Rogero, son of the late Minister of the Count of Saxe Weimar, having,

while he was at college, fallen desperately in love with Matilda

Pottingen, daughter of his tutor, Doctor Engelbertus Pottingen, Professor

of Civil Law; and Matilda evidently returning his passion, the doctor, to

prevent ill consequences, sends his daughter on a visit to her aunt in

Wetteravia, where she becomes acquainted with Casimere, a Polish officer,

who happens to be quartered near her aunt's, and has several children by

him.

Roderic, Count of Saxe Weimar, a prince of tyrannical and licentious

disposition, has for his Prime Minister and favourite, Gaspar, a crafty

villain, who had risen to his post by first ruining, and then putting to

death, Rogero's father. Gaspar, apprehensive of the power and popularity

which the young Rogero may enjoy at his return to Court, seizes the

occasion of his intrigue with Matilda (of which he is apprised officially

by Doctor Pottingen) to procure from his master an order for the recall

of Rogero from college, and for committing him to the care of the prior

of the Abbey of Quedlinburgh, a priest, rapacious, savage, and sensual,

and devoted to Gaspar's interests--sending at the same time private

orders to the prior to confine him in a dungeon.

Here Rogero languishes many years. His daily sustenance is administered

to him through a grated opening at the top of a cavern, by the

landlady of the Golden Eagle at Weimar, with whom Gaspar contracts,

in the Prince's name, for his support; intending, and more than once

endeavouring, to corrupt the waiter to mingle poison with the food, in

order that he may get rid of Rogero for ever.

In the meantime Casimere, having been called away from the neighbourhood

of Matilda's residence to other quarters, becomes enamoured of, and

marries Cecilia, by whom he has a family; and whom he likewise deserts

after a few years' cohabitation, on pretence of business which calls him

to Kamtschatka.

Doctor Pottingen, now grown old and infirm, and feeling the want of his

daughter's society, sends young Pottingen in search of her, with strict

injunctions not to return without her; and to bring with her either her

present lover Casimere, or, should that not be possible, Rogero himself,

if he can find him; the doctor having set his heart upon seeing his

children comfortably settled before his death. Matilda, about the same

period, quits her aunt's in search of Casimere; and Cecilia having been

advertised (by an anonymous letter) of the falsehood of his Kamtschatka

journey, sets out in the post-waggon on a similar pursuit.

It is at this point of time the play opens--with the accidental meeting

of Cecilia and Matilda at the inn at Weimar. Casimere arrives there soon

after, and falls in first with Matilda, and then with Cecilia. Successive

_éclaircissements_ take place, and an arrangement is finally made, by

which the two ladies are to live jointly with Casimere.

Young Pottingen, wearied with a few weeks' search, during which he has

not been able to find either of the objects of it, resolves to stop

at Weimar, and wait events there. It so happens, that he takes up his

lodging in the same house with Puddincrantz and Beefinstern, two English

noblemen, whom the tyranny of King John has obliged to fly from their

country; and who, after wandering about the Continent for some time, have

fixed their residence at Weimar.

The news of the signature of Magna Charta arriving, determines

Puddincrantz and Beefinstern to return to England. Young Pottingen opens

his case to them, and entreats them to stay to assist him in the object

of his search. This they refuse; but coming to the inn where they are

to set off for Hamburgh, they meet Casimere, from whom they have both

received many civilities in Poland.

Casimere, by this time tired of his "Double Arrangement," and having

learned from the waiter that Rogero is confined in the vaults of the

neighbouring Abbey _for love_, resolves to attempt his rescue, and to

make over Matilda to him as the price of his deliverance. He communicates

his scheme to Puddingfield and Beefington, who agree to assist him; as

also does young Pottingen. The waiter of the inn proving to be a _Knight

Templar_ in disguise, is appointed leader of the expedition. A band of

troubadours, who happen to be returning from the Crusades, and a company

of Austrian and Prussian Grenadiers returning from the Seven Years' War,

are engaged as troops.

The attack on the Abbey is made with success. The Count of Weimar and

Gaspar, who are feasting with the prior, are seized and beheaded in the

refectory. The prior is thrown into the dungeon, from which Rogero is

rescued. Matilda and Cecilia rush in. The former recognizes Rogero, and

agrees to live with him. The children are produced on all sides; and

young Pottingen is commissioned to write to his father, the doctor, to

detail the joyful events which have taken place, and to invite him to

Weimar, to partake of the general felicity.

* * * * *

ACT II.

SCENE.--_A Room in an ordinary Lodging-house at

Weimar._--PUDDINGFIELD _and_ BEEFINGTON _discovered, sitting at

a small deal table, and playing at All-fours.--Young_ POTTINGEN,

_at another table in the corner of the room, with a pipe in his

mouth, and a Saxon mug of a singular shape beside him, which he

repeatedly applies to his lips, turning back his head, and casting

his eyes towards the firmament. At the last trial he holds the mug

for some moments in a directly inverted position; then replaces it

on the table, with an air of dejection, and gradually sinks into

a profound slumber. The pipe falls from his hand, and is broken._

_Beef._ I beg.

_Pudd._ [_deals three cards to_ BEEFINGTON.] Are you satisfied?

_Beef._ Enough. What have you?

_Pudd._ High--low--and the game.

_Beef._ Ah! 'tis my deal [_deals--turns up a knave_.] One

for his heels! [_Triumphantly._

_Pudd._ Is king highest?

_Beef._ No [_sternly._] The game is mine. The knave gives it me.

_Pudd._ Are knaves so prosperous?

Ay, marry are they in this world. They have the game in their

hands. Your kings are but _noddies_[208] to them.

_Pudd._ Ha! ha! ha!--still the same proud spirit, Beefington, which

procured thee thine exile from England.

_Beef._ England! my native land!--when shall I revisit thee?

[_During this time_ PUDDINGFIELD _deals, and begins to arrange his

hand_.

_Beef._ [_continues._] Phoo--hang all-fours; what are they to a mind

ill at ease? Can they cure the heart-ache? Can they sooth banishment?

Can they lighten ignominy? Can all-fours do this? Oh! my Puddingfield,

thy limber and lightsome spirit bounds up against affliction--with the

elasticity of a well-bent bow; but mine--O! mine--

[_Falls into an agony, and sinks back in his chair._ YOUNG

POTTINGEN _awakened by the noise, rises, and advances with a grave

demeanour towards_ BEEFINGTON _and_ PUDDINGFIELD. _The former

begins to recover_.

_Y. Pot._ What is the matter, comrades?[209]--you seem agitated. Have you

lost or won?

_Beef._ Lost. I have lost my country.

_Y. Pot._ And I my sister. I came hither in search of her.

_Beef._ O England!

_Y. Pot._ O Matilda!

_Beef._ Exiled by the tyranny of an usurper, I seek the means of revenge,

and of restoration to my country.

