As I feel for Scrubinda the fair; Oh, she lives by the scouring of pots, In Dyot Street, Bloomsbury Square.
Oh, were I a quart, pint, or gill, To be scrubb'd by her delicate hands, Let others possess what they will Of learning, and houses, and lands; My parlour that's next to the sky I'd quit, her blest mansion to share; So happy to live and to die In Dyot Street, Bloomsbury Square.
And oh, would this damsel be mine, No other provision I'd seek; On a look I could breakfast and dine, And feast on a smile for a week. But ah! should she false-hearted prove, Suspended, I'll dangle in air; A victim to delicate love, In Dyot Street, Bloomsbury Square. [_Exit._
_Enter_ BOMBASTES, preceded by a Fifer, playing "Michael Wiggins."_
_Bombas._ Gentle musician, let thy dulcet strain Proceed--play "Michael Wiggins" once again [_he does so_.] Music's the food of love; give o'er, give o'er, For I must batten on that food no more. [_Exit_ FIFER. My happiness is chang'd to doleful dumps, Whilst, merry Michael, all thy cards were trumps. So, should some youth by fortune's blest decrees, Possess at least a pound of Cheshire cheese, And bent some favour'd party to regale, Lay in a kilderkin, or so, of ale; Lo, angry fate! In one unlucky hour Some hungry rats may all the cheese devour, And the loud thunder turn the liquor sour [_forms his sash into a noose_.] Alas! alack! alack! and well-a-day, That ever man should make himself away! That ever man for woman false should die, As many have, and so, and so [_prepares to hang himself, tries the sensation, but disapproves of the result_] won't I! No, I'll go mad! 'gainst all I'll vent my rage, And with this wicked wanton world a woeful war I'll wage!
[_Hangs his boots to the arm of a tree, and taking a scrap of paper, with a pencil writes the following couplet, which he attaches to them, repeating the words_:--
"Who dares this pair of boots displace, Must meet Bombastes face to face." Thus do I challenge all the human race. [_Draws his sword, and retires up the stage, and off._
_Enter the_ KING.
_King._ Scorning my proffer'd hand, he frowning fled, Curs'd the fair maid, and shook his angry head [_perceives the boots and label._.] "Who dares this pair of boots displace, Must meet Bombastes face to face." Ha! dost thou dare me, vile obnoxious elf? I'll make thy threats as bootless as thyself: Where'er thou art, with speed prepare to go Where I shall send thee--to the shades below [_knocks down the boots_.]
_Bombas._ [_coming forward_.] So have I heard on Afric's burning shore, A hungry lion give a grievous roar; The grievous roar echo'd along the shore.
_King._ So have I heard on Afric's burning shore Another lion give a grievous roar, And the first lion thought the last a bore.
_Bombas._ Am I then mocked? Now by my fame I swear You soon shall have it--There! [_They fight._
_King._ Where?
_Bombas._ There and there!
_King._ I have it sure enough--Oh! I am slain! I'd give a pot of beer to live again [_falls on his back_]; Yet ere I die I something have to say: My once-lov'd gen'ral, pri'thee come this way! Oh! oh! my Bom---- [_Dies._
_Bombas._ --Bastes he would have said; But ere the word was out, his breath was fled. Well, peace be with him, his untimely doom Shall thus be mark'd upon his costly tomb:-- "Fate cropt him short--for be it understood. He would have liv'd much longer--if he could." [_Retires again up the stage._
_Enter_ FUSBOS.
_Fusbos._ This was the way they came, and much I fear There's mischief in the wind. What have we here? King Artaxominous bereft of life! Here'll be a pretty tale to tell his wife.
_Bombas._ A pretty tale, but not for thee to tell, For thou shalt quickly follow him to hell; There say I sent thee, and I hope he's well.
_Fusbos._ No, thou thyself shalt thy own message bear; Short is the journey, thou wilt soon be there.
[_They fight_--BOMBASTES _is wounded_.
_Bombas._ Oh, Fusbos, Fusbos! I am diddled quite, Dark clouds come o'er my eyes--farewell, good night! Good night! my mighty soul's inclined to roam, So make my compliments to all at home. [_Lies down by the_ KING.
_Fusbos._ And o'er thy grave a monument shall rise, Where heroes yet unborn shall feast their eyes; And this short epitaph that speaks thy fame, Shall also there immortalize my name:-- "Here lies Bombastes, stout of heart and limb, Who conquered all but Fusbos--Fusbos him."
_Enter_ DISTAFFINA.
_Distaf._ Ah, wretched maid! Oh, miserable fate! I've just arrived in time to be too late; What now shall hapless Distaffina do? Curse on all morning dreams, they come so true!
_Fusbos._ Go, beauty go, thou source of woe to man, And get another lover where you can: The crown now sits on Griskinissa's head, To her I'll go----
_Distaf._ But are you sure they're dead?
_Fusbos._ Yes, dead as herrings--herrings that are red.
FINALE.
_Distaf._ Briny tears I'll shed,
_King._ I for joy shall cry, too; [_Rising._
_Fusbos._ Zounds! the King's alive!
_Bombas._ Yes, and so am I, too! [_Rising._
_Distaf._ It was better far,
_King._ Thus to check all sorrow;
_Fusbos._ But, if some folks please,
_Bombas._ We'll die again to-morrow!
* * * * *
_Distaf._ Tu ral, lu ral, la,
_King._ Tu ral, lu ral, laddi;
_Fusbos._ Tu ral, lu ral, la,
_Bombas._ Tu ral, lu ral, laddi!
_They take hands and dance round, repeating Chorus._
REJECTED ADDRESSES.
PREFACE.
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 staunch 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 in 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 piebalds 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, everything that can be accomplished by the union of taste and assiduity.
LOYAL EFFUSION.
BY W. T. F.
Quiequid dicunt, laudo: id rursum si negant Laudo 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 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 thro' 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 Buonaparté, 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 crossed the river Thames: Thy hatch, O halfpenny! pass'd in a trice, Boil'd some black pitch, and burnt down Astley's twice; Then buzzing on thro' 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? 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? 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 possessed of aught to give; Long may Long Tilney Wellesley Long Pole live; 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, And bless their pigtails, tho' they're now cut off; And oh, in Downing Street should Old Nick revel, England's prime minister, then bless the Devil!
THE BABY'S DEBUT.
BY W. W.
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.--CUMBERLAND.
[_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, 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, oh, 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 shan'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 brush'd 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 these 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- umbob, 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; 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? Oh, 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 kiss, and exit._
AN ADDRESS WITHOUT A PHOENIX.
BY S. T. P.
This was look'd for at your hand, and this was baulk'd.-- 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 grasp'd the devastating brand; Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize, Then burst resistless to the astonish'd skies. The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride, In trembling conflict stemm'd the burning tide, Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall, Down rush'd the thundering roof, and buried all!
Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung, And raptur'd thousands on their music hung, Where Wit and Wisdom shone by Beauty graced, Sate lonely Silence, empress of the waste; And still had reign'd--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 leap'd 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. Tho' 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.
CUI BONO?
BY LORD B.
I.
Sated with home, of wife, of children tired, The restless soul is driven abroad to roam; 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.
II.
Ye reckless dupes, 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.
III.
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.
IV.
Albeit how like young Betty doth he flee! Light as the mote that danceth 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?
V.
This goodly pile, upheav'd by Wyatt's toil, Perchance than Holland's edifice more fleet, Again red Lemnos' artisan may spoil; The fire alarm, and midnight drum may beat, And all be strew'd 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,
VI.
Your debts mount high--ye plunge in deeper waste, The tradesman calls--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 falshood's voice, false to the voice of truth?
VII.
To thee, blest saint! who doff'd 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, Harps twang in Drury's walls, and make her boards a booth.
VIII.
For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March? And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl? And what is Rolla? Cupid steep'd in starch, Orlando's helmet in Augustine'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.
IX.
Sons of Parnassus? whom I view above, Not laurel-crown'd but clad in rusty black, Not spurring Pegasus through Tempé'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-sanctioned track, Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng, And reproduce in rags the rags ye blot in song.
X.
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.
XI.
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 Houynim race, His prompter spurs, his licencer the bit, The stage a stable-yard, a jockey-club the pit.
XII.
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.
_To the Secretary of the Managing Committee of Drury Lane Playhouse._
SIR,
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 playhouse may take all the sets of my Register, now on hand, and force everybody who enters your door 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.
IN THE CHARACTER OF A HAMPSHIRE FARMER.
Rabidâ qui concitus irâ Implevit pariter ternis latratibus auras Et sparsit virides spumis albentibus agros.--OVID.
MOST THINKING PEOPLE,
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 playhouse 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 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 Brobdingnag filagree; 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 till Doomsday, and neither Lord Castlereagh, Mr. Canning, no, nor the Marquis 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 anybody. 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 quaker's meeting. None of your Egyptian pyramids, to entomb subscribers' capitals. No overgrown colonnades of stone, 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 dare say 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--_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 _Sal_amanca; no, nor Talavera neither, my most noble Marquis, 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 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; 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. Whitbread!
