A TALE OF DRURY LANE.

You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force,Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse:We want theirstrength, agreed; but we atoneFor that and more, bysweetnessall our own.Gifford.

You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force,

Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse:

We want theirstrength, agreed; but we atone

For that and more, bysweetnessall 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 DruryO'er the empyreal crest,When Alecto's sister-furySoftly slumb'ring sunk to rest.III.Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,Cytherea yielding tamelyTo 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 secondFires again Diana's fane;By the fates from Orcus beckon'd,Clouds envelop Drury Lane.VI.Lurid smoke and frank suspicionHand 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 ensanguined chalice,Mantling pours the orient wave.X.Pan beheld Patroclus dying,Nox to Niobe was turn'd;From Busiris Bacchus flyingSaw 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 numbersGem the blushes of the morn!Break, Amphion, break your slumbers,Nature's ringlets deck the thorn.XIII.Ha! I hear the strain erraticDimly glance from pole to pole;Raptures sweet and dreams ecstaticFire 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!

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

Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting,

Shade me with your azure wing;

On Parnassus' summit sitting,

Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

Softly slept the dome of DruryO'er the empyreal crest,When Alecto's sister-furySoftly slumb'ring sunk to rest.

Softly slept the dome of Drury

O'er the empyreal crest,

When Alecto's sister-fury

Softly slumb'ring sunk to rest.

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

Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,

Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,

Cytherea yielding tamely

To the Cyclops dark and dire.

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

Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,

Dulcet joys and sports of youth,

Soon must yield to haughty sadness;

Mercy holds the veil to Truth.

See Erostratus the secondFires again Diana's fane;By the fates from Orcus beckon'd,Clouds envelop Drury Lane.

See Erostratus the second

Fires again Diana's fane;

By the fates from Orcus beckon'd,

Clouds envelop Drury Lane.

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

Lurid smoke and frank suspicion

Hand in hand reluctant dance:

While the God fulfils his mission,

Chivalry, resign thy lance.

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

Hark! the engines blandly thunder,

Fleecy clouds dishevell'd lie,

And the firemen, mute with wonder,

On the son of Saturn cry.

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

See the bird of Ammon sailing,

Perches on the engine's peak,

And, the Eagle firemen hailing,

Soothes them with its bickering beak.

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

Juno saw, and mad with malice,

Lost the prize that Paris gave:

Jealousy's ensanguined chalice,

Mantling pours the orient wave.

Pan beheld Patroclus dying,Nox to Niobe was turn'd;From Busiris Bacchus flyingSaw his Semele inurn'd.

Pan beheld Patroclus dying,

Nox to Niobe was turn'd;

From Busiris Bacchus flying

Saw his Semele inurn'd.

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

Thus fell Drury's lofty glory,

Levell'd with the shuddering stones;

Mars, with tresses black and gory,

Drinks the dew of pearly groans.

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

Hark! what soft Eolian numbers

Gem the blushes of the morn!

Break, Amphion, break your slumbers,

Nature's ringlets deck the thorn.

Ha! I hear the strain erraticDimly glance from pole to pole;Raptures sweet and dreams ecstaticFire my everlasting soul.

Ha! I hear the strain erratic

Dimly glance from pole to pole;

Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic

Fire my everlasting soul.

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

Where is Cupid's crimson motion?

Billowy ecstasy of woe,

Bear me straight, meandering ocean,

Where the stagnant torrents flow.

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

Blood in every vein is gushing,

Vixen vengeance lulls my heart;

See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!

Never, never let us part!

'"Drury's Dirge," by Laura Matilda, is not of the first quality. The verses, to be sure, are very smooth, and very nonsensical—as was intended; but they are not so good as Swift's celebrated Song by a Person of Quality; and are so exactly in the same measure, and on the same plan, that it is impossible to avoid making the comparison.'—Edinburgh Review.