_Y. Pot._ Oppressed by the tyranny of an abbot, persecuted by the

jealousy of a count, the betrothed husband of my sister languishes in

a loathsome captivity. Her lover is fled no one knows whither--and I,

her brother, am torn from my paternal roof, and from my studies in

chirurgery, to seek him and her, I know not where--to rescue Rogero,

I know not how. Comrades, your counsel--my search fruitless--my money

gone--my baggage stolen! What am I to do? In yonder abbey--in these

dark, dank vaults, there, my friends--there lies Rogero--there Matilda's

heart----

SCENE II.

_Enter_ WAITER.

_Waiter._ Sir, here is a person who desires to speak with you.

_Beef._ [_goes to the door, and returns with a letter, which he

opens--on perusing it his countenance becomes illuminated, and expands

prodigiously_.] Hah, my friend, what joy!

[_Turning to_ PUDDINGFIELD.

_Pudd._ What? tell me--let your Puddingfield partake it.

_Beef._ See here-- [_Produces a printed paper._

_Pudd._ What? [_With impatience._

_Beef._ [_in a significant tone_.] A newspaper!

_Pudd._ Hah, what sayst thou! A newspaper!

_Beef._ Yes, Puddingfield, and see here [_shows it partially_], from

England.

_Pudd._ [_with extreme earnestness._] Its name!

_Beef._ The "Daily Advertiser"--

_Pudd._ Oh, ecstasy!

_Beef._ [_with a dignified severity._] Puddingfield, calm

yourself--repress those transports--remember that you are a man.

_Pudd._ [_after a pause with suppressed emotion._] Well, I will be--I am

calm--yet tell me, Beefington, does it contain any news?

_Beef._ Glorious news, my dear Puddingfield--the Barons are

victorious--King John has been defeated--Magna Charta, that venerable,

immemorial inheritance of Britons, was signed last Friday was three

weeks, the third of July Old Style.

_Pudd._ I can scarce believe my ears--but let me satisfy my eyes--show me

the paragraph.

_Beef._ Here it is, just above the advertisements.

_Pudd._ [_reads._] "The great demand for Packwood's razor straps."----

_Beef._ 'Pshaw! what, ever blundering--you drive me from my patience--see

here, at the head of the column.

_Pudd._ [_reads._] "A hireling print, devoted to the Court,

Has dared to question our veracity

Respecting the events of yesterday;

But by to-day's accounts, our information

Appears to have been perfectly correct.

The charter of our liberties received

The royal signature at five o'clock,

When messengers were instantly dispatch'd

To Cardinal Pandulfo; and their majesties,

After partaking of a cold collation,

Return'd to Windsor."--I am satisfied.

_Beef._ Yet here again--there are some further particulars [_turns to

another part of the paper_], "Extract of a letter from Egham--My dear

friend, we are all here in high spirits--the interesting event which took

place this morning at Runnymede, in the neighbourhood of this town"----

_Pudd._ Hah! Runnymede, enough--no more--my doubts are vanished--then are

we free indeed!

_Beef._ I have, besides, a letter in my pocket from our friend, the

immortal Bacon, who has been appointed Chancellor. Our outlawry is

reversed! What says my friend--shall we return by the next packet?

_Pudd._ Instantly, instantly!

_Both._ Liberty! Adelaide!--Revenge!

[_Exeunt. Young_ POTTINGEN _following_, _and waving his hat, but

obviously without much consciousness of the meaning of what has

passed_.

_Scene changes to the outside of the Abbey. A summer's

evening_--_moonlight. Companies of Austrian and Prussian Grenadiers march

across the stage, confusedly, as if returning from the Seven Years' War.

Shouts, and martial music. The Abbey gates are opened. The monks are

seen passing in procession, with the Prior at their head. The choir is

heard chanting vespers. After which a pause. Then a bell is heard, as if

ringing for supper. Soon after, a noise of singing and jollity._

_Enter from the Abbey, pushed out of the gates by the Porter, a

Troubadour, with a bundle under his cloak, and a Lady under his

arm. Troubadour seems much in liquor, but caresses the female

minstrel._

_Fem. Min._ Trust me, Gieronymo, thou seemest melancholy. What hast thou

got under thy cloak?

_Trou._ 'Pshaw, women will be inquiring. Melancholy! not I. I will sing

thee a song, and the subject of it shall be thy question--"What have

I got under my cloak?" It is a riddle, Margaret--I learnt it of an

almanac-maker at Gotha--if thou guessest it after the first stanza, thou

shalt have never a drop for thy pains. Hear me--and, d'ye mark! twirl thy

thingumbob while I sing.

_Fem. Min._ 'Tis a pretty tune, and hums dolefully.

[_Plays on the balalaika_.[210] _Troubadour sings._

I bear a secret comfort here,

[_putting his hand on the bundle, but without showing it._

A joy I'll ne'er impart;

It is not wine, it is not beer,

But it consoles my heart.

_Fem. Min._ [_interrupting him._] I'll be hang'd if you don't mean the

bottle of cherry-brandy that you stole out of the vaults in the Abbey

cellar.

_Trou._ I mean!--Peace, wench, thou disturbest the current of my feelings.

[_Fem. Min. attempts to lay hold of the bottle. Troubadour pushes

her aside, and continues singing without interruption._

This cherry-bounce, this lov'd noyau,

My drink for ever be;

But, sweet my love, thy wish forego,

I'll give no drop to thee!

(_Both together_.)

_Trou._ {This} cherry-bounce {This} lov'd noyau,

_F. M._ {That} {that}

_Trou._ {My } drink for ever be;

_F. M._ {Thy }

_Trou._ } But, sweet my love, {thy wish forego!

_F. M._ } {one drop bestow,

_Trou._ {I } keep it all for {me!

_F. M._ {Nor} {thee!

[_Exeunt struggling for the bottle, but without anger or

animosity, the Fem. Min. appearing, by degrees, to obtain a

superiority in the contest._

Act the Third contains the _eclaircissements_ and final arrangement

between Casimere, Matilda, and Cecilia: which so nearly resemble the

concluding act of "Stella," that we forbear to lay it before our readers.

* * * * *

ACT IV.

SCENE--_The Inn door--Diligence drawn up._ CASIMERE _appears

superintending the package of his portmanteaus, and giving

directions to the Porters._

_Enter_ BEEFINGTON _and_ PUDDINGFIELD.

_Pudd._ Well, Coachey, have you got two inside places?

_Coach._ Yes, your honour.

_Pudd._ [_seems to be struck with_ CASIMERE'S _appearance. He surveys him

earnestly, without paying any attention to the coachman, then doubtingly

pronounces_] Casimere!

_Cas._ [_turning round rapidly, recognises_ PUDDINGFIELD, _and embraces

him_.] My Puddingfield!

_Pudd._ My Casimere!

_Cas._ What, Beefington too! [_discovering him_.] Then is my joy complete.

_Beef._ Our fellow-traveller, as it seems.

_Cas._ Yes, Beefington--but wherefore to Hamburgh?

_Beef._ Oh, Casimere[211]--to fly--to fly--to return--England--our

country--Magna Charta--it is liberated--a new era--House of

Commons--Crown and Anchor--Opposition----

_Cas._ What a contrast! you are flying to liberty and your home--I,

driven from my home by tyranny--am exposed to domestic slavery in a

foreign country.

