THEATRICAL ALARM-BELL.

Away, fond dupes! who, smit with sacred lore,Mosaic dreams in Genesis explore,Doat with Copernicus, or darkling strayWith Newton, Ptolemy, or Tycho Brahe!To you I sing not, for I sing of truth,Primeval systems, and creation's youth;Such as of old, with magic wisdom fraught,InspiredLucretiusto the Latians taught.I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb,Encounter'd casual cow-hair, casual lime;How rafters, borne through wondering clouds elate,Kiss'd in their slope blue elemental slate,Clasp'd solid beams in chance-directed fury,And gave to birth our renovated Drury.Thee, son of Jove! whose sceptre was confess'd,Where fair Æolia springs from Tethys' breast;Thence on Olympus, mid celestials placed,God of the Winds, and Ether's boundless waste—Thee I invoke! Ohpuffmy bold design,Prompt the bright thought, and swell th' harmonious line;Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspireWith Winsor's[50]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 shunThe 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 greenThe azure heights of Ithaca are seen;But while with favouring gales her way she wins,His curious comrades ope the mystic skins;When, lo! the rescued winds, with boisterous sweep,Roar to the clouds and lash the rocking deep;Heaves the smote vessel in the howling blast,Splits the stretch'd sail, and cracks the tottering mast.Launch'd on a plank, the buoyant hero rides,Where ebon Afric stems the sable tides,While his duck'd comrades o'er the ocean fly,And sleep not in the whole skins they untie.So, when to raise the wind some lawyer tries,Mysterious skins of parchment meet our eyes;On speeds the smiling suit—'Pleas of our LordThe King' shine sable on the wide record;Nods the prunella'd bar, attorneys smile,And siren jurors flatter to beguile;Till stript—nonsuited—he is doom'd to tossIn legal shipwreck and redeemless loss!Lucky, if, like Ulysses, he can keepHis 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 comeQuacks 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-juice water stands transform'd to wine.Where Day and Martin's patent blacking roll'dBurst from the vase Pactolian streams of gold;Laugh the sly wizards, glorying in their stealthQuit the black art, and loll in lazy wealth.See Britain's Algerines, the lottery fry,Win annual tribute by the annual lie!Aided by thee—but whither do I stray?—Court, city, borough, own thy sovereign sway;An age of puffs an age of gold succeeds,And windy bubbles are the spawn it breeds.If such thy power, O hear the Muse's prayer!Swell thy loud lungs and wave thy wings of air;Spread, viewless giant, all thy arms of mistLike windmill-sails to bring the poet grist;As erst thy roaring son, with eddying gale,Whirl'd Orithyia from her native vale—So, while Lucretian wonders I rehearse,Augusta's sons shall patronise my verse.I sing ofAtoms, 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 greatFirst Causeinspired 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 ofChance, which still directs the ball,As rotatory atoms rise or fall.In ether launch'd, the peopled bubble floats,A mass of particles and confluent motes,So nicely poised, that if one atom flingsIts weight away, aloft the planet springs,And wings its course through realms of boundless spaceOutstripping comets in eccentric race.Add but one atom more, it sinks outrightDown to the realms of Tartarus and night.What waters melt or scorching fires consume,In different forms their being re-assume:Hence can no change arise, except in name,For weight and substance ever are the same.Thus with the flames that from old Drury riseIts elements primeval sought the skies;There pendulous to wait the happy hour,When new attractions should restore their power:So, in this procreant theatre elate,Echoes unborn their future life await;Her embryo sounds in ether lie conceal'd,Like words in northern atmosphere congeal'd.Here many a fœtus laugh and half encoreClings 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[51]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: amazed she stands,Then opes the door with cinder-sabled hands,And 'Matches' calls. The dustman, bubbled flat,Thinks 'tis for him, and doffs his fan-tail'd hat;The milkman, whom her second cries assail,With sudden sink unyokes the clinking pail;Now louder grown, by turns she screams and weeps—Alas! her screaming only brings the sweeps.Sweeps but put out—she wants to raise a flame,And calls for matches, but 'tis still the same.Atoms and housemaids! mark the moral true—If once ye go astray, nomatchfor 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, taughtTo think he bears the bricks—mistaken thought!A proof behold: if near the top they findThe nymphs or broken-corner'd or unkind,Back to the base, 'resulting with a bound,'They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground!So legends tell along the lofty hillPaced the twin heroes, gallant Jack and Jill;On trudged the Gemini to reach the railThat shields the well's top from the expectant pail,When, ah! Jack falls; and, rolling in the rear,Jill feels the attraction of his kindred sphere:Head over heels begins his toppling track,Throws sympathetic somersets with Jack,And at the mountain's base bobs plump against him, whack!Ye living atoms, who unconscious sit,Jumbled by chance in gallery, box, and pit,For you no Peter opes the fabled door,No churlish Charon plies the shadowy oar;Breathe but a space, and Boreas' casual sweepShall bear your scatter'd corses o'er the deepTo gorge the greedy elements, and mixWith 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 readNo sacred writings but the Pagan creed—O happy age! when spurning Newton's dreamsOur poets' sons recite Lucretian themes,Abjure the idle systems of their youth,And turn again to atoms and to truth;—O happier still! when England's dauntless dames,Awed by no chaste alarms, no latent shames,The bard's fourth book unblushingly peruse,And learn the rampant lessons of the stews!All hail, Lucretius! renovated sage!Unfold the modest mystics of thy page;Return no more to thy sepulchral shelf,But live, kind bard—that I may live myself!

