For one long term, or e'er her trial came,Here BROWNRIGG linger'd. Often have these cellsEchoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voiceShe screamed for fresh Geneva. Not to herDid the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street,St. Giles, its fair varieties expand;Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart she wentTo execution. Dost thou ask her crime?SHE WHIPP'D TWO FEMALE 'PRENTICES TO DEATH,AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HOLE. For her mindShaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes!Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrineOf the Orthyan goddess he bade flogThe little Spartans; such as erst chastisedOur Milton, when at college. For this actDid Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! But time shall comeWhen France shall reign, and laws be all repeal'd!
For thirty years, secluded from mankind,Here MARTEN lingered. Often have these wallsEchoed his footsteps, as with even treadHe paced around his prison: not to himDid Nature's fair varieties exist;He never saw the sun's delightful beams,Save when through yon high bars he pour'd a sadAnd broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime?He had REBELL'D AGAINST THE KING, AND SATIn JUDGMENT ON HIM; for his ardent mindShaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but suchAs Plato loved; such as with holy zealOur Milton worship'd. Bless'd hopes! awhileFrom man withheld, even to the latter daysWhen Christ shall come, and all things be fulfill'd.
SONG [Footnote: There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of this song, the first five stanzas of which were written by Mr. Canning. Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr. Pitt, who was cognizant of the proceedings of the "Anti-Jacobin" writers, he was so amused with it that he took up a pen and composed the last stanza on the spot.]
Whene'er with haggard eyes I viewThis dungeon that I'm rotting in,I think of those companions trueWho studied with me at the U—niversity of Gottingen——niversity of Gottingen.[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes hiseyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds—]
II.Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue,Which once my love sat knotting in!—Alas! Matilda THEN was true!At least I thought so at the U——niversity of Gottingen——niversity of Gottingen.[At the repetition of this line ROGERO clanks his chains in cadence.]
III.Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flewHer neat post-wagon trotting in!Ye bore Matilda from my view;Forlorn I languish'd at the U——niversity of Gottingen——niversity of Gottingen.
IV.This faded form! this pallid hue!This blood my veins is clotting in,My years are many—they were fewWhen first I entered at the U——niversity of Gottingen——niversity of Gottingen.
V.There first for thee my psssion grew,Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!Thou wast the daughter of my tu——tor, law professor at the U——niversity at Gottingen——niversity of Gottingen.
VI.Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu,That kings and priests are plotting in;Here doom'd to starve on water gru——el, never shall I see the U——niversity of Gottingen——niversity of Gottingen.
[During the last stanza ROGERO dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.]
She held a CUP AND BALL of ivory white,LESS WHITE the ivory than her snowy hand!Enrapt, I watched her from my secret stand,As now, intent, in INNOCENT delight,Her taper fingers twirled the giddy ball,Now tost it, following still with EAGLE SIGHT,Now on the pointed end INFIXED its fall.Marking her sport I mused, and musing sighed.Methought the BALL she played with was my HEART;(Alas! that sport like THAT should be her pride!)And the KEEN POINT which steadfast still she eyedWherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's DART;Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemnWho ON THAT DART IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM?
Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED.Far from my Delia now by fate removed,At home, abroad, I view her everywhere:HER ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see,My GODDESS-MAID, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR.FOR LOVE ANNIHILATES THE WORLD TO ME!And when the weary SOL AROUND HIS BEDCLOSES THE SABLE CURTAINS OF THE NIGHT,SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sightShe shines confest. When EVERY SOUND IS DEAD,The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to ROLLThe surge of music o'er my wavy brain.Far, far from her my BODY drags its chain,But sure with Delia I EXIST A SOUL!
I would I were that portly gentlemanWith gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,Who hangs in Delia's parlor! For whene'erFrom book or needlework her looks arise,On him CONVERGE THE SUN-BEAMS OF HER EYES,And he UNBLAMED may gaze upon MY FAIR,And oft MY FAIR his FAVORED form surveys.O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze;I envy him! and jealous fear alarms,Lest the STRONG GLANCE of those DIVINEST charmsWARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days,When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms.I would I were that portly gentleman,With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane!
'Tis mine I what accents can my joy declare?Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout!Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,That left the TEMPTING CORNER hanging out!
I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,After long travel to some distant shrine.When at the relic of his saint he kneels,For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.