_Beef._ How domestic slavery?

_Cas._ Too true--two wives [_slowly, and with a dejected air--then after

a pause_]--you knew my Cecilia?

_Pudd._ Yes, five years ago.

_Cas._ Soon after that period I went upon a visit to a lady in

Wetteravia--my Matilda was under her protection--alighting at a peasant's

cabin, I saw her on a charitable visit, spreading bread-and-butter

for the children, in a light-blue riding habit. The simplicity of her

appearance--the fineness of the weather--all conspired to interest me--my

heart moved to hers--as if by a magnetic sympathy--we wept, embraced,

and went home together--she became the mother of my Pantalowsky. But five

years of enjoyment have not stifled the reproaches of my conscience--her

Rogero is languishing in captivity--if I could restore her to _him!_

_Beef._ Let us rescue him.

_Cas._ Will without power[212] is like children playing at soldiers.

_Beef._ Courage without power[213] is like a consumptive running footman.

_Cas._ Courage without power is a contradiction.[214] Ten brave men might

set all Quedlinburgh at defiance.

_Beef._ Ten brave men--but where are they to be found?

_Cas._ I will tell you--marked you the waiter?

_Beef._ The waiter? [_Doubtingly._

_Cas._ [_in a confidential tone_.] No waiter, but a Knight Templar.

Returning from the crusade, he found his Order dissolved, and his

person proscribed. He dissembled his rank, and embraced the profession

of a waiter. I have made sure of him already. There are, besides, an

Austrian and a Prussian grenadier. I have made them abjure their national

enmity, and they have sworn to fight henceforth in the cause of freedom.

These, with Young Pottingen, the waiter, and ourselves, make seven--the

troubadour, with his two attendant minstrels, will complete the ten.

_Beef._ Now then for the execution. [_With enthusiasm._

_Pudd._ Yes, my boys--for the execution.

[_Clapping them on the back._

_Waiter._ But hist! we are observed.

_Trou._ Let us by a song conceal our purposes.

RECITATIVE ACCOMPANIED.[215]

_Cas._ Hist! hist! nor let the airs that blow

From Night's cold lungs, our purpose know!

_Pudd._ Let Silence, mother of the dumb,

_Beef._ Press on each lip her palsied thumb!

_Wait._ Let privacy, allied to sin,

That loves to haunt the tranquil inn--

_Gren._ } And Conscience start, when she shall view,

_Trou._ } The mighty deed we mean to do!

GENERAL CHORUS--_Con spirito._

Then friendship swear, ye faithful bands,

Swear to save a shackled hero!

See where yon Abbey frowning stands!

Rescue, rescue, brave Rogero!

_Cas._ Thrall'd in a Monkish tyrant's fetters,

Shall great Rogero hopeless lie?

_Y. Pot._ In my pocket I have letters,

Saying, "help me, or I die!"

_Allegro Allegretto._

_Cas. Beef. Pudd. Gren. Trou._ } Let us fly, let us fly,

_Waiter, and Pot. with enthusiasm_ } Let us help, ere he die!

[_Exeunt omnes, waving their hats._

SCENE.--_The Abbey gate, with ditches, drawbridges, and spikes.

Time--about an hour before sunrise. The conspirators appear

as if in ambuscade, whispering, and consulting together, in

expectation of the signal for attack. The_ WAITER _is habited

as a Knight Templar, in the dress of his Order, with the cross

on his breast, and the scallop on his shoulder_; PUDDINGFIELD

_and_ BEEFINGTON _armed with blunderbusses and pocket pistols;

the Grenadiers in their proper uniforms. The Troubadour, with

his attendant Minstrels, bring up the rear--martial music--the

conspirators come forward, and present themselves before the

gate of the Abbey.--Alarum--firing of pistols--the Convent

appear in arms upon the walls--the drawbridge is let down--a

body of choristers and lay-brothers attempt a sally, but are

beaten back, and the verger killed. The besieged attempt to

raise the drawbridge_--PUDDINGFIELD _and_ BEEFINGTON _press

forward with alacrity, throw themselves upon the drawbridge,

and by the exertion of their weight, preserve it in a state of

depression--the other besiegers join them, and attempt to force

the entrance, but without effect._ PUDDINGFIELD _makes the signal

for the battering ram. Enter_ QUINTUS CURTIUS _and_ MARCUS CURIUS

DENTATUS, _in their proper military habits, preceded by the Roman

Eagle--the rest of their legion are employed in bringing forward

a battering ram, which plays for a few minutes to slow time, till

the entrance is forced. After a short resistance, the besiegers

rush in with shouts of victory._

_Scene changes to the interior of the Abbey. The inhabitants of

the Convent are seen flying in all directions._

_The_ COUNT OF WEIMAR _and_ PRIOR, _who had been feasting in

the refectory, are brought in manacled. The_ COUNT _appears

transported with rage, and gnaws his chains. The_ PRIOR _remains

insensible, as if stupefied with grief._ BEEFINGTON _takes

the keys of the dungeon, which are hanging at the_ PRIOR'S

_girdle, and makes a sign for them both to be led away into

confinement.--Exeunt_ PRIOR _and_ COUNT _properly guarded. The

rest of the conspirators disperse in search of the dungeon where_

ROGERO _is confined._

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 204: A See the "Robbers." a German tragedy, in which robbery is

put in so fascinating a light, that the whole of a German University went

upon the highway in consequence of it.]

[Footnote 205: See "Cabal and Love," a German tragedy, very severe

against Prime Ministers and reigning Dukes of Brunswick. This admirable

performance very judiciously reprobates the hire of German troops for the

_American war_ in the reign of Queen Elizabeth--a practice which would

undoubtedly have been highly discreditable to that wise and patriotic

princess, not to say wholly unnecessary, there being no American war at

that particular time.]

[Footnote 206: See the "Stranger; or, Reform'd Housekeeper," in which

the former of these morals is beautifully illustrated; and "Stella," a

genteel German comedy, which ends with placing a man _bodkin_ between

_two wives_, like _Thames_ between his _two banks_, in the "Critic."

Nothing can be more edifying than these two dramas. I am shocked to hear

that there are some people who think them ridiculous.]

[Footnote 207: These are the warnings very properly given to readers,

to beware how they judge of what they cannot understand. Thus, if the

translation runs "lightning of my soul, fulguration of angels, sulphur

of hell;" we should recollect that this is not coarse or strange in the

German language, when applied by a lover to his mistress; but the English

has nothing precisely parallel to the original Mulychause Archangelichen,

which means rather "emanation of the archangelican nature"--or to

Smellmynkern Vankelfer, which, if literally rendered, would signify

"made of stuff of the same odour whereof the devil makes flambeaux." See

Schüttenbrüch on the German Idiom.]

[Footnote 208: This is an excellent joke in German; the point and

spirit of which is but ill-rendered in a translation. A Noddy, the

reader will observe, has two significations--the one a "knave at

all-fours;" the other a "fool or booby." See the translation by Mr.