THE LIVING LUSTRES.
BY T. M.
Jam te juvaverit Viros relinquere, Doctæque conjugis Sinu quiescere.--SIR T. MORE.
I.
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!
II.
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.
III.
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?
IV.
How well would our actors attend to their duties, Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit, In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beauties Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit.
V.
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.
VI.
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.
VII.
Bloom, Theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile; And flourish, ye pillars, as green as the rushes That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle.
VIII.
For dear is the Emerald Isle of the Ocean, Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave, Whose sons, unaccustomed to rebel commotion, Tho' joyous are sober, tho' peaceful are brave.
IX.
The shamrock their olive, sworn 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.
X.
Oh! 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.
XI.
And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffy Perchance held the helm of some mack'rel hoy, Hold the helm of the state, and dispense in a jiffy More fishes than ever he caught when a boy.
XII.
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 Gibbs's and Garrows, Assume the silk gown and discard the smock-frock.
XIII.
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-bra!
THE REBUILDING.
BY R. S.
--per audaces nova dithyrambos Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur Lege solutis.--HORAT.
_Spoken by a_ GLENDOVEER.
I am a blessed Glendoveer; 'Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.
MIDNIGHT, 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; The tops of houses, blue with lead, Bend beneath the landlord's tread.
Master and 'prentice, serving man and lord, Nailer and tailor, Grazier and brazier, Thro' 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, 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 Phaeton, (By the Greeks called Apollo) Hollow 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, Humblest, Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high: While, by thy somerset excited, fly Ten million, Billion 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 Phoenix; 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 called 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, 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, 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 seem'd 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? No, 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 Answer'd, Amen, And did As he was bid.
There lay the buried god, and Time Seem'd to decree eternity of lime; But pity, like a dewdrop, gently prest Almighty Veeshnoo's adamantine breast: He, the preserver, ardent still To do whate'er he says he will, From South-hill urg'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, 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 their 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, Veshnoo, now thy work proceeds; The solicitor reads, And, merit of merit! Red wax and green ferret, Are fix'd 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 dissolv'd 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, 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 Carisbrooke 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 seiz'd 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, "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!"
DRURY'S DIRGE.
BY LAURA MATILDA.
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.
I.
Balmy Zephyrs lightly flitting, Shade me with your azure wing; On Parnassus' summit sitting, Aid me, Clio, while I sing.
II.
Softly slept the dome of Drury, O'er the empyreal crest, When Alecto's sister-fury, Softly slumb'ring sunk to rest.
III.
Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely, Lags the lowly Lord of Fire, Cytherea yielding tamely, To the Cyclops dark and dire.
IV.
Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness, Dulcet joys and sports of youth, Soon must yield to haughty sadness, Mercy holds the veil to Truth.
V.
See Erostratus the second, Fires again Diana's fane; By the Fates from Orcus beckon'd, Clouds envelop Drury Lane.
VI.
Lurid smoke and frank suspicion, Hand in hand reluctant dance; While the god fulfils his mission, Chivalry, resign thy lance.
VII.
Hark! the engines blandly thunder, Fleecy clouds dishevell'd lie, And the firemen, mute with wonder, On the son of Saturn cry.
VIII.
See the bird of Ammon sailing, Perches on the engine's peak, And the Eagle firemen hailing, Soothes them with its bickering beak.
IX.
Juno saw, and mad with malice, Lost the prize that Paris gave. Jealousy's ensanguin'd chalice, Mantling pours the orient wave.
X.
Pan beheld Patroclus dying, Nox to Niobe was turn'd; From Busiris Bacchus flying, Saw his Semele inurn'd.
XI.
Thus fell Drury's lofty glory, Levell'd with the shuddering stones, Mars with tresses black and gory, Drinks the dew of pearly groans.
XII.
Hark! what soft Eolian numbers, Gem the blushes of the morn; Break, Amphion, break your slumbers, Nature's ringlets deck the thorn.
XIII.
Ha! I hear the strain erratic, Dimly glance from pole to pole, Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic Fire my everlasting soul.
XIV.
Where is Cupid's crimson motion? Billowy ecstasy of woe, Bear me straight, meandering ocean, Where the stagnant torrents flow.
XV.
Blood in every vein is gushing, Vixen vengeance lulls my heart, See, the Gorgon gang is rushing! Never, never let us part.
A TALE OF DRURY LANE.
BY W. S.
Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating as near as he could their very phrase.--DON QUIXOTE.
_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 footlights, no trivial dance, And tell the town what sad mischance Did Drury Lane befall.
The Night.
On fair Augusta's towers and trees Flitted the silent midnight breeze, Curling the foliage as it past, Which from the moon-tipp'd plumage cast A spangled light like dancing spray. Then reassumed its still array: Whenas 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, Appear'd to slumber in the light. From Henry's chapel, Rufus' hall, To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul, From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, To Redriff, 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, 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 night-cap 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 tale its lustre lends To every window-pane; Blushes each spout in Martlet Court, And Barbican, moth-eaten fort, And Govent Garden kennels sport, A bright ensanguin'd 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 porter's house of call, Old Bedlam, close by London Wall, Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal, And Richardson's Hotel.
Nor these alone, but far and wide Across the 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 thro' 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. The burning badge his shoulder bore, The belt and oilskin 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, 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 share his grave! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Thro' fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before. But sulphury 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.
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 lollipops, 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 realize 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 pendant portico appears Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears 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 deem'd 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.
JOHNSON'S GHOST.
_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 organized 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 ere 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 tintinabulant 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 the 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 in 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 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 vieing 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 chaunt "hic hoc horum genetivo," 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, 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 varied 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.
THE BEAUTIFUL INCENDIARY.
BY THE HON. W. S.
Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida silvas.--VIRGIL.
_Scene draws, and discovers a Lady asleep on a couch. Enter_ PHILANDER.
PHILANDER.
I.
Sobriety, cease to be sober, Cease, Labour, to dig and to delve, And hail to this tenth of October, One thousand eight hundred and twelve. Hah! whom do my peepers remark? 'Tis Hebe with Jupiter's jug; Oh no, 'tis the pride of the Park, Fair Lady Elizabeth Mugg.
II.
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 oil'd Thy hair with some opiate drug, Not choosing her charms should be foil'd By Lady Elizabeth Mugg.
III.
But ah! why awaken the blaze The 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 tired by a flash from the eye Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg.
IV.
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 consum'd, When deep in the ruins they dug, Thy flash still their progress illum'd, Sweet Lady Elizabeth Mugg.
V.
Thy face a rich fireplace 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.
VI.
The Countess a lily appears, Whose tresses the dewdrops emboss; The Marchioness blooming in years, A rosebud envelop'd 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?
VII.
When at Court, or some dowager's rout, Her diamond aigrette meets our view, She looks like a glow-worm dress'd 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?
VIII.
Could the stage be a large _vis-à-vis_, Reserv'd for the polish'd 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.
IX.
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, For nought could extinguish the rays From the glance of divine Lady Mugg.
X.
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 should lend us his shrine, The parson his shoulders might shrug, But a licence should force him to join My hand in the hand of my Mugg.
XI.
Court-plaister 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.
XII.
For Time would, like 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, O may I in clover live snug, And when old Time mows me away, Be stack'd with defunct Lady Mugg.
FIRE AND ALE.
BY M. G. L.
Omnia transformat sese in miracula rerum.--VIRGIL.
My palate is parch'd with Pierian thirst, Away to Parnassus I'm beckon'd; List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehears'd, 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.
Oh! 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 Spitalfields, And the hole that it burnt and the chalk that it yields Make a capital limekiln 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 blaz'd and he blaz'd as he 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 knee-pan 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!"
PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS.
BY S. T. C.
Ille velut fidis aroana sodalibus olim Credebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquam Decurrens alio, neque si bene.--HORAT.
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 pastry-cook'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 who hymn'd 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 elder times would mount a ladder With hodded heads, but these stretch'd forth a pole From the wall's pinnacle, they placed 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 believ'd it never would be finish'd, Some on the contrary believ'd it would.
I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane Much criticis'd; 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 snowball 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! 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 thro' 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, Compar'd with thee? Yet when I view thee push'd Back from the narrow street that christen'd 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 in Blue Beard, Stuff'd by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis, As spruce as he who roar'd in Padmanaba. 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-handle knife Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton, Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick! [_Exit hastily._
DRURY LANE HUSTINGS.
A NEW HALFPENNY BALLAD.
BY A PIC-NIC POET.
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 ATHENS.
_To be sung by_ MR. JOHNSTONE _in the character of_ LOONEY M'TWOLTER.
I.
"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.
II.
With Drurys for sartain 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.
III.
These pillars are called by a Frenchified word, A something that's jumbled of antique and verd, The boxes may show us some verdant antiques, Some bold harridans who beplaster their cheeks. Tol de rol, &c.
IV.
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.
V.
Each one shilling god within reach of a nod is, And plain are the charms of each gallery goddess, You, brandy-faced Moll, don't be looking askew, When I talked of a goddess I didn't mean you. Tol de rol, &c
VI.