When first with FILCHING FINGERS I drew near,Keen hopes shot tremulous through every vein;And when the FINISHED DEED removed my fear,Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.
What though the EIGHTH COMMANDMENT rose to mind,It only served a moment's qualm to move;For thefts like this it could not be designed—THE EIGTH COMMANDMENT WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE!
Here, when she took the maccaroons from me,She wiped her mouth to clear the crumbs so sweet!Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips on thee!Lips SWEETER than the MACCAROONS she eat.
And when she took that pinch of Moccabaw,That made my love so DELICATELY sneeze,Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw,And thou art doubly dear for things like these.
No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er,SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profaneFor thou hast touched the RUBIES of my fair,And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again.
The comb between whose ivory teeth she strainsThe straightning curls of gold so BEAMY BRIGHT,Not spotless merely from the touch remains,But issues forth MORE PURE, more MILKY WHITE.
The rose pomatum that the FRISEUR spreadsSometimes with honored fingers for my fair,No added perfume on her tresses sheds,BUT BORROWS SWEETNESS FROM HER SWEETER HAIR.
Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hairWith licensed fingers uncontrolled may rove!And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR,Who died to make pomatum for my love.
Oh could I hope that e'er my favored laysMight CURL THOSE LOVELY LOCKS with conscious pride,Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise,I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside.
Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine,The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart;From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile lineWherewith the urchin ANGLED for MY HEART.
Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threadsThat from the silk-worm, SELF-INTERR'D, proceed;Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreadsHis filmy net-work o'er the tangled mead.
Yet with these tresses Cupid's power, elate,My captive HEART has HANDCUFF'D in a chain,Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate,THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN.
The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair,In FLOWING LUSTER bathe their bright'ning wings;And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care,The ringlets rob for FAIRY FIDDLESTRINGS.
Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth!Ye Seas! to swallow me, in kindness rise!Fall on me, mountains! and thou merciful earth,Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes.
Let universal Chaos now return,Now let the central fires their prison burst,And EARTH, and HEAVEN, and AIR, and OCEAN burn,For Delia FROWNS. She FROWNS, and I am curst.
Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight,Where hostile MILLIONS sought my single life;Would storm VOLCANOES, BATTERIES, with delight,And grapple with Grim Death in glorious strife.
Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove,When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies;What is HIS WRATH to that of HER I love?What is his LIGHTNING to my Delia's eyes?
Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind;Ye SERPENT CURLS, ye POISON TENDRILS, go!Would I could tear thy memory from my mind,ACCURSED LOCK; thou cause of all my woe!
Seize the CURST CURLS, ye Furies, as they fly!Demons of darkness, guard the infernal roll,That thence your cruel vengeance, when I die,May KNIT THE KNOTS OF TORTURE FOR MY SOUL.
Last night—Oh hear me, heaven, and grant my prayer!The BOOK OF FATE before thy suppliant lay,And let me from its ample records tearONLY THE SINGLE PAGE OF YESTERDAY!
Or let me meet OLD TIME upon his flight,And I will STOP HIM on his restless way;Omnipotent in love's resistless might,I'LL FORCE HIM BACK THE ROAD OF YESTERDAY.
Last night, as o'er the page of love's despair,My Delia bent DELICIOUSLY to grieve,I stood a TREACHEROUS LOITERER by her chair,And drew the FATAL SCISSORS from my sleeve:
And would at that instant o'er my threadThe SHEARS OF ATROPOS had opened then;And when I reft the lock from Delia's head,Had cut me sudden from the sons of men!
She heard the scissors that fair lock divide,And while my heart with transport parted big,She cast a FURY frown on me, and cried,"You stupid puppy—you have spoiled my wig!"
[Illustration: WILLIS]
THE BABY'S DEBUT. [Footnote: "The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his ALICE FELL, and the greater part of his last volumes—of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation."—Edinburg Review.]
Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.
My brother Jack was nine in May,And I was eight on New-year's-day;So in Kate Wilson's shopPapa (he's my papa and Jack's)Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,And brother Jack a top.Jack's in the pouts, and this it is—He thinks mine came to more than his;So to my drawer he goes,Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!He pokes her head between the bars,And melts off half her nose!
Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,And tie it to his peg-top's peg,And bang, with might and main,Its head against the parlor-door:Off flies the head, and hits the floor,And breaks a window-pane.