Away, fond dupes! who, smit with sacred lore,

Mosaic dreams in Genesis explore,

Doat with Copernicus, or darkling stray

With Newton, Ptolemy, or Tycho Brahe!

To you I sing not, for I sing of truth,

Primeval systems, and creation's youth;

Such as of old, with magic wisdom fraught,

InspiredLucretiusto the Latians taught.

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

I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb,

Encounter'd casual cow-hair, casual lime;

How rafters, borne through wondering clouds elate,

Kiss'd in their slope blue elemental slate,

Clasp'd solid beams in chance-directed fury,

And gave to birth our renovated Drury.

Thee, son of Jove! whose sceptre was confess'd,Where fair Æolia springs from Tethys' breast;Thence on Olympus, mid celestials placed,God of the Winds, and Ether's boundless waste—Thee I invoke! Ohpuffmy bold design,Prompt the bright thought, and swell th' harmonious line;Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspireWith Winsor's[50]patent gas, or wind of fire,In whose pure blaze thy embryo form enroll'd,The dark enlightens, and enchafes the cold.

Thee, son of Jove! whose sceptre was confess'd,

Where fair Æolia springs from Tethys' breast;

Thence on Olympus, mid celestials placed,

God of the Winds, and Ether's boundless waste—

Thee I invoke! Ohpuffmy bold design,

Prompt the bright thought, and swell th' harmonious line;

Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspire

With Winsor's[50]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 shunThe 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 greenThe 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.

But, while I court thy gifts, be mine to shun

The deprecated prize Ulysses won;

Who, sailing homeward from thy breezy shore,

The prison'd winds in skins of parchment bore.

Speeds the fleet bark, till o'er the billowy green

The azure heights of Ithaca are seen;

But while with favouring gales her way she wins,

His curious comrades ope the mystic skins;

When, lo! the rescued winds, with boisterous sweep,

Roar to the clouds and lash the rocking deep;

Heaves the smote vessel in the howling blast,

Splits the stretch'd sail, and cracks the tottering mast.

Launch'd on a plank, the buoyant hero rides,

Where ebon Afric stems the sable tides,

While his duck'd comrades o'er the ocean fly,

And sleep not in the whole skins they untie.

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

So, when to raise the wind some lawyer tries,

Mysterious skins of parchment meet our eyes;

On speeds the smiling suit—'Pleas of our Lord

The King' shine sable on the wide record;

Nods the prunella'd bar, attorneys smile,

And 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 comeQuacks 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-juice water stands transform'd to wine.Where Day and Martin's patent blacking roll'dBurst from the vase Pactolian streams of gold;Laugh the sly wizards, glorying in their stealthQuit the black art, and loll in lazy wealth.See Britain's Algerines, the lottery fry,Win annual tribute by the annual lie!Aided by thee—but whither do I stray?—Court, city, borough, own thy sovereign sway;An age of puffs an age of gold succeeds,And windy bubbles are the spawn it breeds.