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.[33]—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 dightOf 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 advanceTo yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,[34]And tell the town what sad mischanceDid Drury Lane befall.The Night.On fair Augusta's towers and treesFlitted the silent midnight breeze,Curling the foliage as it past,Which from the moon-tipp'd plumage castA spangled light, like dancing spray,Then re-assumed its still array;When, as night's lamp unclouded hung,And down its full effulgence flung,It shed such soft and balmy powerThat cot and castle, hall and bower,And spire and dome, and turret height,Appeared to slumber in the light.From Henry's chapel, Rufus' hall,To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul,From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,To Redriff, Shadwell, Horsleydown,No voice was heard, no eye unclosed,But all in deepest sleep reposed.They might have thought, who gazed aroundAmid a silence so profound,It made the senses thrill,That 'twas no place inhabited,But some vast city of the dead—All was so hush'd and still.The Burning.As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,Had slept in everlasting gloom,Started with terror and surpriseWhen light first flash'd upon her eyes—So London's sons in nightcap woke,In bedgown woke her dames;For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke,And twice ten hundred voices spoke—'The playhouse is in flames!'And, lo! where Catherine Street extends,A fiery tail its lustre lendsTo every window-pane;Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,And Covent Garden kennels sportA bright ensanguined drain;Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,Rowland Hill's chapel, and the heightWhere patent shot they sell;The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,The ticket-porters' house of call,Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,[35]Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,And Richardson's Hotel.Nor these alone, but far and wide,Across red Thames's gleaming tide,To distant fields, the blaze was borne,And daisy white and hoary thornIn borrow'd lustre seem'd to shamThe rose or red Sweet Wil-li-am.To those who on the hills aroundBeheld the flames from Drury's mound,As from a lofty altar rise,It seem'd that nations did conspireTo offer to the god of fireSome 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 viewThe badge of each respective crew,In tin or copper traced.The engines thunder'd through the street,Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,And torches glared, and clattering feetAlong 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 oil-skin hat he wore,The cane he had, his men to bang,Show'd foreman of the British gang—His name was Higginbottom. Now'Tis meet that I should tell you howThe others came in view:The Hand-in-Hand the race begun,Then came the Phœnix 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 sprainBefore the plug was found.Hobson and Jobson did not sleep,But ah! no trophy could they reap,For both were in the Donjon KeepOf 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 slowTo 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 roofDown, 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 ireServed but to share his grave!Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,Through 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 stumpsWhy 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 rumRoast beef and pudding of the plum;Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come,With bread of ginger brown thy thumb,For this is Drury's gay day:Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops,And buy, to glad thy smiling chops,Crisp parliament with lollypops,And fingers of the Lady.Didst mark, how toil'd the busy train,From morn to eve, till Drury LaneLeap'd like a roebuck from the plain?Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,And nimble workmen trod;To realise bold Wyatt's planRush'd many a howling Irishman;Loud clatter'd many a porter-can,And many a raggamuffin clan,With trowel and with hod.Drury revives! her rounded pateIs 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 appearsDangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears[36]Have cut the bauble off.Yes, she exalts her stately head;And, but that solid bulk outspreadOpposed you on your onward tread,And posts and pillars warrantedThat all was true that Wyatt said,You might have deem'd her walls so thickWere 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!

Survey this shield, all bossy bright—

These cuisses twain behold!

Look on my form in armour dight

Of steel inlaid with gold;

My knees are stiff in iron buckles,

Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.

These once belong'd to sable prince,

Who never did in battle wince;

With valour tart as pungent quince,

He slew the vaunting Gaul.

Rest there awhile, my bearded lance,

While from green curtain I advance

To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,[34]

And tell the town what sad mischance

Did Drury Lane befall.

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

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 re-assumed its still array;

When, as night's lamp unclouded hung,

And down its full effulgence flung,

It shed such soft and balmy power

That cot and castle, hall and bower,

And spire and dome, and turret height,

Appeared to slumber in the light.

From Henry's chapel, Rufus' hall,

To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul,

From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,

To 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—

All was so hush'd and still.