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.
VII.
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.
VIII.
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.
IX.
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. Tol de rol, &c.
ARCHITECTURAL ATOMS.
TRANSLATED BY DR. B.
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, Dote with Copernicus, or darkling stray With Newton, Ptolemy, or Tycho Brahe: To you I sing not, for I sing of truth, Primæval 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 horse-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 confessed, Where fair OEolia 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 the harmonious line; Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspire With Winsor's 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 speed the smiling suit, "Pleas of our Lord The King" shine jetty on the wide record: Nods the prunella'd bar, attornies smile, And siren 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 asses' ears, And load a knave with folly's rich arrears. And lo! a second miracle is thine, For sloe-juiced water stands transform'd 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 the 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 patronize 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 pois'd, that if one atom flings Its weight away, aloft the planet springs, And wings its course thro' 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 reassume; 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 primæval 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 fœtus 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 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 quits 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; amaz'd 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 bottom leaping with a bound, 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, bobbs 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 poet's 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!
THEATRICAL ALARM BELL.
BY THE EDITOR OF THE M. P.
Bounce, Jupiter, bounce!--O'HARA.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,
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 committee-men have thought it their duty to watch the principles of a theatre built under his auspices. The information they have received from undoubted authority, particularly from an old fruit-woman who had 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 5th 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 never-sufficiently-enough-to-be-deeply-and-universally-to-be-venerated 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 by-a-great-deal-too-much too-horrible-to-be-mentioned.
The manager has acted with his usual promptitude on this trying occasion. He has contracted for 300 tons of gunpowder, which are at this moment placed in a small barrel under the pit, and a descendant of Guy Faux, assisted by Colonel 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 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 in-general-strewed-with-cabbage-stalks-but-on-Saturday-night-lighted-up- 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 with their attention, will not be surprised if they find nothing under my usual head!
THE THEATRE.
BY THE REV. G. C.
Nil intentatum nostri liquôre poetæ, Nec minimum meruère decus, vestigia Græca Ausi desesere, et celebrare domestica facta.--HORAT.
A PREFACE OF APOLOGIES.
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 upon the point of being sent off, that there is but one hautboy in the band, I averted the storm of popular and managerial 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 playbill is calculated to expose a practice, much too common, of pinning playbills to the cushions, insecurely, and frequently, I fear, not pinning them at all. If these lines save one playbill only from 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 of the real owner of any one of them. For, in the satirical 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.
THE THEATRE.
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 playgoers.--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 the frequent damn, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, 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 playbill 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, Culls 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 baulk, 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, 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 Mullins 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 hue, 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. Up soars 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.
_To the Managing Committee of the New Drury Lane Theatre._
GENTLEMEN,
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 enclosed 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.
MACBETH.
_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 not, 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.
CASE NO. II.
THE STRANGER.
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 Hypochon. 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 a-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, "Hullo, what's that?" 'Twas a child of the Count's, in whose service lived Adelaide, Soused in the river and squalled 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," quoth the Count, "in reward of your valour, To show that my gratitude is not mere talk, You shall eat a beefsteak which 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 grow 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 his sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em, And pathos and bathos delightful to see, And chop and change ribs a-la-mode Germanorum, And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.
CASE NO. III.
GEORGE BARNWELL.
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; Determin'd 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 followed 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 my 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.
PUNCH'S APOTHEOSIS.
BY T. H.
Rhymes the rudders are of verses, With which, like ships, they steer their courses.--HUDIBRAS.
_Scene draws, and discovers_ PUNCH _on a throne surrounded by_ LEAR, LADY MACBETH, MACBETH, OTHELLO, GEORGE BARNWELL, HAMLET, GHOST, MACHEATH, JULIET, FRIAR, APOTHECARY, ROMEO, _and_ FALSTAFF.--PUNCH _descends, and addresses them in the following_
RECITATIVE.
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 cotillon, 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, Spin up a teetotum like Angiollini; That John and Mrs. Bull from ale and teahouses, May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis! [_They dance and sing._
AIR--"_Sure such a day._"--TOM THUMB.
_Lear._ 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 hubbub. 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.
_Omnes._ Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!
_Lady Macbeth._ 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.
_Macbeth._ When spooneys 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.
_Omnes._ Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!
_Othello._ 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 coverlid, That smother'd you because you pawn'd my handkerchief.
_Geo. Barnwell._ 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.
_Omnes._ Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!
_Hamlet._ I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and perihelia, 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!"
_Ghost._ Let Gertrude sup the poisoned cup, no more I'll be an actor in Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing.
_Macheath._ 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."
_Omnes._ Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!
_Juliet._ I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore, A Hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall.
_Friar._ And I am the friar who so corpulent a belly bore.
_Apothecary._ And that is why poor skinny I have none at all.
_Romeo._ I'm the resurrection man of buried bodies amorous.
_Falstaff._ I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous, For though my paunch is round and staunch, I ne'er begin to fill it ere I Feel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military.
_Omnes._ Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday, Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza! [_Exeunt dancing._
ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE.
(1825.)
ODE TO MR. GRAHAM.
THE AERONAUT.
Up with me!--up with me into the sky!--
WORDSWORTH--ON A LARK:
I.
Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, Their meaner flights pursue, Let us cast off the foolish ties That bind us to the earth, and rise And take a bird's-eye view!
II.
A few more whiffs of my cigar And then, in Fancy's airy car, Have with thee for the skies: How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd Hath borne me from this little world, And all that in it lies!
III.
Away!--away!--the bubble fills-- Farewell to earth and all its hills!-- We seem to cut the wind!-- So high we mount, so swift we go, The chimney-tops are far below, The Eagle's left behind!
IV.
Ah me! my brain begins to swim!-- The world is growing rather dim; The steeples and the trees-- My wife is getting very small! I cannot see my babe at all!-- The Dollond, if you please!--
V.
Do, Graham, let me have a quiz, Lord! what a Lilliput it is, That little world of Mogg's!-- Are those the London Docks?--that channel, The mighty Thames?--a proper kennel For that small Isle of Dogs!
VI.
What is that seeming tea-urn there! That fairy dome, St. Paul's!--I swear, Wren must have been a wren!-- And that small stripe?--it cannot be The City Road!--Good lack? to see The little ways of men!
VII.
Little, indeed!--my eyeballs ache To find a turnpike. I must take Their tolls upon my trust!-- And where is mortal labour gone? Look, Graham, for a little stone MacAdamized to dust!
VIII.
Look at the horses!--less than flies!-- Oh, what a waste it was of sighs To wish to be a Mayor! What is the honour?--none at all, One's honour must be very small For such a civic chair!
IX.
And there's Guildhall!--'tis far aloof-- Methinks, I fancy thro' the roof Its little guardian Gogs, Like penny dolls--a tiny show!-- Well,--I must say they're ruled below. By very little logs!
X.
Oh! Graham, how the upper air Alters the standards of compare; One of our silken flags Would cover London all about-- Nay, then--let's even empty out Another brace of bags!
XI.
Now for a glass of bright champagne Above the clouds!--Come, let us drain A bumper as we go! But hold!--for God's sake do not cant The cork away--unless you want To brain your friends below.
XII.
Think! what a mob of little men Are crawling just within our ken, Like mites upon a cheese! Pshaw!--how the foolish sight rebukes Ambitious thoughts!--can there be _Dukes_ Of _Gloster_ such as these!
XIII.
Oh! what is glory?--what is fame? Hark to the little mob's acclaim, 'Tis nothing but a hum! A few near gnats would trump as loud As all the shouting of a crowd That has so far to come!
XIV.
Well--they are wise that choose the near, A few small buzzards in the ear, To organs ages hence!-- Ah me, how distance touches all; It makes the true look rather small, But murders poor pretence.
XV.
"The world recedes!--it disappears! Heav'n open on my eyes--my ears With buzzing noises ring!" A fig for Southey's Laureate lore!-- What's Rogers here?--who cares for Moore That hears the angels sing!
XVI.
A fig for earth, and all its minions!-- We are above the world's opinions, Graham! we'll have our own!-- Look what a vantage height we've got!-- Now----_do_ you think Sir Walter Scott Is such a Great Unknown?
XVII.
Speak up!--or hath he hid his name To crawl thro' "subways" into fame, Like Williams of Cornhill?-- Speak up, my lad!--when men run small We'll show what's little in them all, Receive it how they will!
XVIII.
Think now of Irving!--shall he preach The princes down--shall he impeach The potent and the rich, Merely on ethic stilts,--and I Not moralize at two miles high The true didactic pitch!
XIX.
Come:--what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir? Is Gifford such a Gulliver In Lilliput's Review, That like Colossus he should stride Certain small brazen inches wide For poets to pass through?
XX.
Look down! the world is but a spot. Now say--Is Blackwood's _low_ or not, For all the Scottish tone? It shall not weigh us here--not where The sandy burden's lost in air-- Our lading--where is't flown!
XXI.
Now,--like you Croly's verse indeed-- In heaven--where one cannot read The "Warren" on a wall? What think you here of that man's fame? Tho' Jerdan magnified his name, To me 'tis very small!