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-juice 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 an age of gold succeeds,

And windy bubbles are the spawn it breeds.

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

If such thy power, O hear the Muse's prayer!

Swell thy loud lungs and wave thy wings of air;

Spread, viewless giant, all thy arms of mist

Like windmill-sails to bring the poet grist;

As erst thy roaring son, with eddying gale,

Whirl'd Orithyia from her native vale—

So, while Lucretian wonders I rehearse,

Augusta's sons shall patronise my verse.

I sing ofAtoms, 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!

I sing ofAtoms, 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 greatFirst Causeinspired 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 ofChance, which still directs the ball,As rotatory atoms rise or fall.In ether launch'd, the peopled bubble floats,A mass of particles and confluent motes,So nicely poised, that if one atom flingsIts weight away, aloft the planet springs,And wings its course through realms of boundless spaceOutstripping comets in eccentric race.Add but one atom more, it sinks outrightDown to the realms of Tartarus and night.What waters melt or scorching fires consume,In different forms their being re-assume:Hence can no change arise, except in name,For weight and substance ever are the same.

From floating elements in chaos hurl'd,

Self-form'd of atoms, sprang the infant world:

No greatFirst Causeinspired 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 ofChance, which still directs the ball,

As rotatory atoms rise or fall.

In ether launch'd, the peopled bubble floats,

A mass of particles and confluent motes,

So nicely poised, that if one atom flings

Its weight away, aloft the planet springs,

And wings its course through realms of boundless space

Outstripping comets in eccentric race.

Add but one atom more, it sinks outright

Down to the realms of Tartarus and night.

What waters melt or scorching fires consume,

In different forms their being re-assume:

Hence can no change arise, except in name,

For weight and substance ever are the same.

Thus with the flames that from old Drury riseIts elements primeval sought the skies;There pendulous to wait the happy hour,When new attractions should restore their power:So, in this procreant theatre elate,Echoes unborn their future life await;Her embryo sounds in ether lie conceal'd,Like words in northern atmosphere congeal'd.Here many a fœtus laugh and half encoreClings 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[51]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.

Thus with the flames that from old Drury rise

Its elements primeval sought the skies;

There pendulous to wait the happy hour,

When new attractions should restore their power:

So, in this procreant theatre elate,

Echoes unborn their future life await;

Her 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[51]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.

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.

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: amazed she stands,Then opes the door with cinder-sabled hands,And 'Matches' calls. The dustman, bubbled flat,Thinks 'tis for him, and doffs his fan-tail'd hat;The milkman, whom her second cries assail,With sudden sink unyokes the clinking pail;Now louder grown, by turns she screams and weeps—Alas! her screaming only brings the sweeps.Sweeps but put out—she wants to raise a flame,And calls for matches, but 'tis still the same.Atoms and housemaids! mark the moral true—If once ye go astray, nomatchfor you!

So in Cheapside, what time Aurora peeps,

A mingled noise of dustmen, milk, and sweeps,

Falls on the housemaid's ear: amazed she stands,

Then opes the door with cinder-sabled hands,

And 'Matches' calls. The dustman, bubbled flat,

Thinks 'tis for him, and doffs his fan-tail'd hat;

The milkman, whom her second cries assail,

With sudden sink unyokes the clinking pail;

Now louder grown, by turns she screams and weeps—

Alas! her screaming only brings the sweeps.

Sweeps but put out—she wants to raise a flame,

And calls for matches, but 'tis still the same.

Atoms and housemaids! mark the moral true—

If once ye go astray, nomatchfor 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, taughtTo think he bears the bricks—mistaken thought!A proof behold: if near the top they findThe nymphs or broken-corner'd or unkind,Back to the base, 'resulting with a bound,'They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground!