As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,Had slept in everlasting gloom,Started with terror and surpriseWhen light first flash'd upon her eyes—So London's sons in nightcap woke,In bedgown woke her dames;For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke,And twice ten hundred voices spoke—'The playhouse is in flames!'And, lo! where Catherine Street extends,A fiery tail its lustre lendsTo every window-pane;Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,And Covent Garden kennels sportA bright ensanguined drain;Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,Rowland Hill's chapel, and the heightWhere patent shot they sell;The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,The ticket-porters' house of call,Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,[35]Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,And Richardson's Hotel.Nor these alone, but far and wide,Across red Thames's gleaming tide,To distant fields, the blaze was borne,And daisy white and hoary thornIn borrow'd lustre seem'd to shamThe rose or red Sweet Wil-li-am.To those who on the hills aroundBeheld the flames from Drury's mound,As from a lofty altar rise,It seem'd that nations did conspireTo offer to the god of fireSome 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 viewThe badge of each respective crew,In tin or copper traced.The engines thunder'd through the street,Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,And torches glared, and clattering feetAlong 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 oil-skin hat he wore,The cane he had, his men to bang,Show'd foreman of the British gang—His name was Higginbottom. Now'Tis meet that I should tell you howThe others came in view:The Hand-in-Hand the race begun,Then came the Phœnix 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 sprainBefore the plug was found.Hobson and Jobson did not sleep,But ah! no trophy could they reap,For both were in the Donjon KeepOf Bridewell's gloomy mound!

As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,

Had slept in everlasting gloom,

Started with terror and surprise

When light first flash'd upon her eyes—

So London's sons in nightcap woke,

In bedgown woke her dames;

For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke,

And twice ten hundred voices spoke—

'The playhouse is in flames!'

And, lo! where Catherine Street extends,

A fiery tail its lustre lends

To every window-pane;

Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,

And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,

And Covent Garden kennels sport

A bright ensanguined drain;

Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,

Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height

Where patent shot they sell;

The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,

Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,

The ticket-porters' house of call,

Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,[35]

Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,

And Richardson's Hotel.

Nor these alone, but far and wide,

Across red Thames's gleaming tide,

To distant fields, the blaze was borne,

And daisy white and hoary thorn

In borrow'd lustre seem'd to sham

The rose or red Sweet Wil-li-am.

To those who on the hills around

Beheld the flames from Drury's mound,

As from a lofty altar rise,

It seem'd that nations did conspire

To offer to the god of fire

Some vast stupendous sacrifice!

The summon'd firemen woke at call,

And hied them to their stations all:

Starting from short and broken snooze,

Each sought his pond'rous hobnail'd shoes,

But first his worsted hosen plied,

Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,

His nether bulk embraced;

Then jacket thick, of red or blue,

Whose massy shoulder gave to view

The badge of each respective crew,

In tin or copper traced.

The engines thunder'd through the street,

Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,

And torches glared, and clattering feet

Along the pavement paced.

And one, the leader of the band,

From Charing Cross along the Strand,

Like stag by beagles hunted hard,

Ran till he stopp'd at Vin'gar Yard.

The burning badge his shoulder bore,

The belt and oil-skin hat he wore,

The cane he had, his men to bang,

Show'd foreman of the British gang—

His name was Higginbottom. Now

'Tis meet that I should tell you how

The others came in view:

The Hand-in-Hand the race begun,

Then came the Phœnix 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 slowTo 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 roofDown, 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!

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 ireServed but to share his grave!Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,Through 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 stumpsWhy 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.

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,

Through 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.

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 rumRoast beef and pudding of the plum;Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come,With bread of ginger brown thy thumb,For this is Drury's gay day:Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops,And buy, to glad thy smiling chops,Crisp parliament with lollypops,And fingers of the Lady.

Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom,

And toil rebuilds what fires consume!

Eat we and drink we, be our ditty,

'Joy to the managing committee!'

Eat we and drink we, join to rum

Roast beef and pudding of the plum;

Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come,

With bread of ginger brown thy thumb,

For this is Drury's gay day:

Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops,

And buy, to glad thy smiling chops,

Crisp parliament with lollypops,

And fingers of the Lady.

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

Didst mark, how toil'd the busy train,

From morn to eve, till Drury Lane

Leap'd like a roebuck from the plain?

Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,

And nimble workmen trod;

To realise bold Wyatt's plan

Rush'd many a howling Irishman;

Loud clatter'd many a porter-can,

And many a raggamuffin clan,

With trowel and with hod.

Drury revives! her rounded pateIs 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 appearsDangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears[36]Have cut the bauble off.

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[36]

Have cut the bauble off.

Yes, she exalts her stately head;And, but that solid bulk outspreadOpposed you on your onward tread,And posts and pillars warrantedThat all was true that Wyatt said,You might have deem'd her walls so thickWere 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!