Render of "Count Benyowsky; or, the Conspiracy of Kamtschatka," a German

tragi-comi-comi-tragedy: where the play opens with a scene of a game at

chess (from which the whole of this scene is copied), and a joke of the

same point and merriment about pawns--_i.e._, boors being _a match_ for

kings.]

[Footnote 209: This word in the original is strictly

"fellow-lodgers"--"co-occupants of the same room, in a house let out

at a small rent by the week." There is no single word in English which

expresses so complicated a relation, except, perhaps, the cant term of

"chum," formerly in use at our universities.]

[Footnote 210: The balalaika is a Russian instrument, resembling the

guitar.--See the play of "Count Benyowsky," rendered into English.]

[Footnote 211: See "Count Benyowsky; or, the Conspiracy of Kamschatka,"

where Crustiew, an old gentleman of much sagacity, talks the following

nonsense:

_Crustiew_ [_with youthful energy and an air of secrecy and confidence_.]

"To fly, to fly, to the Isles of Marian--the island of Tinian--a

terrestrial paradise. Free--free--a mild climate--a new created

sun--wholesome fruits--harmless inhabitants--and Liberty--tranquillity."]

[Footnote 212: See "Count Benyowsky." as before.]

[Footnote 213: See "Count Benyowsky."]

[Footnote 214: See "Count Benyowsky" again; from which play this and the

preceding references are taken word for word. We acquit the Germans of

such reprobate silly stuff. It must be the translator's.]

[Footnote 215: We believe this song to be copied, with a small variation

in metre and meaning, from a song in "Count Benyowsky; or, the Conspiracy

of Kamtschatka,"--where the conspirators join in a chorus, _for fear of

being overheard_.]

BOMBASTES FURIOSO.

FIRST PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL HAYMARKET, AUGUST 7, 1810.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ARTAXOMINOUS, _King of Utopia._

FUSBOS, _Minister of State._

GENERAL BOMBASTES.

_Attendants or Courtiers._

_Army_--a long Drummer, a short

Fifer, and two (sometimes three)

Soldiers of different dimensions.

DISTAFFINA.

SCENE I.--_Interior of the Palace._

_The_ KING _in his chair of state.--A table set out with

punchbowl, glasses, pipes, &c._--ATTENDANTS _on each side._

TRIO.--"_Tekeli._"

_1st Atten._ What will your majesty please to wear?

Or blue, green, red, black, white, or brown?

_2nd Atten._ D'ye choose to look at the bill of fare?

[_Showing long bill._

_King._ Get out of my sight, or I'll knock you down.

_2nd Atten._ Here is soup, fish, or goose, or duck, or fowl,

or pigeons, pig, or hare!

_1st Atten._ Or blue, or green, or red, or black, or white, or brown,

What will your Majesty, &c.

_King._ Get out of my sight, &c. [_Exeunt_ ATTENDANTS.

_Enter_ FUSBOS, _and kneels to the_ KING.

_Fusbos._ Hail, Artaxominous! yclep'd the Great!

I come, an humble pillar of thy state,

Pregnant with news--but ere that news I tell,

First let me hope your Majesty is well.

_King._ Rise, learned Fusbos! rise, my friend, and know

We are but middling--that is, _so so!_

_Fusbos._ Only _so so!_ Oh, monstrous, doleful thing!

Is it the mulligrubs affects the king?

Or, dropping poisons in the cup of joy,

Do the blue devils your repose annoy?

_King._ Nor mulligrubs nor devils blue are here,

But yet we feel ourselves a little queer.

_Fusbos._ Yes, I perceive it in that vacant eye,

The vest unbutton'd, and the wig awry;

So sickly cats neglect their fur-attire,

And sit and mope beside the kitchen fire.

_King._ Last night, when undisturb'd by state affairs,

Moist'ning our clay, and puffing off our cares,

Oft the replenish'd goblet did we drain,

And drank and smok'd, and smok'd and drank again!

Such was the case, our very actions such,

Until at length we got a drop too much.

_Fusbos._ So when some donkey on the Blackheath Road,

Falls, overpower'd, beneath his sandy load;

The driver's curse unheeded swells the air,

Since none can carry more than they can bear.

_King._ The sapient Doctor Muggins came in haste,

Who suits his physic to his patient's taste;

He, knowing well on what our heart is set,

Hath just prescrib'd, "To take a morning whet;"

The very sight each sick'ning pain subdues.

Then sit, my Fusbos, sit and tell thy news.

_Fusbos_ [_sits._] Gen'ral Bombastes, whose resistless force

Alone exceeds by far a brewer's horse,

Returns victorious, bringing mines of wealth!

_King._ Does he, by jingo? then we'll drink his health!

[_Drum and Fife._

_Fusbos._ But hark! with loud acclaim, the fife and drum

Announce your army near; behold, they come!

_Enter_ BOMBASTES, _attended by one_ DRUMMER, _one_ FIFER, _and

two_ SOLDIERS, _all very materially differing in size.--They march

round the stage and back_.

_Bombas._ Meet me this ev'ning at the Barley Mow;

I'll bring your pay--you see I'm busy now:

Begone, brave army, and don't kick up a row.

[_Exeunt_ SOLDIERS.

[_To the_ KING.] Thrash'd are your foes--this watch and

silken string,

Worn by their chief, I as a trophy bring;

I knock'd him down, then snatch'd it from his fob;

"Watch, watch," he cried, when I had done the job.

"My watch is gone," says he--says I, "Just so;

Stop where you are--watches were made to go."

_King._ For which we make you Duke of Strombelo.

[BOMBASTES _kneels; the_ KING

_dubs him with a pipe, and then presents the bowl_.

From our own bowl here drink, my soldier true,

And if you'd like to take a whiff or two,

He whose brave arm hath made our foes to crouch,

Shall have a pipe from this our royal pouch.

_Bombas._ [_rises._] Honours so great have all my toils repaid!

My liege, and Fusbos, here's "Success to trade".

_Fusbos._ Well said, Bombastes! Since thy mighty blows,

Have given a quietus to our foes,

Now shall our farmers gather in their crops,

And busy tradesmen mind their crowded shops

The deadly havoc of war's hatchet cease;

Now shall we smoke the calumet of peace.

_King._ I shall smoke short-cut, you smoke what you please.

_Bombas._ Whate'er your Majesty shall deign to name,

Short cut or long to me is all the same.

_Bombas._ } In short, so long, as we your favours claim,

and } Short cut or long, to us is all the same.

_Fusbos._ }

_King._ Thanks, gen'rous friends! now list whilst I impart

How firm you're lock'd and bolted in my heart;

So long as this here pouch a pipe contains,

Or a full glass in that there bowl remains,

To you an equal portion shall belong;

This do I swear, and now--let's have a song.

_Fusbos._ My liege shall be obeyed.

[_Advances and attempts to sing._

_Bombas._ Fusbos, give place,

You know you haven't got a singing face;

Here nature, smiling, gave the winning grace.

SONG.--"_Hope told a flatt'ring Tale_."

Hope told a flattering tale,

Much longer than my arm,

That love and pots of ale

In peace would keep me warm:

The flatt'rer is not gone,

She visits number one:

In love I'm monstrous deep.