This made him cry with rage and spite:Well, let him cry, it serves him rightA pretty thing, forsooth!If he's to melt, all scalding hot,Half my doll's nose, and I am notTo draw his peg-top's tooth!
Aunt Hannah heard the window break,And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake,Thus to distress your aunt:No Drury Lane for you to-day!"And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!"Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!"
Well, after many a sad reproach,They got into a hackney-coach,And trotted down the street.I saw them go: one horse was blind,The tails of both hung down behind,Their shoes were on their feet.
The chaise in which poor brother BillUsed to be drawn to Pentonville,Stood in the lumber-room:I wiped the dust from off the top,While Molly mopped it with a mop,And brushed it with a broom.
My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,Came in at six to black the shoes,(I always talk to Sam:)So what does he, but takes, and dragsMe in the chaise along the flags,And leaves me where I am.
My father's walls are made of brick,But not so tall and not so thickAs these; and, goodness me!My father's beams are made of wood,But never, never half so goodAs those that now I see.
What a large floor! 'tis like a town!The carpet, when they lay it down,Won't hide it, I'll be bound;And there's a row of lamps!—my eye!How they do blaze! I wonder whyThey keep them on the ground.
At first I caught hold of the wing,And kept away; but Mr. Thing-umbob, the prompter man,Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,And said, "Go on, my pretty love;Speak to 'em little Nan.
"You've only got to curtsy, whisper,hold your chin up, laugh and lisp,And then you're sure to take:I've known the day when brats, not quiteThirteen, got fifty pounds a night;Then why not Nancy Lake?"
But while I'm speaking, where's papa?And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?Where's Jack? O there they sit!They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,And order round poor Billy's chaise,To join them in the pit.
And now, good gentlefolks, I goTo join mamma, and see the show;So, bidding you adieu,I curtsy like a pretty miss,And if you'll blow to me a kiss,I'll blow a kiss to you.
[Blow a kiss, and exit.]
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 looked me in the face,His face was sad I 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 looked me up, and straight a parapetUprose at least seven inches o'er the planks.Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said:He of the Blackfriars' Road, who hymned 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 offered, close to Mr. Spring'sBox-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders.They had a plan to render less their labors;Workmen in olden times would mount a ladderWith hodded heads, but these stretched 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! 't was a goodly sound, to hear the peopleWho watched the work, express their various thoughts!While some believed it never would be finished,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 wished that frontCemented like the front in Brydges-street;As now it 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! 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 Theaters!What is the Regency in Tottenham-street,The Royal Amphitheater of Arts,Astley's, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil,Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee pushedBack from the narrow street that christened thee,I know not why they call thee Drury Lane.Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions,It grieves me much to see live 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,Stuffed by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscisAs spruce as he who roared in Padmanaba.[Footnote: "Padmanaba," viz., in a pantomime called Harlequin inPadmanaba. This elephant, some years afterward, was exhibited overExeter 'Change, where it was found necessary to destroy the pooranimal by discharges of musketry. When he made his entrance in thepantomime above-mentioned, Johnson, the machinist of the rival house,exclaimed, "I should be very sorry if I could not make a betterelephant than that!"]
Naught 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![EXIT HASTILY.]
THE THEATER. [Footnote: "'The Theater,' 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. * * * 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."—Edinburg Review.]
Interior of a Theater described.—Pit gradually fills.-The Check-taker.—Pit full.—The Orchestra tuned.—One Fiddle rather dilatory.—Is reproved—and repents.—Evolutions of a Play-bill.—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,Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art,Start into light, and make the lighter start;To see red Phoebus through the gallery-paneTinge with his beams the beams of Drury Lane;While gradual parties fill our widened 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, miscalled STANDING-ROOM.
Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,And bawling "Pit full!" gives the checks 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 coarse 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 harpTill, like great Jove, the leader, fingering in,Attunes to order the chaotic din.Now all seems hushed—but, no, one fiddle willGive half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still.Foiled in his clash, 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 powdered 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, honor 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 two-pence 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 talkBig-worded bullies, who by quarrels live—Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;Jews from St. Mary's Ax, for jobs so wary,That for old clothes they'd even ax 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 seemed to threaten woe.
John Richard William Alexander DwyerWas footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire;But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues,Emanuel Jennings polished Stubb'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 haired youth,Ponder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.
Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongue 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 spurned 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," cries Wilson; and cries Stokes, "Take mine."A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,Where Spitalfields with real India vies.Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clew,Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.George Green below, with palpitating handLoops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band—Up soars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeigned,Regained the felt, and felt the prize regained;While to the applauding galleries grateful PatMade a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.
A TALE OF DRURY LANE [Footnote: "From the parody of Sir Walter Scott we know not what to select—It Is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as amusing specimens of the MISAPPLICATION of the style and meter of Mr. Scott's admirable romances."—Quarterly Review. "'A Tale of Drury.' by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably execuated; though the introduction is rather tame. The burning is described with the mighty minstrel's characteristic love of localitics. The catastrophe is described with a spirit not unworthy of the name so ventureously assumed by the describer"—Edinburg Review.]
[To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, In a suit of the Black Prince's Armor, borrowed from the Tower.]
Survey this shield, all bossy bright—These cuisses twin behold!Look on my form in armor dightOf steel inlaid with gold;My knees are stiff in iron buckles,Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.These once belonged to sable prince,Who never did in battle wince;With valor 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,And tell the town what sad mischanceDid Drury Lane befall.
On fair Augusta's towers and treesFlittered the silent midnight breeze,Curling the foliage as it past,Which from the moon-tipped plumage castA spangled light, like dancing spray,Then reassumed 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,Appear'd to slumber in the light.From Henry's chapel, Rufus' Hall,To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul,From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,To Redriff Shadwell, Horsleydown,No voice was heard, no eye unclosed,But all in deepest sleep reposed.They might have thought, who gazed aroundAmid a silence so profound,It made the senses thrill,That't was no place inhabited,But some vast city of the deadAll was so hushed and still.
As chaos, which, by heavenly doom,Had slept in everlasting gloom,Started with terror and surpriseWhen light first flashed upon her eyesSo London's sons in night-cap woke,In bed-gown woke her dames;For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke,And twice ten hundred voices spoke"The playhouse is in flames!"And, lo! where Catharine street extends,A fiery tail its luster lendsTo every window-pane;Blushes each spout in Martlet CourtAnd 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 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,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 borrowed luster seemed to shamThe rose of 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 seemed that nations did conspireTo offer to the god of fireSome vast stupendous sacrifice!The summoned firemen woke at call,And hied them to their stations all:Starting from short and broken snooze,Each sought his pond'rous hobnailed 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 thundered 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 stopped 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,Showed 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 Phoenix and the Sun,The 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 joined 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 reapFor 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 would 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,Concealed them from th' astonished crowd.At length the mist awhile was cleared,When, lo! amid the wreck upreared,Gradually a moving head appeared,And Eagle firemen knew'T was Joseph Muggins, name revered,The foreman of their crew.Loud shouted all in signs of woe,"A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!"And poured the hissing tide:Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,And strove and struggled all in vain,For, rallying but to fall again,He tottered, sunk, and died!
Did none attempt, before he fell,To succor 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 brokebefore.But sulphury stench and boiling drenchDestroying sight o'erwhelmed 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.Didst mark, how toiled the busy train,From morn to eve, till Drury LaneLeaped like a roebuck from the plain?Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,And nimble workmen trod;To realize bold Wyatt's planRushed may a howling Irishman;Loud clattered many a porter-can,And many a ragamuffin 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 shearsHave cut the bauble off.Yes, she exalts her stately head;And, but that solid bulk outspread,Opposed you on your onward tread,And posts and pillars warrantedThat all was true that Wyatt said,You might have deemed her walls so thick,Were not composed of stone or brick,But all a phantom, all a trick,Of brain disturbed and fancy-sick,So high she soars, so vast, so quick!
"You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force,Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse:We want their STRENGTH, agreed; but we atoneFor that and more, by SWEETNESS all our own"—GIFFORD.
Balmy zephyrs, lightly flitting,Shade me with your azure wing;On Parnassus' summit sitting,Aid me, Clio, while I sing.
Softly slept the dome of DruryO'er the empyreal crest,When Alecto's sister-furySoftly slumbering sunk to rest.
Lo! from Lemnos, limping lamely,Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,Oytherea yielding tamelyTo 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 vail to Truth.
See Erostratus the secondFires again Diana's fane;By the Fates from Orcus beckoned,Clouds envelop Drury Lane.