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!

'From the parody of Walter Scott we know not what to select—it is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as amusing specimens of themisapplicationof the style and metre of Mr. Scott's admirable romances.'—Quarterly Review.'"A Tale of Drury," by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably executed; though the introduction is rather tame. The burning is described with the mighty minstrel's characteristic love of localities. The catastrophe is described with a spirit not unworthy of the name so venturously assumed by the describer.'—Edinburgh Review.

'"A Tale of Drury," by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably executed; though the introduction is rather tame. The burning is described with the mighty minstrel's characteristic love of localities. The catastrophe is described with a spirit not unworthy of the name so venturously assumed by the describer.'—Edinburgh Review.

[Ghost of Dr.Johnsonrises from trap-door P. S., and Ghost ofBoswellfrom trap-door O. P. The latter bows respectfully to the House, and obsequiously to the Doctor's Ghost, and retires.]

That which was organised by the moral ability of one has been executed by the physical efforts of many, andDrury Lane Theatreis 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 chatterwith impunity; debarred, by a barrier of brick and mortar, from marring that scenic interest in others, which nature and education have disqualified him from comprehending himself.

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

Amid the general hum of gratulation which flatters us in front, it is fit that some regard should be paid to the murmurs of despondence that assail us in the rear. They, as I have elsewhere expressed it, 'who live to please,' should not have their own pleasures entirely overlooked. The children of Thespis are general in their censures of the architect, 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[38]has laid it down as a rule, that the best good thing uttered by the morning visitorshould conduct him rapidly to the doorway, last impressions vying in durability with first. But when, on this boarded elongation, it falls to my lot to say a good thing, to ejaculate, 'keep moving,' or to chant, 'hic hoc horum genitivo,' many are the moments that must elapse, ere I can hide myself from public vision in the recesses of O. P. or P. S.

To objections like these, captiously urged and querulously maintained, it is time that equity should conclusively reply. Deviation from scenic propriety has only to vituperate itself for the consequences it generates. Let the actor consider the line of exit as that line beyond which he should not soar in quest of spurious applause: let him reflect, that in proportion as he advances to the lamps, he recedes from nature; that the truncheon of Hotspur acquires no additional charm from encountering the cheek of beauty in the stage-box, and that the bravura of Mandane may produce effect, although the throat of her who warbles it should not overhang the orchestra. The Jove of the modern critical Olympus, Lord Mayor of the theatric sky,[39]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 invirid 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.

Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida silvas.—Virgil.

Scene draws, and discovers a Lady asleep on a couch.

EnterPhilander.

PHILANDER.I.Sobriety, cease to be sober,[41]Cease, Labour, to dig and to delve;All hail to this tenth of October,One thousand eight hundred and twelve!Ha! whom do my peepers remark?'Tis Hebe with Jupiter's jug;O no, 'tis the pride of the Park,Fair Lady Elizabeth Mugg.II.Why, beautiful nymph, do you closeThe curtain that fringes your eye?Why veil in the clouds of reposeThe sun that should brighten our sky?Perhaps jealous Venus has oiledYour hair with some opiate drug,Not choosing her charms should be foiledBy Lady Elizabeth Mugg.III.But ah! why awaken the blazeThose bright burning-glasses contain,Whose lens with concentrated raysProved fatal to old Drury Lane?'Twas all accidental, they cry,—Away with the flimsy humbug!'Twas fired by a flash from the eyeOf Lady Elizabeth Mugg.IV.Thy glance can in us raise a flame,Then why should old Drury be free?Our doom and its dome are the same,Both subject to beauty's decree.No candles the workmen consumed,When deep in the ruins they dug;Thy flash still their progress illumed,Sweet Lady Elizabeth Mugg.V.Thy face a rich fire-place displays:The mantel-piece marble—thy brows;Thine eyes, are the bright beaming blaze;Thy bib, which no trespass allows,The fender's tall barrier marks;Thy tippet's the fire-quelling rug,Which serves to extinguish the sparksOf Lady Elizabeth Mugg.VI.The Countess a lily appears,Whose tresses the pearl-drops emboss;The Marchioness, blooming in years,A rose-bud enveloped in moss;But thou art the sweet passion-flower,For who would not slavery hug,To pass but one exquisite hourIn 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 dressed out,Or tulips bespangled with dew.Her two lips denied to man's suit,Are shared with her favourite Pug;What lord would not change with the brute,To live with Elizabeth Mugg?VIII.Could the stage be a large vis-à-vis,Reserved for the polished and great,Where each happy lover might seeThe 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 boastA bumper of fashion and ton.Again should it burst in a blaze,In vain would they ply Congreve's plug,[42]For nought could extinguish the raysFrom 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 whiskTransport us to Hanover Square:St. George's should lend us its shrine,The parson his shoulders might shrug,But a license should force him to joinMy hand in the hand of my Mugg.XI.Court-plaster the weapons should tip,By Cupid shot down from above,Which, cut into spots for thy lip,Should still barb the arrows of love.The god who from others flies quick,With us should be slow as a slug;As close as a leech he should stickTo me and Elizabeth Mugg.XII.For Time would, with us, 'stead of sand,Put filings of steel in his glass,To dry up the blots of his hand,And spangle life's page as they pass.Since all flesh is grass ere 'tis hay,[43]O may I in clover live snug,And when old Time mows me away,Be stacked with defunct Lady Mugg!