Love! odsbobs, destroys my sleep,

Hope told a flattering tale,

Lest love should soon grow cool;

A tub thrown to a whale,

To make the fish a fool:

Should Distaffina frown,

Then love's gone out of town;

And when love's dream is o'er,

Then we wake and dream no more.

[_Exit._

[_The_ KING _evinces strong emotions during the song, and at the

conclusion starts up._

_Fusbos._ What ails my liege? ah! why that look so sad?

_King_ [_coming forward._] I am in love! I scorch, I freeze, I'm mad!

Oh, tell me, Fusbos, first and best of friends,

You, who have wisdom at your fingers' ends,

Shall it be so, or shall it not be so?

Shall I my Griskinissa's charms forego,

Compel her to give up the regal chair,

And place the rosy Distaffina there?

In such a case, what course can I pursue?

I love my queen, and Distaffina too.

_Fusbos._ And would a king his general supplant?

I can't advise, upon my soul I can't.

_King._ So when two feasts, whereat there's nought to pay,

Fall unpropitious on the self-same day,

The anxious Cit each invitation views,

And ponders which to take or which refuse:

From this or that to keep away is loth,

And sighs to think he cannot dine at both. [_Exit._

_Fusbos._ So when some school-boy, on a rainy day,

Finds all his playmates will no longer stay,

He takes the hint himself--and walks away. [_Exit._

SCENE II.--_An Avenue of Trees._

_Enter the_ KING.

_King._ I'll seek the maid I love, though in my way

A dozen gen'rals stood in fierce array!

Such rosy beauties nature meant for kings;

Subjects have treat enough to see such things.

SCENE III.--_Inside of a Cottage._

_Enter_ DISTAFFINA.

_Distaf._ This morn, as sleeping in my bed I lay,

I dreamt (and morning dreams come true they say),

I dreamt a cunning man my fortune told,

And soon the pots and pans were turned to gold!

Then I resolv'd to cut a mighty dash;

But, lo! ere I could turn them into cash,

Another cunning man my heart betray'd,

Stole all away, and left my debts unpaid.

_Enter the_ KING.

And pray, sir, who are you, I'd wish to know?

_King._ Perfection's self, oh, smooth that angry brow!

For love of thee, I've wander'd thro' the town,

And here have come to offer half a crown.

_Distaf._ Fellow! your paltry offer I despise;

The great Bombastes' love alone I prize.

_King._ He's but a general--damsel, I'm a king;

_Distaf._ Oh, sir, that makes it quite another thing.

_King._ And think not, maiden, I could e'er design

A sum so trifling for such charms as thine.

No! the half crown that ting'd thy cheeks with red,

And bade fierce anger o'er thy beauties spread,

Was meant that thou should'st share my throne and bed.

_Distaf._ [_aside._] My dream is out, and I shall soon behold

The pots and pans all turn to shining gold.

_King_ [_puts his hat down to kneel on._] Here, on my knees

(those knees which ne'er till now

To man or maid in suppliance bent) I vow

Still to remain, till you my hopes fulfil,

Fixt as the Monument on Fish Street Hill.

_Distaf._ [_kneels._] And thus I swear, as I bestow my hand,

As long as e'er the Monument shall stand,

So long I'm yours----

_King._ Are then my wishes crown'd?

_Distaf._ La, sir! I'd not say no for twenty pound;

Let silly maids for love their favours yield,

Rich ones for me--a king against the field.

SONG.--"_Paddy's Wedding._"

Queen Dido at

Her palace gate

Sat darning of her stocking O;

She sung and drew

The worsted through,

Whilst her foot was the cradle rocking O;

(For a babe she had

By a soldier lad,

Though hist'ry passes it over O);

"You tell-tale brat,

I've been a flat,

Your daddy has proved a rover O.

What a fool was I

To be cozen'd by

A fellow without a penny O;

When rich ones came,

And ask'd the same,

For I'd offers from never so many O;

But I'll darn my hose,

Look out for beaux,

And quickly get a new lover O;

Then come, lads, come,

Love beats the drum,

And a fig for Æneas the rover O."

_King._ So Orpheus sang of old, or poets lie,

And as the brutes were charmed, e'en so am I.

Rosy-cheek'd maid, henceforth my only queen,

Full soon shalt thou in royal robes be seen;

And through my realm I'll issue this decree,

None shall appear of taller growth than thee:

Painters no other face portray--each sign

O'er alehouse hung shall change its head for thine.

Poets shall cancel their unpublish'd lays,

And none presume to write but in thy praise.

_Distaf._ [_fetches a bottle and glass._] And may I then,

without offending, crave

My love to taste of this, the best I have?

_King._ Were it the vilest liquor upon earth,

Thy touch would render it of matchless worth;

Dear shall the gift be held that comes from you;

Best proof of love [_drinks_],'tis full-proof Hodges' too;

Through all my veins I feel a genial glow,

It fires my soul----

_Bombastes_ [_within._] Ho, Distaffina, ho!

_King._ Heard you that voice?

_Distaf._ O yes, 'tis what's his name,

The General; send him packing as he came.

_King._ And is it he? and doth he hither come?

Ah me! my guilty conscience strikes me dumb:

Where shall I go? say, whither shall I fly?

Hide me, oh hide me from his injur'd eye!

_Distaf._ Why, sure you're not alarm'd at such a thing?

He's but a general, and you're a king.

[KING _conceals himself in a closet in flat_.

_Enter_ BOMBASTES.

_Bombas._ Lov'd Distaffina! now by my scars I vow,

Scars got--I haven't time to tell you how;

By all the risks my fearless heart hath run,

Risks of all shapes from bludgeon, sword, and gun.

Steel traps, the patrole, bailiff shrewd, and dun;

By the great bunch of laurel on my brow,

Ne'er did thy charms exceed their present glow!

Oh! let me greet thee with a loving kiss---- [_Sees the hat._

Why, what the devil!--say, whose hat is this?

_Distaf._ Why, help your silly brains, that's not a hat.

_Bombas._ No hat?

_Distaf._ Suppose it is, why, what of that?

A hat can do no harm without a head!

_Bombas._ Whoe'er it fits, this hour I doom him dead;

Alive from hence the caitiff shall not stir----

[_Discovers the_ KING.

Your most obedient, humble servant; sir.

_King._ Oh, general, oh!

_Bombas._ My much-loved master, oh!

What means all this?

_King._ Indeed I hardly know----

_Distaf._ You hardly know?--a very pretty joke,

If kingly promises so soon are broke!

Arn't I to be a queen, and dress so fine?

_King._ I do repent me of the foul design:

To thee, my brave Bombastes, I restore

Pure Distaffina, and will never more

Through lane or street with lawless passion rove,

But give to Griskinissa all my love.

_Bombas._ No, no, I'll love no more; let him who can

Fancy the maid who fancies ev'ry man.

In some lone place I'll find a gloomy cave,

There my own hands shall dig a spacious grave.

Then all unseen I'll lay me down and die,

Since woman's constancy is--all my eye.

TRIO.--"_O Lady Fair!_"

_Dislaf._ O, cruel man! where are you going?