Lurid smoke and frank suspicionHand in hand reluctant dance:While the god fulfills his mission,Chivarly, resign thy lance.
Hark! the engines blandly thunder,Fleecy clouds disheveled lie,And the firemen, mute with wonder,On the son of Saturn cry.
See the bird of Ammon sailing,Perches on the engine's peak,And, the Eagle firemen hailing,Soothes them with its bickering beak.
Juno saw, and mad with malice,Lost the prize that Paris gave;Jealousy's ensanguined chalice,Mantling pours the orient wave.
Pan beheld Patrocles dying,Nox to Niobe was turned;From Busiris Bacchus flying,Saw his Semele inurned.
Thus fell Drury's lofty glory,Leveled with the shuddering stonesMars, with tresses black and gory,Drinks the dew of pearly groans.
Hark! what soft Aeolian numbersGem 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.
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!
And do you ask me, "What is LIFE?"And do you ask me, "What is pleasure?"My muse and I are not at strife,So listen, lady, to my measure:—Listen amid thy graceful leisure,To what is LIFE, and what IS pleasure.'Tis LIFE to see the first dawn stainWith sallow light the window-pane:To dress—to wear a rough drab coat,With large pearl buttons all afloatUpon the waves of plush: to tieA kerchief of the King-cup dye(White spotted with a small bird's-eye)Around the neck, and from the napeLet fall an easy fan-like cape:To quit the house at morning's prime,At six or so—about the timeWhen watchmen, conscious of the dayPuff out their lantern's rush-light ray;Just when the silent streets are strewnWith level shadows, and the moonTakes the day's wink and walks asideTo nurse a nap till eventide.'Tis LIFE to reach the livery stable,Secure the RIBBONS and the DAY-BILL,And mount a gig that had a springSome summer's back: and then take wingBehind (in Mr. Hamlet's tongue)A jade whose "withers are unwrung;"Who stands erect, and yet forlorn,And from a HALF-PAY life of corn,Showing as many POINTS each wayAs Martial's Epigrammata,Yet who, when set a-going, goesLike one undestined to repose.'Tis LIFE to revel down the road,And QUEER each o'erfraught chaise's load,To rave and rattle at the GATE,And shower upon the gatherer's pateDamns by the dozens, and such speechesAs well betokens one's SLANG riches:To take of Deady's bright STARK NAKEDA glass or so—'tis LIFE to take it!To see the Hurst with tents encampt on;Lurk around Lawrence's at Hampton;Join the FLASH crowd (the horse being ledInto the yard, and clean'd and fed);Talk to Dav' Hudson, and Cy' Davis(The last a fighting rara avis),And, half in secret, scheme a planFor trying the hardy GAS-LIGHT-MAN.'Tis LIFE to cross the laden ferry,With boon companions, wild and merry,And see the ring upon the HurstWith carts encircled—hear the burstAt distance of the eager crowd.Oh, it is LIFE! to see a proudAnd dauntless man step, full of hopes,Up to the P. C. stakes and ropes,Throw in his hat, and with a spring,Get gallantly within the ring;Eye the wide crowd, and walk awhile,Taking all cheerings with a smile:To see him skip—his well-trained form,White, glowing, muscular, and warm,All beautiful in conscious power,Relaxed and quiet, till the hour;His glossy and transparent frame,In radiant plight to strive for fame!To look upon the clean shap'd limbIn silk and flannel clothed trim;While round the waist the 'kerchief tied,Makes the flesh glow in richer pride.'Tis more than LIFE, to watch him holdHis hand forth, tremulous yet bold,Over his second's, and to claspHis rival's in a quiet grasp;To watch the noble attitudeHe takes—the crowd in breathless mood:And then to see, with adamant start,The muscles set, and the great heartHurl a courageous splendid lightInto the eye-and then-the FIGHT!