PHILANDER.

Sobriety, cease to be sober,[41]Cease, Labour, to dig and to delve;All hail to this tenth of October,One thousand eight hundred and twelve!Ha! whom do my peepers remark?'Tis Hebe with Jupiter's jug;O no, 'tis the pride of the Park,Fair Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

Sobriety, cease to be sober,[41]

Cease, Labour, to dig and to delve;

All hail to this tenth of October,

One thousand eight hundred and twelve!

Ha! whom do my peepers remark?

'Tis Hebe with Jupiter's jug;

O no, 'tis the pride of the Park,

Fair Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

Why, beautiful nymph, do you closeThe curtain that fringes your eye?Why veil in the clouds of reposeThe sun that should brighten our sky?Perhaps jealous Venus has oiledYour hair with some opiate drug,Not choosing her charms should be foiledBy Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

Why, beautiful nymph, do you close

The curtain that fringes your eye?

Why veil in the clouds of repose

The sun that should brighten our sky?

Perhaps jealous Venus has oiled

Your hair with some opiate drug,

Not choosing her charms should be foiled

By Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

But ah! why awaken the blazeThose bright burning-glasses contain,Whose lens with concentrated raysProved fatal to old Drury Lane?'Twas all accidental, they cry,—Away with the flimsy humbug!'Twas fired by a flash from the eyeOf Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

But ah! why awaken the blaze

Those bright burning-glasses contain,

Whose lens with concentrated rays

Proved fatal to old Drury Lane?

'Twas all accidental, they cry,—

Away with the flimsy humbug!

'Twas fired by a flash from the eye

Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

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

Thy glance can in us raise a flame,

Then why should old Drury be free?

Our doom and its dome are the same,

Both subject to beauty's decree.

No candles the workmen consumed,

When deep in the ruins they dug;

Thy flash still their progress illumed,

Sweet Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

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

Thy face a rich fire-place displays:

The mantel-piece marble—thy brows;

Thine eyes, are the bright beaming blaze;

Thy bib, which no trespass allows,

The fender's tall barrier marks;

Thy tippet's the fire-quelling rug,

Which serves to extinguish the sparks

Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

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

The Countess a lily appears,

Whose tresses the pearl-drops emboss;

The Marchioness, blooming in years,

A rose-bud enveloped in moss;

But thou art the sweet passion-flower,

For who would not slavery hug,

To pass but one exquisite hour

In the arms of Elizabeth Mugg?

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

When at court, or some Dowager's rout,

Her diamond aigrette meets our view,

She looks like a glow-worm dressed out,

Or tulips bespangled with dew.

Her two lips denied to man's suit,

Are shared with her favourite Pug;

What lord would not change with the brute,

To live with Elizabeth Mugg?

Could the stage be a large vis-à-vis,Reserved for the polished and great,Where each happy lover might seeThe 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.

Could the stage be a large vis-à-vis,

Reserved for the polished and great,

Where each happy lover might see

The nymph he adores tête-à-tête;

No longer I'd gaze on the ground,

And the load of despondency lug,

For I'd book myself all the year round,

To ride with the sweet Lady Mugg.