XXII.
And, truly, is there such a spell In those three letters, L. E. L., To witch a world with song? On clouds the Byron did not sit, Yet dared on Shakespeare's head to spit, And say the world was wrong!
XXIII.
And shall not we? Let's think aloud! Thus being couch'd upon a cloud, Graham, we'll have our eyes! We felt the great when we were less, But we'll retort on littleness Now we are in the skies.
XXIV.
O Graham, Graham, how I blame The bastard blush,--the petty shame, That used to fret me quite,-- The little sores I cover'd then, No sores on earth, nor sorrows when The world is out of sight!
XXV.
_My_ name is Tims. I am the man That North's unseen diminish'd clan So scurvily abused! I am the very P. A. Z. The London's Lion's small pin's head So often hath refused!
XXVI.
Campbell--(you cannot see him here)-- Hath scorn'd my _lays_:--do his appear Such great eggs from the sky? And Longman, and his lengthy Co. Long, only, in a little Row, Have thrust my poems by!
XXVII.
What else?--I'm poor, and much beset With petty duns--that is--in debt Some grains of golden dust! But only worth, above, is worth. What's all the credit of the earth? An inch of cloth on trust!
XXVIII.
What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man! Nay, worlds of wealth?--Oh, if you can Spy out,--the _Golden Ball!_ Sure as we rose, all money sank: What's gold or silver now?--the Bank Is gone--the 'Change and all!
XXIX.
What's all the ground-rent of the globe?-- Oh, Graham, it would worry Job To hear its landlords prate! But after this survey, I think I'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrink From men of large estate!
XXX.
And less, still less, will I submit To poor mean acres' worth of wit-- I that have Heaven's span-- I that like Shakespeare's self may dream Beyond the very clouds, and seem An Universal Man!
XXXI.
Oh, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds! Like birds of paradise the clouds Are winging on the wind! But what is grander than their range? More lovely than their sunset change?-- The free creative mind!
XXXII.
Well! the Adults' School's in the air! The greatest men are lesson'd there As well as the lessee! Oh could earth's Ellistons thus small Behold the greatest stage of all, How humbled they would be!
XXXIII.
"Oh would some god the giftie gie 'em, To see themselves as others see 'em," 'Twould much abate their fuss! If they could think that from the skies They are as little in our eyes As they can think of us!
XXXIV.
Of us! are _we_ gone out of sight? Lessen'd! diminish'd! vanish'd quite! Lost to the tiny town! Beyond the Eagle's ken--the grope Of Dollond's longest telescope! Graham! we're going down!
XXXV.
Ah me! I've touch'd a string that opes The airy valve!--the gas elopes-- Down goes our bright balloon!-- Farewell the skies! the clouds! I smell The lower world! Graham, farewell, Man of the silken moon!
XXXVI.
The earth is close! the City nears-- Like a burnt paper it appears, Studded with tiny sparks! Methinks I hear the distant rout Of coaches rumbling all about-- We're close above the Parks!
XXXVII.
I hear the watchmen on their beats, Hawking the hour about the streets. Lord! what a cruel jar It is upon the earth to light! Well--there's the finish of our flight! I've smoked my last cigar!
ODE TO MR. M'ADAM.
Let us take to the road!--BEGGAR'S OPERA.
I.
M'adam, hail! Hail, Roadian! hail, Colossus! who dost stand Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the land! Oh, universal Leveller! all hail! To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man, The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going-- To thee--how much for thy commodious plan, Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing! The Bristol mail Gliding o'er ways, hitherto deem'd invincible, When carrying patriots now shall never fail Those of the most "_unshaken_ public principle." Hail to thee, Scott of Scots! Thou northern light, amid those heavy men! Foe to Stonehenge, yet friend to all beside, Thou scatter'st flints and favours far and wide, From palaces to cots; Dispenser of coagulated good! Distributor of granite and of food! Long may thy fame its even path march on, E'en when thy sons are dead! Best benefactor! though thou giv'st a stone To those who ask for bread!
II.
Thy first great trial in this mighty town Was, if I rightly recollect, upon That gentle hill which goeth Down from "the County" to the Palace gate, And, like a river, thanks to thee, now floweth Past the Old Horticultural Society,-- The chemist Cobb's, the house of Howell and James, Where ladies play high shawl and satin games-- A little _Hell_ of lace! And past the Athenæum, made of late, Severs a sweet variety Of milliners and booksellers who grace Waterloo Place, Making division, the Muse fears and guesses, 'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr. Hessey's. Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac! and shav'd the road From Barber Beaumont's to the King's abode So well, that paviours threw their rammers by, Let down their tuck'd shirt-sleeves, and with a sigh Prepar'd themselves, poor souls, to chip or die!
III.
Next, from the palace to the prison, thou Didst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat,-- Preventing though the _rattling_ in the street, Yet kicking up a row, Upon the stones--ah! truly watchman-like, Encouraging thy victims all to strike, To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily;-- Thou hast smooth'd, alas, the path to the Old Bailey! And to the stony bowers Of Newgate, to encourage the approach, By caravan or coach,-- Hast strew'd the way with flints as soft as flowers.
IV.
Who shall dispute thy name! Insculpt in stone in every street, We soon shall greet Thy trodden down, yet all unconquer'd fame! Where'er we take, even at this time, our way, Nought see we, but mankind in open air, Hammering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare; And with a patient care, Chipping thy immortality all day! Demosthenes, of old,--that rare old man,-- Prophetically, _follow'd_, Mac! thy plan:-- For he, we know (History says so), Put _pebbles_ in his mouth when he would speak The _smoothest_ Greek!
V.
It is "impossible, and cannot be," But that thy genius hath, Beside the turnpike, many another path Trod, to arrive at popularity. O'er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh, Nor ridden a roadster only;--mighty Mac! And 'faith I'd swear, when on that winged hack, Thou hast observ'd the highways in the sky! Is the path up Parnassus rough and steep, And "hard to climb," as Dr. B. would say? Dost think it best for sons of song to keep The noiseless _tenor_ of their way? (see Gray). What line of road _should_ poets take to bring Themselves unto those waters, lov'd the first!-- Those waters which can wet a man to sing! Which, like thy fame, "from _granite_ basins burst, Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?"
VI.
That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace might Vouchsafe;--and Mr. Cadell _may_, God wot, Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot,--
Cadell's a wayward wight! Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot, And I can throw, I think, a little light Upon some works thou hast written for the town,-- And publish'd, like a Lilliput Unknown! "Highways and Byeways" is thy book, no doubt (One whole edition's out), And next, for it is fair That Fame, Seeing her children, should confess she had 'em;-- "Some _Passages_ from the life of Adam Blair"-- (Blair is a Scottish name), What are they, but thy own good roads, M'Adam?
VII.
O! indefatigable labourer In the paths of men! when thou shalt die, 'twill be A mark of thy surpassing industry, That of the monument, which men shall rear Over thy most inestimable bone, Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone! Of a right ancient line thou comest,--through Each crook and turn we trace the unbroken clue, Until we see thy sire before our eyes, Rolling his gravel walks in Paradise! But he, our great Mac Parent, err'd, and ne'er Have our walks since been fair! Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on 'Change, For ever varying, through his varying range, Time maketh all things even! In this strange world, turning beneath high heaven! He hath redeem'd the Adams, and contriv'd-- (How are Time's wonders hiv'd!) In pity to mankind, and to befriend 'em-- (Time is above all praise) That he, who first did make our evil ways, Reborn in Scotland, should be first to mend 'em!
ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
O breathe not his name!--MOORE.
I.
Thou Great Unknown! I do not mean Eternity nor Death, That vast incog! For I suppose thou hast a living breath, Howbeit we know not from whose lung 'tis blown, Thou man of fog! Parent of many children--child of none! Nobody's son! Nobody's daughter--but a parent still! Still but an ostrich parent of a batch Of orphan eggs,--left to the world to hatch. Superlative Nil! A vox and nothing more,--yet not Vauxhall; A head in papers, yet without a curl! Not the Invisible Girl! No hand--but a hand-writing on a wall-- A popular nonentity, Still call'd the same,--without identity! A lark, heard out of sight,-- A nothing shin'd upon,--invisibly bright, "Dark with excess of light!" Constable's literary John-a-nokes-- The real Scottish wizard--to no which, Nobody--in a niche; Every one's hoax! Maybe Sir Walter Scott-- Perhaps not! Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks?
II.
Thou--whom the second-sighted never saw, The Master Fiction of fictitious history! Chief Nong tong paw! No mister in the world--and yet all mystery! The "tricksy spirit" of a Scotch Cock Lane-- A _novel_ Junius puzzling the world's brain-- A man of magic--yet no talisman! A man of clair obscure--not him o' the moon! A star--at noon. A non-descriptus in a caravan, A private--of no corps--a northern light In a dark lantern,--Bogie in a crape-- A figure--but no shape; A vizor--and no knight; The real abstract hero of the age; The staple Stranger of the stage; A Some One made in every man's presumption, Frankenstein's monster--but instinct with gumption; Another strange state captive in the north, Constable-guarded in an iron mask-- Still let me ask, Hast thou no silver platter, No door-plate, or no card--or some such matter, To scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth?