As atoms in one mass united mix,

So bricks attraction feel for kindred bricks;

Some in the cellar view, perchance, on high,

Fair chimney chums on beds of mortar lie;

Enamour'd of the sympathetic clod,

Leaps the red bridegroom to the labourer's hod;

And up the ladder bears the workman, taught

To think he bears the bricks—mistaken thought!

A proof behold: if near the top they find

The nymphs or broken-corner'd or unkind,

Back to the base, 'resulting with a bound,'

They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground!

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

So legends tell along the lofty hill

Paced the twin heroes, gallant Jack and Jill;

On trudged the Gemini to reach the rail

That shields the well's top from the expectant pail,

When, ah! Jack falls; and, rolling in the rear,

Jill feels the attraction of his kindred sphere:

Head over heels begins his toppling track,

Throws sympathetic somersets with Jack,

And at the mountain's base bobs plump against him, whack!

Ye living atoms, who unconscious sit,Jumbled by chance in gallery, box, and pit,For you no Peter opes the fabled door,No churlish Charon plies the shadowy oar;Breathe but a space, and Boreas' casual sweepShall bear your scatter'd corses o'er the deepTo gorge the greedy elements, and mixWith 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.

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

O happy age! when convert Christians read

No sacred writings but the Pagan creed—

O happy age! when spurning Newton's dreams

Our poets' sons recite Lucretian themes,

Abjure the idle systems of their youth,

And turn again to atoms and to truth;—

O happier still! when England's dauntless dames,

Awed by no chaste alarms, no latent shames,

The bard's fourth book unblushingly peruse,

And learn the rampant lessons of the stews!

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

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!

'In one single point the parodist has failed—there is a certain Dr. Busby, whose supposed address is a translation called "Architectural Atoms, intended to be recited by the translator's son." Unluckily, however, for the wag who had prepared this fun, thegenuine serious absurdityof Dr. Busby and his son has cast all his humour into the shade. The doctor from the boxes, and the sonfrom the stage, have actually endeavoured, it seems, to recite addresses, which they callmonologuesandunalogues; and which, for extravagant folly, tumid meanness, and vulgar affectation, set all the powers of parody at utter defiance.'—Quarterly Review.'Of "Architectural Atoms," translated by Dr. Busby, we can say very little more than that they appear to us to be far more capable of combining into good poetry than the few lines we were able to read of the learned doctor's genuine address in the newspapers. They might pass, indeed, for a very tolerable imitation of Darwin.'—Edinburgh Review.

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

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 has turned king's evidence, and whose name, for obvious reasons, we forbear to mention, though we have had it some weeks in our possession—has induced them to introduce various reforms—not such reforms as the vile faction clamour for, meaning thereby revolution, but such reforms as are necessary to preserve the glorious constitution of the only free, happy, and prosperous country now left upon the face of the earth. From the valuable and authentic source above alluded to, we have learnt that a sanguinary plot has been formed by some united Irishmen, combined with a gang of Luddites, and a special committee sent over by the Pope at the instigation of the beastly Corsican fiend, for destroying all the loyal part of the audience on the anniversary of that deeply-to-be-abhorred and highly-to-be-blamed stratagem, the Gunpowder Plot, which falls this year on Thursday the 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 Col. Congreve, has undertaken to blow up the house, when necessary, in so novel and ingenious a manner, that every O. P. shall be annihilated, while not a whisker of the N. P.'s shall be singed. This strikingly displays the advantages of loyalty and attachment to government. Several other hints have been taken from the theatrical regulations of the not-a-bit-the-less-on-that-account-to-be-universally-execrated monster Bonaparte. A park of artillery, provided with chain-shot, is to be stationed on the stage, and play upon the audience, in case of any indication of misplaced applause or popular discontent (which accounts for the large space between the curtain and the lamps); and the public will participate our satisfaction in learning that the indecorous custom of standing up with the hat on is to be abolished, as the Bow-street officers are provided with daggers, and have orders to stab all such persons to the heart, and send their bodies to Surgeons' Hall. Gentlemen who cough are only to be slightly wounded. Fruit-women bawling 'Bill of the play!' are to be forthwith shot, for which purpose soldiers will be stationed in the slips, and ball-cartridge is to be served out with the lemonade. If any of the spectators happen to sneeze or spit, they are to be transported for life; and any person who is so tall as to prevent another seeing, is to be dragged out and sent on board the tender, or, by an instrument 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 provisionsrise, but we pledge the credit of our theatre that they will soonfallagain, 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 artificialflowers, 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!!