Sad are my wants, my rent is owing.

_Bombas._ I go, I go, all comfort scorning;

Some death I'll die before the morning.

_Distaf._ Heigho, heigho! sad is that warning--

Oh, do not die before the morning!

_King._ I'll follow him, all danger scorning;

He shall not die before the morning.

_Bombas._ I go, I go, &c.

_Distaf._ Heigho, heigho, &c.

_King._ I'll follow him, &c.

[_They hold him by the coat-tails, but he gradually tugs them off._

SCENE IV.--_A Wood._

_Enter_ FUSBOS.

_Fusbos._ This day is big with fate: just as I set

My foot across the threshold, lo! I met

A man whose squint terrific struck my view;

Another came, and lo! he squinted too;

And ere I'd reach'd the corner of the street,

Some ten short paces, 'twas my lot to meet

A third who squinted more--a fourth, and he

Squinted more vilely than the other three.

Such omens met the eye when Cæsar fell,

But cautioned him in vain; and who can tell

Whether those awful notices of fate

Are meant for kings or ministers of state;

For rich or poor, old, young, or short or tall,

The wrestler Love trips up the heels of all.

SONG.--"_My Lodging is on the Cold Ground._"

My lodging is in Leather Lane,

A parlour that's next to the sky;

'Tis exposed to the wind and the rain,

But the wind and the rain I defy:

Such love warms the coldest of spots,

As I feel for Scrubinda the fair;

Oh, she lives by the scouring of pots,

In Dyot Street, Bloomsbury Square.

Oh, were I a quart, pint, or gill,

To be scrubb'd by her delicate hands,

Let others possess what they will

Of learning, and houses, and lands;

My parlour that's next to the sky

I'd quit, her blest mansion to share;

So happy to live and to die

In Dyot Street, Bloomsbury Square.

And oh, would this damsel be mine,

No other provision I'd seek;

On a look I could breakfast and dine,

And feast on a smile for a week.

But ah! should she false-hearted prove,

Suspended, I'll dangle in air;

A victim to delicate love,

In Dyot Street, Bloomsbury Square. [_Exit._

_Enter_ BOMBASTES, preceded by a Fifer, playing "Michael Wiggins."_

_Bombas._ Gentle musician, let thy dulcet strain

Proceed--play "Michael Wiggins" once again [_he does so_.]

Music's the food of love; give o'er, give o'er,

For I must batten on that food no more. [_Exit_ FIFER.

My happiness is chang'd to doleful dumps,

Whilst, merry Michael, all thy cards were trumps.

So, should some youth by fortune's blest decrees,

Possess at least a pound of Cheshire cheese,

And bent some favour'd party to regale,

Lay in a kilderkin, or so, of ale;

Lo, angry fate! In one unlucky hour

Some hungry rats may all the cheese devour,

And the loud thunder turn the liquor sour [_forms his sash into

a noose_.]

Alas! alack! alack! and well-a-day,

That ever man should make himself away!

That ever man for woman false should die,

As many have, and so, and so [_prepares to hang himself, tries

the sensation, but disapproves of the result_] won't I!

No, I'll go mad! 'gainst all I'll vent my rage,

And with this wicked wanton world a woeful war I'll wage!

[_Hangs his boots to the arm of a tree, and taking a scrap of

paper, with a pencil writes the following couplet, which he

attaches to them, repeating the words_:--

"Who dares this pair of boots displace,

Must meet Bombastes face to face."

Thus do I challenge all the human race.

[_Draws his sword, and retires up the stage, and off._

_Enter the_ KING.

_King._ Scorning my proffer'd hand, he frowning fled,

Curs'd the fair maid, and shook his angry head [_perceives the boots

and label._.]

"Who dares this pair of boots displace,

Must meet Bombastes face to face."

Ha! dost thou dare me, vile obnoxious elf?

I'll make thy threats as bootless as thyself:

Where'er thou art, with speed prepare to go

Where I shall send thee--to the shades below [_knocks down the

boots_.]

_Bombas._ [_coming forward_.] So have I heard on Afric's burning

shore,

A hungry lion give a grievous roar;

The grievous roar echo'd along the shore.

_King._ So have I heard on Afric's burning shore

Another lion give a grievous roar,

And the first lion thought the last a bore.

_Bombas._ Am I then mocked? Now by my fame I swear

You soon shall have it--There! [_They fight._

_King._ Where?

_Bombas._ There and there!

_King._ I have it sure enough--Oh! I am slain!

I'd give a pot of beer to live again [_falls on his back_];

Yet ere I die I something have to say:

My once-lov'd gen'ral, pri'thee come this way!

Oh! oh! my Bom---- [_Dies._

_Bombas._ --Bastes he would have said;

But ere the word was out, his breath was fled.

Well, peace be with him, his untimely doom

Shall thus be mark'd upon his costly tomb:--

"Fate cropt him short--for be it understood.

He would have liv'd much longer--if he could."

[_Retires again up the stage._

_Enter_ FUSBOS.

_Fusbos._ This was the way they came, and much I fear

There's mischief in the wind. What have we here?

King Artaxominous bereft of life!

Here'll be a pretty tale to tell his wife.

_Bombas._ A pretty tale, but not for thee to tell,

For thou shalt quickly follow him to hell;

There say I sent thee, and I hope he's well.

_Fusbos._ No, thou thyself shalt thy own message bear;

Short is the journey, thou wilt soon be there.

[_They fight_--BOMBASTES _is wounded_.

_Bombas._ Oh, Fusbos, Fusbos! I am diddled quite,

Dark clouds come o'er my eyes--farewell, good night!

Good night! my mighty soul's inclined to roam,

So make my compliments to all at home.

[_Lies down by the_ KING.

_Fusbos._ And o'er thy grave a monument shall rise,

Where heroes yet unborn shall feast their eyes;

And this short epitaph that speaks thy fame,

Shall also there immortalize my name:--

"Here lies Bombastes, stout of heart and limb,

Who conquered all but Fusbos--Fusbos him."

_Enter_ DISTAFFINA.

_Distaf._ Ah, wretched maid! Oh, miserable fate!

I've just arrived in time to be too late;

What now shall hapless Distaffina do?

Curse on all morning dreams, they come so true!

_Fusbos._ Go, beauty go, thou source of woe to man,

And get another lover where you can:

The crown now sits on Griskinissa's head,

To her I'll go----

_Distaf._ But are you sure they're dead?

_Fusbos._ Yes, dead as herrings--herrings that are red.

FINALE.

_Distaf._ Briny tears I'll shed,

_King._ I for joy shall cry, too; [_Rising._

_Fusbos._ Zounds! the King's alive!

_Bombas._ Yes, and so am I, too! [_Rising._

_Distaf._ It was better far,

_King._ Thus to check all sorrow;

_Fusbos._ But, if some folks please,

_Bombas._ We'll die again to-morrow!

* * * * *

_Distaf._ Tu ral, lu ral, la,

_King._ Tu ral, lu ral, laddi;

_Fusbos._ Tu ral, lu ral, la,

_Bombas._ Tu ral, lu ral, laddi!