They were not married by a muttering priest,With superstitious rites, and senseless words,Out-snuffled from an old worm-eaten book,In a dark corner (railed off like a sheep-pen)Of an old house, that fools do call a CHURCH!THEIR altar was the flowery lap of earth—The starry empyrean their vast temple—Their book each other's eyes—and Love himselfParson, and Clerk, and Father to the bride!—Holy espousals! whereat wept with joyThe spirit of the universe.—In soothThere was a sort of drizzling rain that day,For I remember (having left at homeMy parapluie, a name than UMBRELLA,Far more expressive) that I stood for shelterUnder an entry not twelve paces off(It might be ten) from Sheriff Waithman's shopFor half an hour or more, and there I mused(Mine eyes upon the running kennel fixed,That hurried as a het'rogenous massTo the common sewer, it's dark reservoir),I mused upon the running stream of LIFE!But that's not much to the purpose—I was tellingOf these most pure espousals.—Innocent pair!Ye were not shackled by the vulgar chainsAbout the yielding mind of credulous youth,Wound by the nurse and priest—YOUR energies,Your unsophisticated impulses,Taught ye to soar above their "settled rulesOf Vice and Virtue." Fairest creature! HeWhom the world called thy husband, was in truthUnworthy of thee.-A dull plodding wretch!With whose ignoble nature thy free spiritHeld no communion.—'T was well done, fair creature!T' assert the independence of a mindCreated-generated I would say—Free as "that chartered libertine, the air."Joy to thy chosen partner! blest exchange!Work of mysterious sympathy I that drewYour kindred souls by * * * ** * * * * *There fled the noblest spirit—The most pure,Most sublimated essence that ere dweltIn earthly tabernacle. Gone thou art,Exhaled, dissolved, diffused, commingled nowInto and with the all-absorbing frameOf Nature, the great mother. Ev'n in life,While still, pent-up in flesh, and skin, and bones,My thoughts and feelings like electric flameShot through the solid mass, toward the source,And blended with the general elements,When thy young star o'er life's horizon hungFar from it's zenith yet low lagging clouds(Vapors of earth) obscured its heaven-born rays—Dull joys of prejudice and superstitionAnd vulgar decencies begirt thee round;And thou didst wear awhile th' unholy bondsOf "holy matrimony!" and didst vailAwhile thy lofty spirit to the cheat.—But reason came-and firm philosophy,And mild philanthropy, and pointed outThe shame it was-the crying, crushing shame,To curb within a little paltry paleThe love that over all created thingsShould be diffusive as the atmosphere.Then did thy boundless tenderness expandOver all space—all animated thingsAnd things inanimate. Thou hadst a heart,A ready tear for all.—The dying whale,Stranded and gasping—ripped up for his blubberBy Man the Tyrant.—The small sucking pigSlain for his riot.—The down-trampled flowerCrushed by his cruel foot.—ALL, EACH, and ALLShared in thy boundless sympathies, and then—(SUBLIME perfection of perfected LOVE)Then didst thou spurn the whimp'ring wailing thingThat dared to call THEE "husband," and to claim,As her just right, support and love from THEE—Then didst thou * * * ** * * * * * *
There's somewhat on my breast father,There's somewhat on my breast!The live-long day I sigh, father,At night I can not rest;I can not take my rest, father,Though I would fain do so,A weary weight oppresseth me—The weary weight of woe!
'Tis not the lack of gold, fatherNor lack of worldly gear;My lands are broad and fair to see,My friends are kind and dear;My kin are leal and true, father,They mourn to see my grief,But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's handCan give my heart relief!
'Tis not that Janet's false, father,'Tis not that she's unkind;Though busy flatterers swarm around,I know her constant mind.'Tis not her coldness, father,That chills my laboring breast—Its that confounded cucumberI've ate, and can't digest.
With daddles [Footnote: Hands.] high upraised, and NOB held back,In awful prescience of the impending THWACK,Both KIDDIES [Footnote: Fellows, usually YOUNG fellows.] stood—andwith prelusive SPAR,And light manoeuv'ring, kindled up the war!The One, in bloom of youth—a LIGHT-WEIGHT BLADE—The Other, vast, gigantic, as if made,Express, by Nature for the hammering trade;But aged, slow, with stiff limbs, tottering much,And lungs, that lack'd the BELLOWS-MENDER'S touch.
Yet, sprightly TO THE SCRATCH both BUFFERS came,While RIBBERS rung from each resounding frame,And divers DIGS, and many a ponderous PELT,Were on their broad BREAD-BASKETS heard and feltWith roving aim, but aim that rarely miss'd,Round LUGS and OGLES [Footnote: Ears and Eyes.] flew the frequent fist;While showers of FACERS told so deadly well,That the crush'd jaw-bones crackled as they fell!But firmly stood ENTELLUS—and still bright,Though bent by age, with all THE FANCY'S light,STOPP'D with a skill, and RALLIED with a fireThe Immortal FANCY could alone inspire!