Yes, she in herself is a host,And if she were here all alone,Our house might nocturnally boastA bumper of fashion and ton.Again should it burst in a blaze,In vain would they ply Congreve's plug,[42]For nought could extinguish the raysFrom the glance of divine Lady Mugg.

Yes, she in herself is a host,

And if she were here all alone,

Our house might nocturnally boast

A bumper of fashion and ton.

Again should it burst in a blaze,

In vain would they ply Congreve's plug,[42]

For nought could extinguish the rays

From the glance of divine Lady Mugg.

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

O could I as Harlequin frisk,

And thou be my Columbine fair,

My wand should with one magic whisk

Transport us to Hanover Square:

St. George's should lend us its shrine,

The parson his shoulders might shrug,

But a license should force him to join

My hand in the hand of my Mugg.

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

Court-plaster the weapons should tip,

By Cupid shot down from above,

Which, cut into spots for thy lip,

Should still barb the arrows of love.

The god who from others flies quick,

With us should be slow as a slug;

As close as a leech he should stick

To me and Elizabeth Mugg.

For Time would, with us, 'stead of sand,Put filings of steel in his glass,To dry up the blots of his hand,And spangle life's page as they pass.Since all flesh is grass ere 'tis hay,[43]O may I in clover live snug,And when old Time mows me away,Be stacked with defunct Lady Mugg!

For Time would, with us, 'stead of sand,

Put filings of steel in his glass,

To dry up the blots of his hand,

And spangle life's page as they pass.

Since all flesh is grass ere 'tis hay,[43]

O may I in clover live snug,

And when old Time mows me away,

Be stacked with defunct Lady Mugg!

'"The Beautiful Incendiary," by the Honourable W. Spencer, is also an imitation of great merit. The flashy, fashionable, artificial style of this writer, with his confident and extravagant compliments, can scarcely be said to be parodied in such lines.'—Edinburgh Review.

Omnia transformat sese in miracula rerum.—Virgil.

My palate is parched with Pierian thirst,Away to Parnassus I'm beckoned;List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehearsed,I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first,And the birth of Miss Drury the second.The Fire King, one day, rather amorous felt;He mounted his hot copper filly;His breeches and boots were of tin, and the beltWas made of cast iron, for fear it should meltWith 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 baptised, 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 tryTo 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 spiced 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 lime-kiln for drying.When he open'd his mouth, out there issued a blast(Nota bene, I do not mean swearing),But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast,I've heard it from those who have seen it, surpass'dA shot manufactory flaring.He blazed, and he blazed, as he gallop'd to snatchHis 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 enthralIn his cinder-producing alliance?'Tis Drury Lane Playhouse, so wide, and so tall,Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall,If she cannot set sparks at defiance.On his warming-pan kneepan he clattering roll'd,And the housemaid his hand would have taken,But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold,And she soon let it go, but her new ring of goldAll 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, upsprungA second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young,And sportedin 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, youCome here with your tinderbox, courting the New,I'll have you indicted for bigamy!'

My palate is parched with Pierian thirst,

Away to Parnassus I'm beckoned;

List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehearsed,

I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first,

And the birth of Miss Drury the second.

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

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 baptised, gave a fizz,And bubbled and simmer'd and started off, whizz!As soon as it sprinkled his forehead.

Sure never was skin half so scalding as his!

When an infant 'twas equally horrid;

For the water, when he was baptised, 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 tryTo play the piano in thimbles.

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.

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 spiced gingerbread,Which black from the oven he gnashes.

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 spiced 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 lime-kiln for drying.

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 lime-kiln for drying.

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

When he open'd his mouth, out there issued a blast

(Nota bene, I do not mean swearing),

But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast,

I've heard it from those who have seen it, surpass'd

A shot manufactory flaring.

He blazed, and he blazed, as he gallop'd to snatchHis 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.

He blazed, and he blazed, 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 enthralIn 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.

And who is the housemaid he means to enthral

In his cinder-producing alliance?

'Tis Drury Lane Playhouse, so wide, and so tall,

Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall,

If she cannot set sparks at defiance.

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

On his warming-pan kneepan he clattering roll'd,

And the housemaid his hand would have taken,

But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold,

And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold

All melted, like butter or bacon!