_They take hands and dance round, repeating Chorus._

REJECTED ADDRESSES.

PREFACE.

On the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement appeared in most

of the daily papers:

"_Rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre._

"The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair competition

for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of the Theatre, which will

take place, on the 10th of October next. They have therefore thought

fit to announce to the public, that they will be glad to receive any

such compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the Treasury Office,

in Drury Lane, on or before the 10th of September, sealed up, with a

distinguishing word, number, or motto, on the cover, corresponding with

the inscription on a separate sealed paper containing the name of the

author, which will not be opened, unless containing the name of the

successful candidate."

Upon the propriety of this plan, men's minds were, as they usually are

upon matters of moment, much divided. Some thought it a fair promise of

the future intention of the Committee to abolish that phalanx of authors

who usurp the stage, to the exclusion of a large assortment of dramatic

talent blushing unseen in the background; while others contended, that

the scheme would prevent men of real eminence from descending into an

amphitheatre in which all Grub Street (that is to say, all London and

Westminster) would be arrayed against them. The event has proved both

parties to be in a degree right, and in a degree wrong. One hundred and

twelve Addresses have been sent in, each sealed and signed, and mottoed,

"as per order," some written by men of great, some by men of little, and

some by men of no talent.

Many of the public prints have censured the taste of the Committee, in

thus contracting for Addresses as they would for nails--by the gross; but

it is surprising that none should have censured their _temerity_. One

hundred and eleven of the Addresses must, of course, be unsuccessful:

to each of the authors, thus infallibly classed with the _genus

irritabile_, it would be very hard to deny six staunch friends, who

consider his the best of all possible Addresses, and whose tongues will

be as ready to laud him as to hiss his adversary. These, with the potent

aid of the bard himself, make seven foes per Address, and thus will be

created seven hundred and seventy-seven implacable auditors, prepared to

condemn the strains of Apollo himself; a band of adversaries which no

prudent manager would think of exasperating.

But leaving the Committee to encounter the responsibility they have

incurred, the public have at least to thank them for ascertaining

and establishing one point, which might otherwise have admitted of

controversy. When it is considered that many amateur writers have been

discouraged from becoming competitors, and that few, if any, of the

professional authors can afford to write for nothing, and of course

have not been candidates for the honorary prize at Drury Lane, we may

confidently pronounce, that, as far as regards _number_, the present

is undoubtedly the Augustan age of English poetry. Whether or not this

distinction will be extended to the _quality_ of its productions, must

be decided at the tribunal of posterity, though the natural anxiety of

our authors on this score ought to be considerably diminished, when they

reflect how few will, in all probability, be had up for judgment.

It is not necessary for the Editor to mention the manner in which he

became possessed of this "fair sample of the present state of poetry in

Great Britain." It was his first intention to publish the whole; but a

little reflection convinced him that, by so doing, he might depress the

good, without elevating the bad. He has therefore culled what had the

appearance of flowers, from what possessed the reality of weeds, and

is extremely sorry that, in so doing, he has diminished his collection

to twenty-one. Those which he has rejected may possibly make their

appearance in a separate volume, or they may be admitted as volunteers

in the files of some of the newspapers; or, at all events, they are sure

of being received among the awkward squad of the Magazines. In general,

they bear a close resemblance to each other: thirty of them contain

extravagant compliments to the immortal Wellington, and the indefatigable

Whitbread; and, as the last-mentioned gentleman is said to dislike praise

in the exact proportion in which he deserves it, these laudatory writers

have probably been only building a wall, against which they might run

their own heads.

The Editor here begs leave to advance a few words in behalf of that

useful and much-abused bird, the Phoenix, and in so doing he is biassed

by no partiality, as he assures the reader he not only never saw one,

but (_mirabile dictu!_) never caged one in a simile in the whole course

of his life. Not less than sixty-nine of the competitors have invoked

the aid of this native of Arabia; but as from their manner of using him,

after they had caught him, he does not by any means appear to have been

a native of Arabia _Felix_, the Editor has left the proprietors to treat

with Mr. Polito, and refused to receive this _rara avis_, or black swan,

into the present collection. One exception occurs, in which the admirable

treatment of this feathered incombustible entitles the author to great

praise. That Address has been preserved, and in the ensuing pages takes

the lead, to which its dignity entitles it.

Perhaps the reason why several of the subjoined productions of the MUSÆ

LONDINENSES have failed of selection, may be discovered in their being

penned in a metre unusual upon occasions of this sort, and in their not

being written with that attention to stage effect, the want of which,

like want of manners in the concerns of life, is more prejudicial than

a deficiency of talent. There is an art in writing for the Theatre,

technically called _touch and go_, which is indispensable when we

consider the small quantum of patience which so motley an assemblage as

a London audience can be expected to afford. All the contributors have

been very exact in sending their initials and mottoes. Those belonging

to the present collection have been carefully preserved, and each has

been affixed to its respective poem. The letters that accompanied the

Addresses having been honourably destroyed unopened, it is impossible

to state the real authors with any certainty, but the ingenious reader,

after comparing the initials with the motto, and both with the poem, may

form his own conclusions.

The Editor does not anticipate any disapprobation from thus giving

publicity to a small portion of the REJECTED ADDRESSES; for, unless he

is widely mistaken in assigning the respective authors, the fame of each

individual is established on much too firm a basis to be shaken by so

trifling and evanescent a publication as the present:

neque ego illi detrahere ausim

Hærentem capiti multâ cum laude coronam.

Of the numerous pieces already sent to the Committee for performance,

he has only availed himself of three vocal Travesties, which he has

selected, not for their merit, but simply for their brevity. Above

one hundred spectacles, melodramas, operas, and pantomimes have been

transmitted, besides the two first acts of one legitimate comedy. Some

of these evince considerable smartness of manual dialogue, and several

brilliant repartees of chairs, tables, and other inanimate wits; but the

authors seem to have forgotten that in the new Drury Lane the audience

can hear as well as see. Of late our theatres have been so constructed

that John Bull has been compelled to have very long ears, or none at

all; to keep them dangling about his skull like discarded servants,

while his eyes were gazing at piebalds and elephants, or else to stretch

them out to an asinine length to catch the congenial sound of braying

trumpets. An auricular revolution is, we trust, about to take place; and,

as many people have been much puzzled to define the meaning of the new

era, of which we have heard so much, we venture to pronounce, that as

far as regards Drury Lane Theatre, the new era means the reign of ears.

If the past affords any pledge for the future, we may confidently expect

from the Committee of that House, everything that can be accomplished by

the union of taste and assiduity.

LOYAL EFFUSION.

BY W. T. F.

Quiequid dicunt, laudo: id rursum si negant

Laudo id quoque.--TERENCE.

Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work!

God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!

Ye Muses! by whose aid I cried down Fox,

Grant me in Drury Lane a private box,

Where I may loll, cry bravo, and profess

The boundless powers of England's glorious press;

While Afric's sons exclaim, from shore to shore,

"Quashee ma boo!" the slave-trade is no more.