While DARES, SHIFTING round, with looks of thought,An opening to the COVE'S huge carcase sought(Like General PRESTON, in that awful hour,When on ONE leg he hopp'd to—take the Tower!)And here, and there, explored with active FIN [Footnote: Arm.]And skillful FEINT, some guardless pass to win,And prove a BORING guest when once LET IN.And now ENTELLUS, with an eye that plann'dPUNISHING deeds, high raised his heavy hand,But, ere the SLEDGE came down, young DARES spiedHis shadow o'er his brow, and slipp'd aside—So nimbly slipp'd, that the vain NOBBER pass'dThrough empty air; and He, so high, so vast,Who dealt the stroke, came thundering to the groundNot B—CK—GH—M himself, with bulkier sound,Uprooted from the field of Whiggish glories,Fell SOUSE, of late, among the astonish'd Tories!Instant the RING was broke, and shouts and yellsFrom Trojan FLASHMEN and Sicilian SWELLSFill'd the wide heaven—while, touch'd with grief to seeHis PAL, [Footnote: Friend] well-known through many a LARK and SPREE,[Footnote: Party of pleasure and frolic]Thus RUMLY FLOOR'D, the kind ACESTES ran,And pitying raised from earth the GAME old man,Uncow'd, undamaged to the SPORT he came,His limbs all muscle, and his soul all flame.The memory of his MILLING glories past,The shame that aught but death should see him GRASS'D,All fired the veteran's PLUCK—with fury flush'd,Full on his light-limb'd CUSTOMER he rush'd—And HAMMERING right and left, with ponderous swing,RUFFIAN'D the reeling youngster round the RING—Nor rest, nor pause, nor breathing-time was given,But, rapid as the rattling hail from heavenBeats on the house-top, showers of RANDALL'S SHOT[Footnote: A favorite blow of THE NONPARIEL'S, so called.]Around the Trojan's LUGS flew peppering hot!Till now AENEAS, fill'd with anxious dread,Rush'd in between them, and, with words well-bredPreserved alike the peace and DARES' head,BOTH which the veteran much inclined to BREAK—Then kindly thus the PUNISH'D youth bespake:Poor JOHNNY RAW! what madness could impelSo RUM a FLAT to face so PRIME a SWELL?Sees't thou not, boy, THE FANCY, heavenly Maid,Herself descends to this great HAMMERER'S aid,And, singling HIM from all her FLASH adorers,Shines in his HITS, and thunders in his FLOORERS?Then, yield thee, youth—nor such a SPOONEY be,To think mere man can MILL a Deity!"
Thus spoke the Chief—and now, the SCRIMAGE o'er,His faithful PALS the DONE-UP DARES boreBack to his home, with tottering GAMS, sunk heart,And MUNS and NODDLE PINK'D in every part.While from his GOB the guggling CLARET gush'd,And lots of GRINDERS, from their sockets crush'd,Forth with the crimson tide in rattling fragments rush'd!
NOT A SOUS HAD HE GOT.[PARODY ON WOLFE'S "BUKIAL or SIB JOHN MOORE."]R. HARRIS BARHAM
Not a SOUS had he got—not a guinea or note,And he looked confoundedly flurried,As he bolted away without paying his shot,And the Landlady after him hurried.
We saw him again at dead of night,When home from the Club returning;We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the lightOf the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,Reclined in the gutter we found him;And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,With his MARSHALL cloak around him.
"The Doctor's as drunk as the d——," we said,And we managed a shutter to borrow;We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his headWhould "consumedly ache" on the morrow.
We bore him home, and we put him to bed,And we told his wife and his daughterTo give him, next morning, a couple of redHerrings, with soda-water.—
Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone,And his Lady began to upbraid him;But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.
We tuck'd him in, and had hardly doneWhen, beneath the window calling,We heard the rough voice of a son of a gunOf a watchman "One o'clock!" bawling.
Slowly and sadly we all walk'd downFrom his room in the uppermost story;A rushlight was placed on the cold hearth-stone,And we left him alone in his glory!!
"And hast thou nerve enough?" he said,That gray Old Man, above whose headUnnumbered years have roll'd—"And hast thou nerve to view," he cried,"The incarnate Fiend that Heaven defied!—— Art thou indeed so bold?