III.
Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger Of Curiosity with airy gammon? Thou mystery-monger, Dealing it out like middle cut of salmon, That people buy and can't make head or tail of it (Howbeit that puzzle never hurts the sale of it); Thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical, That lay their proper bodies on the shelf-- Keeping thyself so truly to thyself, Thou Zimmerman made practical! Thou secret fountain of a Scottish style, That, like the Nile, Hideth its source wherever it is bred, But still keeps disemboguing (Not disembroguing) Thro' such broad sandy mouths without a head! Thou disembodied author--not yet dead,-- The whole world's literary Absentee! Ah! wherefore hast thou fled, Thou learned Nemo--wise to a degree, Anonymous LL.D.!
IV.
Thou nameless captain of the nameless gang That do--and inquests cannot say who did it! Wert thou at Mrs. Donatty's death-pang? Hast thou made gravy of Wear's watch--or hid it? Hast thou a Blue Beard chamber? Heaven forbid it! I should be very loth to see thee hang! I hope thou hast an alibi well plann'd, An innocent, altho' an ink-black hand. Tho' thou hast newly turn'd thy private bolt on The curiosity of all invaders-- I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton, Who knows a little of the _Holy Land_, Writing thy next new novel--The Crusaders!
V.
Perhaps thou wert even born To be unknown. Perhaps hung, some foggy morn, At Captain Coram's charitable wicket, Penn'd to a ticket That Fate had made illegible, foreseeing The future great unmentionable being. Perhaps thou hast ridden A scholar poor on St. Augustine's back, Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden; A little hoard of clever simulation, That took the town--and Constable has bidden Some hundred pounds for a continuation-- To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation.
VI.
I liked thy Waverley--first of thy breeding; I like its modest "sixty years ago," As if it was not meant for ages' reading. I don't like Ivanhoe, Tho' Dymoke does--it makes him think of clattering In iron overalls before the king, Secure from battering, to ladies flattering, Tuning his challenge to the gauntlets' ring-- Oh better far than all that anvil clang It was to hear thee touch the famous string Of Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang, Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan, Like Sagittarian Pan!
VII.
I like Guy Mannering--but not that sham son Of Brown. I like that literary Sampson, Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson. I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson That slew the Gauger; And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major; And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender, That Scottish Witch of Endor, That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it, To tell a great man's fortune--or to make it!
VIII.
I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on, He makes me think of Mr. Britton, Who has--or had--within his garden wall, A _miniature Stone Henge_, so very small The sparrows find it difficult to sit on; And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor; And Edie Ochiltree, that old _Blue Beggar_, Painted so cleverly, I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly! I like thy Barber--him that fir'd the _Beacon_-- But that's a tender subject now to speak on!
IX.
I like long-arm'd Rob Roy. His very charms Fashion'd him for renown! In sad sincerity, The man that robs or writes must have long arms, If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity! Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity! Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more) Bearing the name she bore, A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy! But Roys can never die--why else, in verity, Is Paris echoing with "Vive le _Roy!_" Ay, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di Vernon, of course, shall often live again-- Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain, Who can pass by Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand? There be Old Bailey Jarveys on the stand!
X.
I like thy Landlord's Tales!--I like that Idol Of love and Lammermoor--the blue-eyed maid That led to church the mounted cavalcade, And then pull'd up with such a bloody bridal! Throwing equestrian Hymen on his haunches-- I like the family--not silver, branches That hold the tapers To light the serious legend of Montrose. I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapours, As if he could not walk or talk alone. Without the devil--or the Great Unknown-- Dalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows!
XI.
I like St. Leonard's Lily--drench'd with dew! I like thy Vision of the Covenanters, That bloody-minded Graham shot and slew. I like the battle lost and won, The hurly-burly's bravely done, The warlike gallops and the warlike _cant_ers! I like that girded chieftain of the ranters, Ready to preach down heathens, or to grapple, With one eye on his sword, And one upon the Word-- How _he_ would cram the Caledonian Chapel! I like stern Claverhouse, though he doth dapple His raven steed with blood of many a corse-- I like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that unravels Her texts of Scripture on a trotting horse-- She is so like Rae Wilson when he travels!
XII.
I like thy Kenilworth--but I'm not going To take a Retrospective Re-Review Of all thy dainty novels--merely showing The old familiar faces of a few, The question to renew, How thou canst leave such deeds without a name, Forego the unclaim'd dividends of fame, Forego the smiles of literary houris-- Mid Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise, And all the Carse of Gowrie's, When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromarty-- Or see thy image on Italian trays, Betwixt Queen Caroline and Buonaparté, Be painted by the Titian of R.A.'s, Or vie in signboards with the Royal Guelph! Perhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's, Perhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself To other Englands with Australian roamers-- Mayhap, in literary Owhyhee Displace the native wooden gods, or be The China-Lar of a Canadian shelf!
XIII.
It is not modesty that bids thee hide-- She never wastes her blushes out of sight: It is not to invite The world's decision, for thy fame is tried,-- And thy fair deeds are scatter'd far and wide, Even royal heads are with thy readers reckon'd,-- From men in trencher caps to trencher scholars In crimson collars, And learned serjeants in the forty-second! Whither by land or sea art thou not beckon'd? Mayhap exported from the Frith of Forth, Defying distance and its dim control; Perhaps read about Stromness, and reckon'd worth A brace of Miltons for capacious soul-- Perhaps studied in the whalers, further north, And set above ten Shakespeares near the pole!
XIV.
Oh, when thou writest by Aladdin's lamp, With such a giant genius at command, For ever at thy stamp, To fill thy treasury from Fairy Land, When haply thou might'st ask the pearly hand Of some great British Vizier's eldest daughter, Tho' princes sought her, And lead her in procession hymeneal, Oh, why dost thou remain a Beau Ideal! Why stay, a ghost, on the Lethean wharf, Envelop'd in Scotch mist and gloomy fogs? Why, but because thou art some puny dwarf, Some hopeless imp, like Riquet with the Tuft, Fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuff'd, Or bullied by our great reviewing Gogs?
XV.
What in this masquing age Maketh Unknowns so many and so shy? What but the critic's page? One hath a cast, he hides from the world's eye, Another hath a wen--he won't show where; A third has sandy hair, A hunch upon his back, or legs awry, Things for a vile reviewer to espy! Another hath a mangel-wurzel nose-- Finally, this is dimpled, Like a pale crumpet face, or that is pimpled; Things for a monthly critic to expose-- Nay, what is thy own case--that being small, Thou choosest to be nobody at all!
XVI.
Well, thou art prudent, with such puny bones-- E'en like Elshender, the mysterious elf, That shadowy revelation of thyself-- To build thee a small hut of haunted stones-- For certainly the first pernicious man That ever saw thee, would quickly draw thee In some vile literary caravan-- Shown for a shilling Would be thy killing. Think of Crachami's miserable span! No tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell in Than there it fell in-- But when she felt herself a show, she tried To shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf! and died!
XVII.
O since it was thy fortune to be born A dwarf on some Scotch _Inch_, and then to flinch From all the Gog-like jostle of great men. Still with thy small crow pen Amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlorn-- Still Scottish story daintily adorn, Be still a shade--and when this age is fled, When we poor sons and daughters of reality Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead, And Time destroys our mottoes of morality, The lithographic hand of Old Mortality Shall still restore thy emblem on the stone, A featureless death's head, And rob Oblivion ev'n of the Unknown!
TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQUIRE,
EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.
Dost thou not suspect my years?--
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
I.
Oh! Mr. Urban! never must _thou_ lurch A sober age made serious drunk by thee; Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church, And nurse thy little bald Biography.
II.
Oh, my Sylvanus! what a heart is thine! And what a page attends thee! Long may I Hang in demure confusion o'er each line That asks thy little questions with a sigh!
III.
Old tottering years have nodded to their falls, Like pensioners that creep about and die; But thou, Old Parr of periodicals, Livest in monthly immortality!
IV.
How sweet!--as Byron of _his_ infant said,-- "Knowledge of objects" in thine eye to trace; To see the mild no-meanings of thy head, Taking a quiet nap upon thy face!
V.
How dear through thy Obituary to roam, And not a name of any name to catch! To meet thy Criticism walking home Averse from rows, and never calling "Watch!"
VI.
Rich is thy page in soporific things,-- Composing compositions,--lulling men,-- Faded old posies of unburied rings,-- Confessions dozing from an opiate pen:--
VII.
Lives of Right Reverends that have never liv'd,-- Deaths of good people that have really died,-- Parishioners,--hatch'd, husbanded, and wiv'd,-- Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side!
VIII.
The sacred query,--the remote response,-- The march of serious mind, extremely slow,-- The graver's cut at some right aged sconce, Famous for nothing many years ago!
IX.
B. asks of C. if Milton e'er did write "Comus," obscured beneath some Ludlow lid;-- And C., next month, an answer doth indite, Informing B. that Mr. Milton did!