Nil intentatum nostri liquêre poetæ.Neo minimum meruêre decus, vestigia GræcaAusi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta.Horace.

Nil intentatum nostri liquêre poetæ.

Neo minimum meruêre decus, vestigia Græca

Ausi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta.

Horace.

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 lastingremorse 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 willGive, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still,'

'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 play-bill is calculated to expose a practice much too common, of pinning play-bills to the cushions insecurely, and frequently, I fear, not pinning them at all. If these lines save one play-bill only 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 theone-shilling gallery. Had Jennings thrust his between his feet at the commencement of the play, he might have leaned forward with impunity, and the catastrophe I relate would not have occurred. The line of handkerchiefs formed to enable him to recover his loss, is purposely so crossed in texture and materials as to mislead the reader in respect to the real owner of any one of them. For, in the 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 Play-goers.—Holywell Street, St. Pancras.—Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice—not in London—and why.—Episode of the Hat.

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art,Start into light, and make the lighter start;To see red Phœbus through the gallery-paneTinge 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 doomNo room for standing, miscall'dstanding 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, and jam.See to their desks Apollo's sons repair—Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair!In unison their various tones to tune,Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon;In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute,Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute,Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,Winds the French-horn, and twangs the tingling harp;Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in,Attunes to order the chaotic din.Now all seems hush'd—but, no, one fiddle willGive, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still.Foil'd in his crash, the leader of the clanReproves 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 LoveDrops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from above:Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl;Who from his powder'd pate the intruder strikes,And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues?Who's that calls 'Silence!' with such leathern lungs?He who, in quest of quiet, 'Silence!' hoots,Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.What various swains our motley walls contain!—Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane;Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark,The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;Boys who long linger at the gallery-door,With pence twice five—they want but twopence more;Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk,But talk their minds—we wish they'd mind their talk;Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live—Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;Jews from St. Mary Axe, 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, carouseWith 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 DwyerWas 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 boyUp 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-doorTwo 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 clue,Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.George Green below, with palpitating hand,Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band—Upsoars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeign'd,Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd;While to the applauding galleries grateful PatMade a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd 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 Phœbus 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.

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 doomNo room for standing, miscall'dstanding room.

Now the full benches to late-comers doom

No room for standing, miscall'dstanding 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, and jam.

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, and jam.

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

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 LoveDrops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from above:Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl;Who from his powder'd pate the intruder strikes,And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

Perchance, while pit and gallery cry, 'Hats off!'

And awed Consumption checks his chided cough,

Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love

Drops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from above:

Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,

Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;

But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,

And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;

Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,

It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl;

Who from his powder'd pate the intruder strikes,

And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

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

Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues?

Who's that calls 'Silence!' with such leathern lungs?

He who, in quest of quiet, 'Silence!' hoots,

Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

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

What various swains our motley walls contain!—

Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane;

Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,

Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;

From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,

Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;

The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark,

The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;

Boys who long linger at the gallery-door,

With pence twice five—they want but twopence more;

Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,

And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk,But talk their minds—we wish they'd mind their talk;Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live—Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;Jews from St. Mary Axe, 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, carouseWith tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk,

But talk their minds—we wish they'd mind their talk;

Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live—

Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;

Jews from St. Mary Axe, 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.

Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow,

Where scowling Fortune seem'd to threaten woe.

John Richard William Alexander DwyerWas 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 boyUp 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.

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.

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-doorTwo 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 clue,Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.George Green below, with palpitating hand,Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band—Upsoars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeign'd,Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd;While to the applauding galleries grateful PatMade a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat.

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 clue,

Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,

Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.

George Green below, with palpitating hand,

Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band—

Upsoars 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.

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

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 woful 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 ease: 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.

[EnterMacbeth,in a red nightcap.Pagefollowing with a torch.]

Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell(She knows that my purpose is cruel),I'd thank her to tingle her bellAs 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 can not be a hum;I'll catch at the handle, odd'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 middleLarge 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 hareEver 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 sawWas naught but my eye, Betty Martin.Now o'er this terrestrial hiveA 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 IMay 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 any thing yet.Hark, hark! 'tis the signal, by goles!It sounds like a funeral knell;O, hear it not, Duncan! it tollsTo 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.

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 can not be a hum;I'll catch at the handle, odd'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.

My stars, in the air here's a knife!—

I'm sure it can not be a hum;

I'll catch at the handle, odd'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 middleLarge drops of red blood now are spill'd,Just as much as to say, diddle diddle,Good Duncan, pray come and be kill'd.

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 hareEver 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 sawWas naught but my eye, Betty Martin.

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 naught but my eye, Betty Martin.

Now o'er this terrestrial hiveA 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 IMay certainly stand in his shoes.

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 any thing yet.

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 any thing yet.

Hark, hark! 'tis the signal, by goles!It sounds like a funeral knell;O, hear it not, Duncan! it tollsTo 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.

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.

Who has e'er been at Drury must needs know the Stranger,A wailing old Methodist, gloomy and wan,A husband suspicious—his wife acted Ranger,She took to her heels, and left poor Hypocon.Her martial gallant swore that truth was a libel,That marriage was thraldom, elopement no sin;Quoth she, I remember the words of my Bible—My spouse is a Stranger, and I'll take him in.With my sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em,And pathos and bathos delightful to see;And chop and change ribs, à-la-mode Germanorum,And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.To keep up her dignity no longer rich enough,Where was her plate?—why, 'twas laid on the shelf;Her land fuller's earth, and her great riches kitchen-stuff—Dressing the dinner instead of herself.No longer permitted in diamonds to sparkle,Now plain Mrs. Haller, of servants the dread,With a heart full of grief, and a pan full of charcoal,She lighted the company up to their bed.Incensed at her flight, her poor Hubby in dudgeonRoam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout,Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeonSat down and blubber'd just like a church-spout.One day, on a bench as dejected and sad he laid,Hearing a squash, he cried, Damn it, what's that?'Twas a child of the count's, in whose service lived Adelaide,Soused in the river, and squall'd like a cat.Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, itAppear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear;No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket,Exposed as he was to the count'ssonandheir.Dear sir, quoth the count, in reward of your valour,To show that my gratitude is not mere talkYou shall eat a beefsteak with my cook, Mrs. Haller,Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork.Behold, now the count gave the Stranger a dinner,With gunpowder-tea, which you know brings a ball,And, thin as he was, that he might not 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, à-la-mode Germanorum,And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.

Who has e'er been at Drury must needs know the Stranger,

A wailing old Methodist, gloomy and wan,

A husband suspicious—his wife acted Ranger,

She took to her heels, and left poor Hypocon.

Her martial gallant swore that truth was a libel,

That marriage was thraldom, elopement no sin;

Quoth she, I remember the words of my Bible—

My spouse is a Stranger, and I'll take him in.

With my sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em,

And pathos and bathos delightful to see;

And chop and change ribs, à-la-mode Germanorum,

And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.

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

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 dudgeonRoam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout,Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeonSat down and blubber'd just like a church-spout.One day, on a bench as dejected and sad he laid,Hearing a squash, he cried, Damn it, what's that?'Twas a child of the count's, in whose service lived Adelaide,Soused in the river, and squall'd like a cat.

Incensed at her flight, her poor Hubby in dudgeon

Roam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout,

Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeon

Sat down and blubber'd just like a church-spout.

One day, on a bench as dejected and sad he laid,

Hearing a squash, he cried, Damn it, what's that?

'Twas a child of the count's, in whose service lived Adelaide,

Soused in the river, and squall'd like a cat.

Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, itAppear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear;No wonder he soon became dry as a blanket,Exposed as he was to the count'ssonandheir.Dear sir, quoth the count, in reward of your valour,To show that my gratitude is not mere talkYou shall eat a beefsteak with my cook, Mrs. Haller,Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork.

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'ssonandheir.