"Say, canst Thou, with unshrinking gaze,Sustain, rash youth, the withering blazeOf that unearthly eye,That blasts where'er it lights—the breathThat, like the Simoom, scatters deathOn all that yet CAN die!
—"Darest thou confront that fearful form,That rides the whirlwind, and the storm,In wild unholy revel!—The terrors of that blasted brow,Archangel's once—though ruin'd now——Ay—dar'st thou face THE DEVIL?"—
"I dare!" the desperate Youth replied,And placed him by that Old Man's side,In fierce and frantic glee,Unblenched his cheek, and firm his limb—"No paltry juggling Fiend, but HIM!—THE DEVIL I-I fain would see!—
"In all his Gorgon terrors clad,His worst, his fellest shape!" the LadRejoined in reckless tone.——"Have then thy wish!" Agrippa said,And sigh'd and shook his hoary head,With many a bitter groan.
He drew the mystic circle's bound,With skull and cross-bones fenc'd around;He traced full many a sigil there;He mutter'd many a backward pray'r,That sounded like a curse—
"He comes !"—he cried with wild grimace,"The fellest of Apollyon's race!"—Then in his startled pupil's faceHe dash'd-an EMPTY PURSE!!
THE LONDON UNIVERSITY;[Footnote: see footnote to SONG by Canning.]OR, STINKOMALEE TRIUMPHANS.
Whene'er with pitying eye I viewEach operative sot in town,I smile to think how wondrous fewGet drunk who study at the U-niversity we've Got in town—niversity we've Got in town.
What precious fools "The People" grew, Their alma mater not in town; The "useful classes" hardly knew Four was composed of two and two, Until they learned it at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.
But now they're taught by JOSEPH HU- ME, by far the cleverest Scot in town, Their ITEMS and their TOTTLES too; Each may dissect his sister Sue, From his instructions at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.
Then L——E comes, like him how few Can caper and can trot in town, In PIROUETTE or PAS DE DEUX— He beats the famed MONSIEUR GIROUX, And teaches dancing at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.
And GILCHRIST, see, that great Geentoo-Professor, has a lot in townOf Cockney boys who fag Hindoo,And LARN JEM-NASTICS at the U-niversity we've Got in town—niversity we've Got in town.
SAM R—- corpse of vampire hue,Comes from its grave to rot in town;For Bays the dead bard's crowned with Yew,And chants, the Pleasures of the U-niversity we've Got in town—niversity we've Got in town.
FRANK JEFFREY, of the Scotch Review,— Whom MOORE had nearly shot in town,— Now, with his pamphlet stitched in blue And yellow, d—ns the other two, But lauds the ever-glorious U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.
Great BIRBECK, king of chips and glue, Who paper oft does blot in town, From the Mechanics' Institu- tion, comes to prate of wedge and screw, Lever and axle at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.
LORD WAITHAM, who long since withdrew From Mansion House to cot in town; Adorn'd with chair of ormolu, All darkly grand, like Prince Lee Boo, Lectures on FREE TRADE at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.
Fat F——, with his coat of blue, Who speeches makes so hot in town, In rhetoric, spells his lectures through, And sounds the V for W, The VAY THEY SPEAKS it at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.
Then H——E comes, who late at New- gate Market, sweetest spot in town! Instead of one clerk popp'd in two, To make a place for his ne-phew, Seeking another at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.
There's Captain ROSS, a traveler true, Has just presented, what in town- 's an article of great VIRTU (The telescope he once peep'd through, And 'spied an Esquimaux canoe On Croker Mountains), to the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.
Since MICHAEL gives no roast nor stew, Where Whigs might eat and plot in town, And swill his port, and mischief brew— Poor CREEVY sips his water gru- el as the beadle of the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town,
There's JERRY BENTHAM and his crew, Names ne'er to be forgot in town, In swarms like Banquo's long is-sue— Turk, Papist, Infidel and Jew, Come trooping on to join the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.
To crown the whole with triple queue— Another such there's not in town, Twitching his restless nose askew, Behold tremendous HARRY BROUGH- AM! Law Professor at the U- niversity we've Got in town— niversity we've Got in town.
Huzza! huzza! for HARRY BROUGH-AM! Law Professor at the U-niversity we've Got in town—niversity we've Got in town.