X.
X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea, Caught upon Martin Luther years agone; And Mr. Parkes, of Shrewsbury, draws a bee, Long dead, that gather'd honey for King John.
XI.
There is no end of thee,--there is no end, Sylvanus, of thy A, B, C, D-merits! Thou dost, with alphabets, old walls attend, And poke the letters into holes, like ferrets.
XII.
Go on, Sylvanus!--Bear a wary eye, The churches cannot yet be quite run out! Some parishes must yet have been pass'd by,-- There's Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubt!
XIII.
Go on--and close the eyes of distant ages! Nourish the names of the undoubted dead! So epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages, Heavy and lively, though but seldom _red_.
XIV.
Go on! and thrive! Demurest of odd fellows! Bottling up dulness in an ancient binn! Still live! still prose!--continue still to tell us Old truths! no strangers, though we take them in!
AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.
_Archer._ How many are there, Scrub? _Scrub._ Five-and-forty, Sir.--BEAUX STRATAGEM.
For shame--let the linen alone!--M. W. OF WINDSOR.
Mr. Scrub--Mr. Slop--or whoever you be! The Cock of Steam Laundries,--the head Patentee Of Associate Cleansers,--chief founder and prime Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grime-- Co-partners and dealers, in linen's propriety-- That make washing public--and wash in society-- O lend me your ear! if that ear can forego, For a moment, the music that bubbles below,-- From your new Surrey Geisers[216] all foaming and hot,-- That soft "_simmer's_ sang" so endear'd to the Scot-- If your hands may stand still, or your steam without danger-- If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger, Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub-- O wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub-- And lend me your ear,--Let me modestly plead For a race that your labours may soon supersede-- For a race that, now washing no living affords-- Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards, Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease, Not with bread in the funds--or investments of cheese-- But to droop like sad willows that liv'd by a stream, Which the sun has suck'd up into vapour and steam. Ah, look at the laundress, before you begrudge Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge; When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins, She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens, And beginneth her toil while the morn is still grey, As if she was washing the night into day-- Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora Beginneth to scatter the dewdrops before her; Not Venus that rose from the billow so early, Look'd down on the foam with a forehead more _pearly_[217]-- Her head is involv'd in an aërial mist, And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist; Her visage glows warm with the ardour of duty; She's Industry's moral--she's all moral beauty! Growing brighter and brighter at every rub-- Would any man ruin her? No, Mr. Scrub! No man that is manly would work her mishap-- No man that is manly would covet her cap-- Nor her apron--her hose--nor her gown made of stuff-- Nor her gin, nor her tea, nor her wet pinch of snuff! Alas! so _she_ thought, but that slippery hope Has betrayed her, as tho' she had trod on her soap! And she--whose support, like the fishes that fly, Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her sky; She whose living it was, and a part of her fare, To be damp'd once a day, like the great white sea bear, With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mop-- Quite a living absorbent that revell'd in slop-- She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand, And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land!
Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched she stands, Instead of a counterpane, wringing her hands! All haggard and pinch'd, going down in life's vale, With no faggot for burning, like Allan-a-dale! No smoke from her flue--and no steam from her pane, Where once she watch'd heaven, fearing God and the rain-- Or gaz'd o'er her bleach-field so fairly engross'd, Till the lines wander'd idle from pillar to post! Ah, where are the playful young pinners--ah, where The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air-- The brisk waltzing stockings--the white and the black, That danc'd on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack-- The light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn'd, That blew into shape, and embodied the wind! There was white on the grass--there was white on the spray-- Her garden--it look'd like a garden of May! But now all is dark--not a shirt's on a shrub-- You've ruin'd her prospects in life, Mr. Scrub! You've ruin'd her custom--now families drop her-- From her silver reduc'd--nay, reduc'd from her _copper_! The last of her washing is done at her eye, One poor little 'kerchief that never gets dry! From mere lack of linen she can't lay a cloth, And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth; But her children come round her as victuals grow scant, And recall, with foul faces, the source of their want-- When she thinks of their poor little mouths to be fed, And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead, And even its pearlashes laid in the grave-- Whilst her tub is a dry rotting, stave after stave, And the greatest of coopers, ev'n he that they dub Sir Astley, can't bind up her heart or her tub,-- Need you wonder she curses your bones, Mr. Scrub! Need you wonder, when steam has depriv'd her of bread, If she prays that the evil may visit _your_ head-- Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Committee-- If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the city-- In short, not to mention all plagues without number, If she wishes you all in the _Wash_ at the Humber!
Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drowth and despair, When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare-- When the sum of her suds might be summ'd in a bowl, And the rusty cold iron quite enter'd her soul-- When, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eye Had caught the "Cock Laundresses' Coach" going by, Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather, And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together, In a lather of passion that froth'd as it rose, Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose, On her sheet--if a sheet were still left her--to write, Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the light--
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 216: Geisers, the boiling springs in Iceland.]
[Footnote 217: Query, _purly_?--Printer's Devil.]
LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE
FROM BRIDGET JONES,
TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORMING THE WASHING COMMITTEE.
It's a shame, so it is,--men can't Let alone Jobs as is Woman's right to do--and go about there Own-- Theirs Reforms enuff Alreddy without your new schools For washing to sit Up,--and push the Old Tubs from their stools! But your just like the Raddicals,--for upsetting of the Sudds When the world wagged well enuff--and Wommen washed your old dirty duds, I'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no stream Ingins, that's Flat,-- But I Warrant your Four Fathers went as tidy and gentlemanny for all that-- I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle I see on Clapham Commun, some times a very considerable period back when I were little, And they Said it went with Steem,--But that was a joke! For I never see none come of it,--that's out of it--but only sum Smoak-- And for All your Power of Horses about your Ingins you never had but Two In my time to draw you About to Fairs--and curse you, you know that's true! And for All your fine Perspectuses,--howsomever you bewhich 'em, Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at Mitchum, Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another to Do-- It aant as if a Bird'seye Hankicher can take a Bird'shigh view! But Thats your lookout--I've not much to do with that--But pleas God to hold up fine, Id show you caps and pinners and small things as lillywhit as Ever crosst the Line Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place, And Thats more than you Can--and Ill say it behind your face-- But when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you too Speak,-- As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak! Thinks I, when I heard it--Well thear's a Pretty go! That comes o' not marking of things, or washing out the marks, and Huddling 'em up so! Till Their friends comes and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a Vault, But may Hap you havint Larn'd to spel--and that ant your Fault. Only you ought to leafe the Linnens to them as has larn'd,-- For if it warnt for Washing,--and whare Bills is concarnd What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans Edication, And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays--fit for any Cityation.
Well, what I says is This--when every Kittle has its spout, Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steam about! To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuff Wind For blowing up Boats with,--but not to hurt human kind Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's loaded with hot water, Thof a Sheriff might know Better, than make things for slaughter, As if War warnt Cruel enuff--wherever it befalls, Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot washing balls,-- But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced Scrubbs As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Stream rubbing Clubs, For washing Dirt Cheap,--and eating other Peple's grubs! Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea, But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Bo-He! They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be!) And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods, When you and your Steam has ruined (G--d] forgive mee!) their lively Hoods, Poor Women as was born to Washing in their youth! And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth! But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at-- They won't do for Angell's--nor any Trade like That, Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,--for that's all Bespoke,-- For the Queakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confind Folk Do their own of Themselves--even the bettermost of em--aye, and even them of middling degrees-- Why God help you Babby Linen ant Bread and Cheese! Nor we can't go a hammering the roads into Dust, But we must all go and be Bankers,--and that's what we must! God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects, When you nose you have suck'd us and hanged round our Mutherly necks, And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing-- You ant, curse you, like Men to go a slushing and sloshing In mob caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers And prettily jear'd At you great Horse God Meril things, ant you now by you next door neighbours-- Lawk I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp-- And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round They'll scruntch your Bones some day--I'll be bound And no more nor be a gudgement,--for it cant come to good To sit up agin Providince, which your a doing,--nor not fit It should, For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation, Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of Creation-- And can't be dun without in any Country But a Hottinpot Nation. Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs-- But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nayther Bybills or Good Tracks, Or youd know better than Taking the Close off one's Backs-- And let your neighbours oxin and Asses alone,-- And every Thing thats hern,--and give every one their Hone!
Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for herself, And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf, But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen abe And pull off Your Pattins,--and leave the washing to we That nose what's what--Or mark what I say, Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day-- When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their ant nun at all, And Crist mass cum--and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall, Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite in his Chare-- Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash (for you dont wash) but to stew And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew With a vast more like That,--and all along of Steam Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam-- But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good, And I cant say I'm Sorry afore God if you shoud, For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways Without taking ourn,--aye, and Moor to your Prays If You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt, But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt!
Yourn with Anymocity,
BRIDGET JONES.
ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQUIRE,
THE GREAT LESSEE!
_Rover._ Do you know, you villain, that I am this moment the greatest man living?--WILD OATS.
I.