Dear sir, quoth the count, in reward of your valour,

To show that my gratitude is not mere talk

You shall eat a beefsteak with my cook, Mrs. Haller,

Cut from the rump with her own knife and fork.

Behold, now the count gave the Stranger a dinner,With gunpowder-tea, which you know brings a ball,And, thin as he was, that he might not 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.

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, à-la-mode Germanorum,And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.

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, à-la-mode Germanorum,

And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.

Case No. III.

George Barnwell stood at the shop-door,A customer hoping to find, sir;His apron was hanging before,But the tail of his coat was behind, sir.A lady, so painted and smart,Cried, Sir, I've exhausted my stock o' late;I've got nothing left but a groat—Could you give me four penn'orth of chocolate?Rum ti, &c.Her face was rouged up to the eyes,Which made her look prouder and prouder;His hair stood on end with surprise,And hers with pomatum and powder.The business was soon understood;The lady, who wish'd to be more rich,Cries, Sweet sir, my name is Milwood,And I lodge at the Gunner's in Shoreditch.Rum ti, &c.Now nightly he stole out, good lack!And into her lodging would pop, sir;And often forgot to come back,Leaving master to shut up the shop, sir.Her beauty his wits did bereave—Determined to be quite the crack O,He lounged at the Adam and Eve,And call'd for his gin and tobacco.Rum ti, &c.And now—for the truth must be told,Though none of a 'prentice should speak ill—He stole from the till all the gold,And ate the lump-sugar and treacle.In vain did his master exclaim,Dear George, don't engage with that dragon;She'll lead you to sorrow and shame,And leave you the devil a rag onYour rum ti, &c.In vain he entreats and imploresThe weak and incurable ninny,So kicks him at last out of doors,And Georgy soon spends his last guinea.His uncle, whose generous purseHad 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 coreWas 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 throngThat follow'd poor George to the Marshalsea.If Milwood were here, dash my wigs,Quoth he, I would pummel and lam her well;Had I stuck to my pruins and figs,I ne'er had stuck nunky at Camberwell.Rum ti, &c.Their bodies were never cut down;For granny relates with amazement,A witch bore 'em over the town.And hung them on Thorowgood's casement.The neighbours, I've heard the folks say,The miracle noisily brag on;And the shop is, to this very day,The sign of the George and the Dragon.Rum ti, &c.

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.

Her face was rouged up to the eyes,

Which made her look prouder and prouder;

His hair stood on end with surprise,

And hers with pomatum and powder.

The business was soon understood;

The lady, who wish'd to be more rich,

Cries, Sweet sir, my name is Milwood,

And I lodge at the Gunner's in Shoreditch.

Rum ti, &c.

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

Now nightly he stole out, good lack!

And into her lodging would pop, sir;

And often forgot to come back,

Leaving master to shut up the shop, sir.

Her beauty his wits did bereave—

Determined to be quite the crack O,

He lounged at the Adam and Eve,

And call'd for his gin and tobacco.

Rum ti, &c.

And now—for the truth must be told,Though none of a 'prentice should speak ill—He stole from the till all the gold,And ate the lump-sugar and treacle.In vain did his master exclaim,Dear George, don't engage with that dragon;She'll lead you to sorrow and shame,And leave you the devil a rag onYour 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 imploresThe weak and incurable ninny,So kicks him at last out of doors,And Georgy soon spends his last guinea.His uncle, whose generous purseHad often relieved him, as I know,Now finding him grow worse and worse,Refused to come down with the rhino.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 coreWas 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.

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.

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 throngThat follow'd poor George to the Marshalsea.If Milwood were here, dash my wigs,Quoth he, I would pummel and lam her well;Had I stuck to my pruins and figs,I ne'er had stuck nunky at Camberwell.Rum ti, &c.

All you who attend to my song,

A terrible end of the farce shall see,

If you join the inquisitive throng

That follow'd poor George to the Marshalsea.

If Milwood were here, dash my wigs,

Quoth he, I would pummel and lam her well;

Had I stuck to my pruins and figs,

I ne'er had stuck nunky at Camberwell.

Rum ti, &c.

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

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.