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

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.

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, upsprungA second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young,And sportedin loco sororis.

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 sportedin 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:

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, youCome here with your tinderbox, courting the New,I'll have you indicted for bigamy!'

'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!'

'"Fire and Ale," by M. G. Lewis, exhibits not only a faithful copy of the spirited, loose, and flowing versification of that singular author, but a very just representation of that mixture of extravagance and jocularity which has impressed most of his writings with the character of a sort of farcical horror.'—Edinburgh Review.

Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olimCredebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquamDecurrens alio, neque si bene.Horace.

Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim

Credebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquam

Decurrens alio, neque si bene.

Horace.

My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad?I had a grandmother, she kept a donkeyTo 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 OctoberAgain assembles us in Drury Lane.Long wept my eye to see the timber planksThat hid our ruins; many a day I cried,Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it!Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve,As along Charles Street I prepared to walk,Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's,I heard a trowel tick against a brick.I look'd me up, and straight a parapetUprose at least seven inches o'er the planks.Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said:He[46]of Blackfriars' Road, who hymn'd thy downfallIn loud Hosannahs, and who prophesiedThat 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'sBox-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders.They had a plan to render less their labours;Workmen in olden times would mount a ladderWith hooded heads, but these stretch'd forth a poleFrom the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulleyAthwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley;To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricksThus freighted, swung securely to the top,And in the empty basket workmen twainPrecipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.Oh! 'twas a goodly sound, to hear the peopleWho watch'd the work, express their various thoughts!While some believed it never would be finish'd,Some, on the contrary, believed it would.I've heard our front that faces Drury LaneMuch criticised; they say 'tis vulgar brick-work,A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth.One of the morning papers wish'd that frontCemented 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 tablesGleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun;White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet Street,The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders,Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury's face.Oh, Mr. Whitbread![47]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 mudSoaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow,She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papaCries, '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'dBack 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 animalsBrought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit,Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig;Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinistOf former Drury, imitated lifeQuite 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.[48]Nought born on earth should die. On hackney standsI reverence the coachman who cries 'Gee,'And spares the lash. When I behold a spiderPrey on a fly, a magpie on a worm,Or view a butcher with horn-handled knifeSlaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton,Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick!

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 OctoberAgain assembles us in Drury Lane.Long wept my eye to see the timber planksThat hid our ruins; many a day I cried,Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it!Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve,As along Charles Street I prepared to walk,Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's,I heard a trowel tick against a brick.I look'd me up, and straight a parapetUprose at least seven inches o'er the planks.Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said:He[46]of Blackfriars' Road, who hymn'd thy downfallIn loud Hosannahs, and who prophesiedThat 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'sBox-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders.They had a plan to render less their labours;Workmen in olden times would mount a ladderWith hooded heads, but these stretch'd forth a poleFrom the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulleyAthwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley;To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricksThus freighted, swung securely to the top,And in the empty basket workmen twainPrecipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.

Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October

Again assembles us in Drury Lane.

Long wept my eye to see the timber planks

That hid our ruins; many a day I cried,

Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it!

Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve,

As along Charles Street I prepared to walk,

Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's,

I heard a trowel tick against a brick.

I look'd me up, and straight a parapet

Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks.

Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said:

He[46]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 olden times would mount a ladder

With hooded 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 peopleWho watch'd the work, express their various thoughts!While some believed it never would be finish'd,Some, on the contrary, believed it would.

Oh! 'twas a goodly sound, to hear the people

Who watch'd the work, express their various thoughts!

While some believed it never would be finish'd,

Some, on the contrary, believed it would.

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

I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane

Much criticised; they say 'tis vulgar brick-work,

A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth.

One of the morning papers wish'd that front

Cemented like the front in Brydges Street;

As it now looks, they call it Wyatt's Mermaid,

A handsome woman with a fish's tail.

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

White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet Street:

The Albion (as its name denotes) is white;

Morgan and Saunders' shop for chairs and tables

Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun;

White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet Street,

The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders,

Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury's face.

Oh, Mr. Whitbread![47]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 mudSoaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow,She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papaCries, 'There you go! this comes of playhouses!'To build no portico is penny wise:Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish!