Oh! Great Lessee! Great Manager! Great Man! Oh, Lord High Elliston! Immortal Pan Of all the pipes that play in Drury Lane! Macready's master! Westminster's high _Dane_! As Galway Martin, in the House's walls, Hamlet and Doctor Ireland justly calls! Friend to the sweet and ever-smiling Spring! Magician of the lamp and prompter's ring! Drury's Aladdin! Whipper-in of Actors, Kicker of rebel-preface-malefactors! Glass-blowers' corrector! King of the cheque-taker! At once Great Leamington and Winston-Maker! Dramatic Bolter of plain Bunns and cakes! In silken _hose_ the most reform'd of _Rakes_! Oh, Lord High Elliston! lend me an ear! (Poole is away, and Williams shall keep clear) While I, in little slips of prose, not verse, Thy splendid course, as pattern-work, rehearse!
II.
Bright was thy youth--thy manhood brighter still-- The greatest Romeo upon Holborn Hill-- Lightest comedian of the pleasant day, When Jordan threw her sunshine o'er a play! But these, though happy, were but subject times, And no man cares for bottom-steps that climbs-- Far from my wish it is to stifle down The hours that saw thee snatch the Surrey crown! Tho' now thy hand a mightier sceptre wields, Fair was thy reign in sweet St. George's Fields. Dibdin was _Premier_--and a golden _age_ For a short time enrich'd the subject stage. Thou hadst, than other Kings, more peace-and-plenty; Ours but one Bench could boast, but thou hadst twenty; But the times changed--and Booth-acting no more Drew Rulers' shillings to the gallery door. Thou didst, with bag and baggage, wander thence, Repentant, like thy neighbour Magdalens!
III.
Next, the Olympic Games were tried, each feat Practis'd, the most bewitching in Wych Street. Charles had his royal ribaldry restor'd, And in a downright neighbourhood drank and whor'd; Rochester there in dirty ways again Revell'd--and liv'd once more in Drury Lane: But thou, R. W.! kept thy moral ways, Pit-lecturing 'twixt the farces and the plays, A lamplight Irving to the butcher boys That soil'd the benches and that made a noise:-- "YOU,--in the back!--can scarcely hear a line! Down from those benches--butchers--they are MINE!"
IV.
Lastly--and thou wert built for it by nature!-- Crown'd was thy head in Drury Lane Th_ea_tre! Gentle George Robins saw that it was good, And renters cluck'd around thee in a brood. King thou wert made of Drury and of Kean! Of many a lady and of many a Quean! With Poole and Larpent was thy reign begun-- But now thou turnest from the Dead and Dun, Hook's in thine eye, to write thy plays, no doubt, And Colman lives to cut the damnlet's out! Oh, worthy of the house! the King's commission! Isn't thy condition "a most bless'd condition?" Thou reignest over Winston, Kean, and all The very lofty and the very small-- Showest the plumbless Bunn the way to kick-- Keepest a Williams for thy veriest stick-- Seest a Vestris in her sweetest moments, Without the danger of newspaper comments-- Tellest Macready, as none dared before, Thine open mind from the half-open door!-- (Alas! I fear he has left Melpomene's crown, To be a Boniface in Buxton town!)-- Thou hold'st the watch, as half-price people know, And callest to them, to a moment, "Go!" Teachest the sapient Sapio how to sing-- Hangest a cat most oddly by the wing-- Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot--and kiss'd The pearly whiteness of a Stephens' wrist-- Kissing and pitying--tender and humane! "By heaven she loves me! Oh, it is too plain!" A sigh like this thy trembling passion slips, Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips!
V.
Go on, Lessee! Go on, and prosper well! Fear not, though forty glass-blowers should rebel-- Show them how thou hast long befriended them, And teach Dubois _their_ treason to condemn! Go on! addressing pits in prose and worse! Be long, be slow, be anything but terse-- Kiss to the gallery the hand that's glov'd-- Make Bunn the Great, and Winston the Belov'd, Go on--and but in this reverse the thing, Walk backward with wax lights before the King-- Go on! Spring ever in thine eye! Go on! Hope's favourite child! ethereal Elliston!
ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQUIRE,
M.P. FOR GALWAY.
I.
How many sing of wars, Of Greek and Trojan jars-- The butcheries of men! The Muse hath a "Perpetual Ruby Pen!" Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill; But no one sings the man That, like a pelican, Nourishes Pity with his tender _Bill_!
II.
Thou Wilberforce of hacks! Of whites as well as blacks, Piebald and dapple gray, Chestnut and bay-- No poet's eulogy thy name adorns! But oxen, from the fens, Sheep--in their pens, Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns! Thou art sung on brutal pipes! Drovers may curse thee, Knackers asperse thee, And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes; But the old horse neighs thee, And zebras praise thee, Asses, I mean--that have as many stripes!
III.
Hast thou not taught the drover to forbear, In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ,-- Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air! Bullocks don't wear _Oxide_ of iron! The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon'd oft, Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo, That thought his horse the _courser_ of the two-- Whilst Swift smiled down aloft!-- O worthy pair! for this, when ye inhabit Bodies of birds--(if so the spirit shifts From flesh to feather)--when the clown uplifts His hand against the sparrow's nest, to _grab_ it,-- He shall not harm the MARTINS and the _Swifts_!
IV.
Ah! when Dean Swift was _quick_, how he enhanc'd The horse!--and humbled biped man like Plato! But now he's dead, the charger is mischanc'd-- Gone backward in the world--and not advanc'd,-- Remember Cato! Swift was the horse's champion--not the King's, Whom Southey sings, Mounted on Pegasus--would he were thrown! He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone, Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things! Ah well-a-day! the ancients did not use Their steeds so cruelly!--let it debar men From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse-- Look at the ancients' _Muse_! Look at their _Carmen_!
V.
O, Martin! how thine eye-- That one would think had put aside its lashes,-- That can't bear gashes Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy That horrid window fronting Fetter Lane,-- For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual, Or some man painted in a bloody vein-- Gods! is there no _Horse-spital_! That such raw shows must sicken the humane! Sure Mr. Whittle Loves thee but little, To let that poor horse linger in his _pane_!
VI.
O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses! O wipe away the national reproach-- And find a decent Vulture for their corses! And in thy funeral track Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach! Steeds that confess "the luxury of _wo_!" True mourning steeds, in no extempore black, And many a wretched hack Shall sorrow for thee,--sore with kick and blow And bloody gash--it is the Indian knack-- (Save that the savage is his own tormentor)-- Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf-- The biped woe the quadruped shall enter, And Man and Horse go half and half, As if their grief's met in a common _Centaur_!
ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.
_Author of the Cook's Oracle--Observations on Vocal Music--the Art of Invigorating and Prolonging Life--Practical Observations on Telescopes, Opera Glasses, and Spectacles--the Housekeeper's Ledger--and the Pleasure of Making a Will._
I rule the roast, as Milton says!--CALEB QUOTEM.
I.
Hail! multifarious man! Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton! Born to enlighten The laws of optics, peptics, music, cooking-- Master of the piano--and the pan-- As busy with the kitchen as the skies! Now looking At some rich stew thro' Galileo's eyes, Or boiling eggs--timed to a metronome-- As much at home In spectacles as in mere isinglass-- In the art of frying brown--as a digression On music and poetical expression,-- Whereas, how few of all our cooks, alas! Could tell Calliope from "Calliopee!" How few there be Could leave the lowest for the highest stories, (Observatories,) And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator, However _cook's_ synonymous with _Kater_![218] Alas! still let me say, How few could lay The carving-knife beside the tuning-fork, Like the proverbial _Jack_ ready for any work!
II.
Oh, to behold thy features in thy book! Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate, How it would look! With one rais'd eye watching the dial's date, And one upon the roast, gently cast down-- Thy chops--done nicely brown-- The garnish'd brow--with "a few leaves of bay"-- The hair--"done Wiggy's way!" And still one studious finger near thy brains, As if thou wert just come From editing some New soup--or hashing Dibdin's cold remains! Or, Orpheus-like--fresh from thy dying strains Of music--Epping luxuries of sound, As Milton says, "in many a bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out," Whilst all thy tame stuff'd leopards listen'd round!
III.
Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal, Standing like Fortune,--on the jack--thy wheel. (Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes, Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye!) Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges, As tho' it were the same to sing or fry-- Nay, so it is--hear how Miss Paton's throat Makes "fritters" of a note! And is not reading near akin to feeding, Or why should Oxford sausages be fit Receptacles for wit? Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart, Minc'd brains into a tart? Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts, Book-treats, Equally to instruct the cook and cram her-- Receipts to be devour'd, as well as read, The culinary art in gingerbread-- The Kitchen's _Eaten_ Grammar!
IV.
Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page-- Ay, very pleasant in its chatty vein-- So--in a kitchen--would have talk'd Montaigne, That merry Gascon--humorist, and sage! Let slender minds with single themes engage, Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,-- Or Lovelass upon Wills,--thou goest on Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson! Thy brain is like a rich kaleidoscope, Stuff'd with a brilliant medley of odd bits, And ever shifting on from change to change, Saucepans--old songs--pills--spectacles--and spits! Thy range is wider than a Rumford range! Thy grasp a miracle!--till I recall Th' indubitable cause of thy variety-- Thou art, of course, th' epitome of all That spying--frying--singing--mix'd Society Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet Welsh Rabbits--and thyself--in Warren Street!