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

Rhymes the rudders are of verses,

With which, like ships, they steer their courses.

Hudibras.

Scene draws, and discoversPunchon a throne, surrounded byLear,Lady Macbeth,Macbeth,Othello,George Barnwell,Hamlet,Ghost,Macheath,Juliet,Friar,Apothecary,Romeo,andFalstaff.—Punchdescends, 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 cotillion,And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion;That every soul, whether or not a cough he has,May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus.So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini,[56]Spin up a teetotum like Angiolini;[57]That John and Mrs. Bull, from ale and tea-houses,May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis!They dance and sing.Air—'Sure such a day.'Tom Thumb.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.[58]Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!Lady Macbeth.Ikill'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 spoonys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery,To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry;With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her,Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer.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 coverlidThat smother'd you, because you pawn'd my handkerchief.George 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 periheliaThe 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 poison'd cup—no more I'll be an actor inSuch 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 stanch, I ne'er begin to feel it ere IFeel 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.

As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is,

So I with you am master of the ceremonies—

These grand rejoicings. Let me see, how name ye 'em?—

Oh, in Greek lingo 'tis E-pi-thalamium.

October's tenth it is: toss up each hat to-day,

And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday!

On this great night 'tis settled by our manager,

That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a jeer,

Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillion,

And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion;

That every soul, whether or not a cough he has,

May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus.

So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini,[56]

Spin up a teetotum like Angiolini;[57]

That John and Mrs. Bull, from ale and tea-houses,

May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis!

They dance and sing.

Air—'Sure such a day.'Tom Thumb.

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.[58]

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.[58]

Omnes.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,

Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

Lady Macbeth.

Ikill'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.

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

When spoonys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery,

To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry;

With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her,

Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer.

Omnes.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

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 coverlidThat smother'd you, because you pawn'd my handkerchief.

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.

George 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.

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!

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,

Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

Hamlet.

I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and periheliaThe 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!'

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 poison'd cup—no more I'll be an actor inSuch sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing.

Let Gertrude sup the poison'd cup—no more I'll be an actor in

Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing.

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.

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!

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.

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 stanch, I ne'er begin to feel it ere IFeel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military.

I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous;

For though my paunch is round and stanch, I ne'er begin to feel it ere 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.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,

Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

[Exeunt dancing.

'"Punch's Apotheosis," by G. Colman, junior, is too purely nonsensical to be extracted; and both gives less pleasure to the reader, and does less justice to the ingenious author in whose name it stands, than any other of the poetical imitations.'—Edinburgh Review.

'We have no conjectures to offer as to the anonymous author of this amusing little volume. He who is such a master of disguises may easily be supposed to have been successful in concealing himself, and, with the power of assuming so many styles, is not likely to be detected by his own. We should guess, however, that he had not written a great deal in his own character—that his natural style was neither very lofty nor very grave—and that he rather indulges a partiality for puns and verbal pleasantries. We marvel why he has shut out Campbell and Rogers from his theatre of living poets, and confidently expect to have our curiosity in this and in all other particulars very speedily gratified, when the applause of the country shall induce him to take off his mask.'—Edinburgh Review.The Morning Post.Additional note intended for p. 61.—This journal was, at the period in question, rather remarkable for the use of the figure called by the rhetoricianscatachresis. The Bard of Avon may be quoted in justification of its adoption, when he writes of taking arms against a sea, and seeking a bubble in the mouth of a cannon.The Morning Post, in the year 1812, congratulated its readers upon having stripped off Cobbett's mask and discovered his cloven foot; adding, that it was high time to give the hydra-head of Faction a rap on the knuckles!

The Morning Post.

Additional note intended for p. 61.—This journal was, at the period in question, rather remarkable for the use of the figure called by the rhetoricianscatachresis. The Bard of Avon may be quoted in justification of its adoption, when he writes of taking arms against a sea, and seeking a bubble in the mouth of a cannon.The Morning Post, in the year 1812, congratulated its readers upon having stripped off Cobbett's mask and discovered his cloven foot; adding, that it was high time to give the hydra-head of Faction a rap on the knuckles!

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