Oh, Mr. Whitbread![47]fie upon you, sir!

I think you should have built a colonnade;

When tender Beauty, looking for her coach,

Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower,

And draws the tippet closer round her throat,

Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off,

And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud

Soaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow,

She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa

Cries, 'There you go! this comes of playhouses!'

To build no portico is penny wise:

Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish!

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

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 animalsBrought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit,Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig;Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinistOf former Drury, imitated lifeQuite 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.[48]Nought born on earth should die. On hackney standsI reverence the coachman who cries 'Gee,'And spares the lash. When I behold a spiderPrey on a fly, a magpie on a worm,Or view a butcher with horn-handled knifeSlaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton,Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick!

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.[48]

Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands

I reverence the coachman who cries 'Gee,'

And spares the lash. When I behold a spider

Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm,

Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife

Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton,

Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick!

[Exit hastily.

'Mr. Coleridge will not, we fear, be as much entertained as we were with his 'Playhouse Musings,' which begin with characteristic pathos and simplicity, and put us much in mind of the affecting story of old Poulter's mare.'—Quarterly Review.'"Playhouse Musings,"' by Mr. Coleridge, a piece which is unquestionably Lakish, though we cannot say that we recognise in it any of the peculiar traits of that powerful and misdirected genius whose name it has borrowed. We rather think, however, that the tuneful brotherhood will consider it as a respectable eclogue.'—Edinburgh Review.

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

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 judgement that makes it.Timon of Athens.

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 judgement that makes it.

Timon of Athens.

[To be sung by Mr.Johnstonein the character ofLooney 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 Drury's for sartin we'll never have done,We've built up another, and yet there's but one;The old one was best, yet I'd say, if I durst,The new one is better—the last is the first.Tol de rol, &c.III.These pillars are call'd by a Frenchified word,A something that's jumbled of antique and verd;The boxes may show us some verdant antiques,Some old harridans who beplaster their cheeks.Tol de rol, &c.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 talk'd 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 aidWe 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.

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.

Mr. Jack, your address, says the Prompter to me,

So I gave him my card—no, that a'nt it, says he;

'Tis your public address. Oh! says I, never fear,

If address you are bother'd for, only look here.

[Puts on hat affectedly.

Tol de rol lol, &c.

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

With Drury's for sartin we'll never have done,

We've built up another, and yet there's but one;

The old one was best, yet I'd say, if I durst,

The new one is better—the last is the first.

Tol de rol, &c.

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

These pillars are call'd by a Frenchified word,

A something that's jumbled of antique and verd;

The boxes may show us some verdant antiques,

Some old harridans who beplaster their cheeks.

Tol de rol, &c.

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

Only look how high Tragedy, Comedy, stick,

Lest their rivals, the horses, should give them a kick!

If you will not descend when our authors beseech ye,

You'll stop there for life, for I'm sure they can't reach ye.

Tol de rol, &c.

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

Each one shilling god within reach of a nod is,

And plain are the charms of each gallery goddess—

You, Brandy-faced Moll, don't be looking askew,

When I talk'd of a goddess I didn't mean you.

Tol de rol, &c.

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

Our stage is so prettily fashion'd for viewing,

The whole house can see what the whole house is doing:

'Tis just like the Hustings, we kick up a bother;

But saying is one thing, and doing's another.

Tol de rol, &c.

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

We've many new houses, and some of them rum ones,

But the newest of all is the new House of Commons;

'Tis a rickety sort of a bantling, I'm told,

It will die of old age when it's seven years old.

Tol de rol, &c.

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

As I don't know on whom the election will fall,

I move in return for returning them all;

But for fear Mr. Speaker my meaning should miss,

The house that I wish 'em to sit in is this.

Tol de rol, &c.

Let us cheer our great Commoner, but for whose aidWe 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.

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.

'"A New Halfpenny Ballad," by a Pic-Nic Poet, is a good imitation of what was not worth imitating—that tremendous mixture of vulgarity, nonsense, impudence, and miserable puns, which, under the name of humorous songs, rouses our polite audiences to a far higher pitch of rapture than Garrick or Siddons ever was able to inspire.'—Edinburgh Review.

Lege, Dick, Lege!—Joseph Andrews.

To be recited by the Translator's Son

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