V.
Oh, hast thou still those conversazioni, Where learned visitors discoursed--and fed? There came Belzoni, Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead-- And gentle Poki--and that royal pair, Of whom thou didst declare-- "Thanks to the greatest _Cooke_ we ever read-- They were--what _Sandwiches_ should be--half _bred_!" There fam'd M'Adam from his manual toil Relax'd--and freely own'd he took thy hints On "making _broth_ with _flints_"-- There Parry came, and show'd the polar oil For melted butter--Coombe with his medullary Notions about the _scullery_, And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil-- There witty Rogers came, that punning elf! Who used to swear thy book Would really look A _Delphic_ "Oracle," if laid on _Delf_-- There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss'd His own--and thy own--"_Magazine_ of _Taste_"-- There Wilberforce the Just Came, in his old black suit, till once he trac'd Thy sly advice to _poachers_ of black folks, That "do not break their _yolks_,"-- Which huff'd him home, in grave disgust and haste!
VI.
There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore Thy _patties_--thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore, Who call'd thee _Kitchen Addison_--for why? Thou givest rules for health and peptic pills, Forms for made dishes, and receipts for wills, "_Teaching us how to live and how to die!_" There came thy cousin-cook, good Mrs. Fry-- There Trench, the Thames projector, first brought on His sine _Quay_ non,-- There Martin would drop in on Monday eves, Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 'Gainst cattle days and death,-- Answer'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves, Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager For fighting on soup meagre-- "And yet (as thou wouldst add) the French have seen A Marshal _Tureen_!"
VII.
Great was thy evening cluster!--often grac'd With Dollond--Burgess--and Sir Humphry Davy! 'Twas there M'Dermot first inclin'd to taste,-- There Colburn learn'd the art of making paste For puffs--and Accum analysed a gravy. Colman, the cutter of Colman Street, 'tis said Came there, and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head, (His claim to letters)--Kater, too, the Moon's Crony,--and Graham, lofty on balloons, There Croly stalk'd with holy humour heated, (Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed), And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons, Madame Valbrèque thrice honour'd thee, and came With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,-- And even Irving spar'd a night from fame, And talk'd--till thou didst stop him in the middle, To serve round _Tewah-diddle_![219]
VIII.
Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye! So let them:--thou thyself art still a _Host_! Dibdin--Cornaro--Newton--Mrs. Fry! Mrs. Glasse--Mr. Spec!--Lovelass--and Weber, Mathews in Quotem--Moore's fire-worshipping Gheber-- Thrice-worthy worthy! seem by thee engross'd! Howbeit the peptic cook still rules the roast, Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling,-- And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion! Thou art, sans question, The Corporation's love--its Doctor _Darling_! Look at the civic palate--nay, the bed Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying "Illustrations of _Lying!"_ Ninety square feet of down from heel to head It measured, and I dread Was haunted by a terrible night _Mare_, A monstrous burthen on the corporation!-- Look at the bill of fare, for one day's share, Sea-turtles by the score--oxen by droves, Geese, turkeys, by the flock--fishes and loaves Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration!
IX.
Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven The squatting demon from great Garratt's breast-- (His honour seems to rest!--) And what is thy reward?--Hath London given Thee public thanks for thy important service? Alas! not even The tokens it bestow'd on Howe and Jervis!-- Yet could I speak as orators should speak Before the worshipful the Common Council (Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill), Thou shouldst not miss thy freedom, for a week, Richly engross'd on vellum:--Reason urges That he who rules our cookery--that he Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be A _Citizen_, where sauce can make a _Burgess_!
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 218: Captain Kater, the Moon's Surveyor.]
[Footnote 219: The Doctor's composition for a _nightcap_.]
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1 The Arabian Nights, Unabridged, 8 plates. 2 Don Quixote, Unabridged. 3 Gil Blas, Adventures of, Unabridged. 4 Curiosities of Literature, by Isaac D'Israeli, Complete Edition. 5 A Thousand and One Gems of British Poetry. 6 The Blackfriars Shakspere, edited by Charles Knight. 7 Cruden's Concordance, by Carey. 8 Boswell's Life of Dr. Johnson. 9 The Works of Oliver Goldsmith. 11 The Family Doctor, 500 woodcuts. 12 Sterne's Works, Complete. 13 Ten Thousand Wonderful Things. 14 Extraordinary Popular Delusions, by Dr. Mackay. 16 Bartlett's Familiar Quotations. 17 The Spectator, by Addison, &c. Unabridged. 18 Routledge's Modern Speaker--Comic--Serious--Dramatic. 19 One Thousand and One Gems of Prose, edited by C. Mackay. 20 Pope's Homer's Iliad and Odyssey. 23 Josephus, translated by Whiston. 24 Book of Proverbs, Phrases, Quotations, and Mottoes. 25 The Book of Modern Anecdotes--Theatrical, Legal, and American. 26 Book of Table Talk, W. C. Russell. 27 Junius, Woodfall's edition. 28 Charles Lamb's Works. 29 Froissart's Chronicles. 30 D'Aubigne's Story of the Reformation. 31 A History of England, by the Rev. James White. 32 Macaulay--Selected Essays, Miscellaneous Writings. 33 Carleton's Traits, 1st series. 34 ---- as it represents "Carleton's Traits"] 2nd series. 35 Essays by Sydney Smith. 36 Dante. Longfellow's translation. 51 Prescott's Biographical and Critical Essays. 52 Napier's History of the Peninsular War, 1807-10. 53----1810-12. 54 White's Natural History of Selborne, with many illustrations. 55 Dean Milman's History of the Jews. 56 Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry. 57 Chaucer's Poetical Works. 58 Longfellow's Prose Works. 59 Spenser's Poetical Works. 60 Asmodeus, by Le Sage. 61 Book of British Ballads, S. C. Hall. 62 Plutarch's Lives (Langhorne's ed.) 64 Book of Epigrams, W. D. Adams. 65 Longfellow's Poems (Comp. ed.) 66 Lempriere's Classical Dictionary. 67 Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations. 68 Father Prout's Works, edited by C. Kent. 69 Carleton's Traits and Stories. _Complete in one volume._ 70 Walker's Rhyming Dictionary. 71 Macfarlane's Hist. of British India. 72 Defoe's Journal of the Plague and the Great Fire of London, with illustrations on steel by George Cruikshank. 73 Glimpses of the Past, by C. Knight. 74 Michaud's History of the Crusades, vol. 1. 75 ---- vol. 2. 76 ---- vol. 3. 77 A Thousand and One Gems of Song, edited by C. Mackay. 78 Motley's Rise of the Dutch Republic. 79 Prescott's Ferdinand and Isabella. Complete. 80 ---- Conquest of Mexico. Comp. 81 ---- Conquest of Peru. Comp. 82 ---- Charles the Fifth. 83 ---- Philip the Second. Vols. 1 and 2 in 1 vol. 84 ---- Vol. 3 and Essays in 1 vol. 85 Jeremy Taylor's Life of Christ. 86 Traditions of Lancashire, by John Roby, vol. 1. 87 ---- vol. 2. 88 "The Breakfast Table Series"--The Autocrat--The Professor--The Poet--by Oliver Wendell Holmes, with steel portrait. 89 Romaine's Life, Walk, and Triumph of Faith. 90 Napier's History of the Peninsular War, 1812-14. 91 Hawker's Poor Man's Daily Portion. 92 Chevreul on Colour, with 8 coloured plates. 93 Shakspere, edited by C. Knight, large type edition, with full-page illustrations, vol. 1. 94 ---- vol. 2. 95 ---- vol. 3. 96 The Spectator, large type ed., vol. 1. 97 ---- vol. 2. 98 ---- vol. 3. 99 R. W. Emerson's Complete Works. 100 Boswell's Life of Johnson and Tour to the Hebrides, vol. 1. 101 ---- vol. 2. 102 ---- vol. 3. 103 S. Knowles' Dramatic Works. 104 Roscoe's (W.) Lorenzo de Medici. 105 ---- (W.) Life of Leo X., vol. 1. 106 ---- vol. 2. 107 Berington's Literary History of the Middle Ages.
+--------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | Transcriber Notes: | | | | P.5: 'INTRODUTION' changed to 'INTRODUCTION'. | | P.83. 'beesech' changed to 'beseech'. | | P.103. 'quetions' changed to 'questions'. | | P.111. 'Futnre' changed to 'future'. | | P.145. 'acqaintance' changed to 'acquaintance'. | | P.187. 'Queeen' changed to 'Queen'. | | P.188. '-cophronio' changed to '-cophornio | | P.281. 'surpise' changed to 'surprise'. | | Fixed various punctuation. | | The equals sign is used to surround =bold text=; | | underscores to surround _italic text_. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+