In fair Arabia (happy once, now stony,

Since ruined by that arch apostate, Boney),

A phoenix late was caught: the Arab host

Long ponder'd, part would boil it, part would roast:

But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies,

Fledged, beak'd, and claw'd, alive, they see him rise

To heaven, and caw defiance in the skies.

So Drury, first in roasting flames consumed,

Then by old renters to hot water doom'd,

By Wyatt's trowel patted, plump and sleek,

Soars without wings, and caws without a beak.

Gallia's stern despot shall in vain advance

From Paris, the metropolis of France;

By this day month the monster shall not gain

A foot of land in Portugal or Spain.

See Wellington in Salamanca's field

Forces his favourite general to yield,

Breaks thro' his lines, and leaves his boasted Marmont

Expiring on the plain without his arm on:

Madrid he enters at the cannon's mouth,

And then the villages still further south.

Base Buonaparté, fill'd with deadly ire,

Sets, one by one, our playhouses on fire;

Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on

The Opera House, then burnt down the Pantheon;

Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames,

Next at Millbank he crossed the river Thames:

Thy hatch, O halfpenny! pass'd in a trice,

Boil'd some black pitch, and burnt down Astley's twice;

Then buzzing on thro' ether with a vile hum,

Turn'd to the left hand, fronting the asylum,

And burnt the Royal Circus in a hurry,--

('Twas call'd the Circus then, but now the Surrey).

Who burnt (confound his soul!) the houses twain

Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane?

Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork

(God bless the Regent and the Duke of York),

With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas,

And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos?

Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise?

Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies?

Who thought in flames St. James's Court to pinch?

Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch?

Why he, who, forging for this isle a yoke,

Reminds me of a line I lately spoke,

"The tree of freedom is the British oak."

Bless every man possessed of aught to give;

Long may Long Tilney Wellesley Long Pole live;

God bless the army, bless their coats of scarlet,

God bless the navy, bless the Princess Charlotte,

God bless the guards, though worsted Gallia scoff,

And bless their pigtails, tho' they're now cut off;

And oh, in Downing Street should Old Nick revel,

England's prime minister, then bless the Devil!

THE BABY'S DEBUT.

BY W. W.

Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait,

All thy false mimic fooleries I hate,

For thou art Folly's counterfeit, and she

Who is right foolish hath the better plea;

Nature's true Idiot I prefer to thee.--CUMBERLAND.

[_Spoken in the character of_ NANCY LAKE, _a girl eight years of

age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise, by_ SAMUEL

HUGHES, _her uncle's porter_.]

My brother Jack was nine in May,

And I was eight on New-year's-day;

So in Kate Wilson's shop

Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)

Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,

And brother Jack a top.

Jack's in the pouts, and this it is,

He thinks mine came to more than his,

So to my drawer he goes,

Takes out the doll, and, oh, my stars!

He pokes her head between the bars,

And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,

And tie it to his peg-top's peg,

And bang, with might and main,

Its head against the parlour door:

Off flies the head, and hits the floor,

And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite:

Well, let him cry, it serves him right.

A pretty thing, forsooth!

If he's to melt, all scalding hot,

Half my doll's nose, and I am not

To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break,

And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake,

Thus to distress your aunt:

No Drury Lane for you to-day!"

And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!"

Mamma said, "No, she shan't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach,

They got into a hackney coach,

And trotted down the street.

I saw them go: one horse was blind,

The tails of both hung down behind,

Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill

Used to be drawn to Pentonville,

Stood in the lumber-room:

I wiped the dust from off the top,

While Molly mopp'd it with a mop,

And brush'd it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,

Came in at six to black the shoes

(I always talk to Sam):

So what does he, but takes, and drags

Me in the chaise along the flags,

And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick,

But not so tall, and not so thick,

As these; and, goodness me!

My father's beams are made of wood,

But never, never half so good,

As these that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!

The carpet, when they lay it down,

Won't hide it, I'll be bound.

And there's a row of lamps! my eye!

How they do blaze! I wonder why

They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing,

And kept away; but Mr. Thing-

umbob, the prompter man,

Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,

And said, "Go on, my pretty love,

Speak to 'em, little Nan.

"You've only got to curtsey, whisp-

er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp,

And then you're sure to take:

I've known the day when brats not quite

Thirteen got fifty pounds a night;

Then why not Nancy Lake?"

But while I'm speaking, where's papa?

And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?

Where's Jack? Oh, there they sit!

They smile, they nod, I'll go my ways,

And order round poor Billy's chaise,

To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go

To join mamma, and see the show;

So, bidding you adieu,

I curtsey, like a pretty miss,

And if you'll blow to me a kiss,

I'll blow a kiss to you.

[_Blows kiss, and exit._

AN ADDRESS WITHOUT A PHOENIX.

BY S. T. P.

This was look'd for at your hand, and this was baulk'd.--

WHAT YOU WILL.

What stately vision mocks my waking sense?

Hence, dear delusion, sweet enchantment, hence!

Ha! is it real?--can my doubts be vain?

It is, it is, and Drury lives again!

Around each grateful veteran attends,

Eager to rush and gratulate his friends,

Friends whose kind looks, retraced with proud delight,

Endear the past, and make the future bright.

Yes, generous patrons, your returning smile

Blesses our toils, and consecrates our pile.

When last we met, Fate's unrelenting hand

Already grasp'd the devastating brand;

Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize,

Then burst resistless to the astonish'd skies.

The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride,

In trembling conflict stemm'd the burning tide,

Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall,

Down rush'd the thundering roof, and buried all!

Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung,

And raptur'd thousands on their music hung,

Where Wit and Wisdom shone by Beauty graced,

Sate lonely Silence, empress of the waste;

And still had reign'd--but he whose voice can raise

More magic wonders than Amphion's lays,

Bade jarring bands with friendly zeal engage,

To rear the prostrate glories of the stage.

Up leap'd the Muses at the potent spell,

And Drury's genius saw his temple swell,

Worthy, we hope, the British Drama's cause,

Worthy of British arts, and your applause.

Guided by you, our earnest aims presume

To renovate the Drama with the dome;

The scenes of Shakespeare and our bards of old,

With due observance splendidly unfold,

Yet raise and foster with parental hand

The living talent of our native land.

O! may we still, to sense and nature true,

Delight the many, nor offend the few.

Tho' varying tastes our changeful drama claim,

Still be its moral tendency the same,

To win by precept, by example warn,

To brand the front of vice with pointed scorn,

And Virtue's smiling brows with votive wreaths adorn.

CUI BONO?

BY LORD B.

I.

Sated with home, of wife, of children tired,

The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;

Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired,

The restless soul is driven to ramble home;

Sated with both, beneath new Drury's dome

The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine,

There growls, and curses, like a deadly gnome,

Scorning to view fantastic columbine,

Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine.

II.

Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way,

To gaze on puppets in a painted dome,

Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,

Like falling stars in life's eternal gloom,

What seek ye here? Joy's evanescent bloom?

Woe's me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave

Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb.

Man's heart the mournful urn o'er which they wave,

Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.

III.

Has life so little store of real woes,

That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?

Or is it that from truth such anguish flows,

Ye court the lying drama for relief?

Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief,

Or if one tolerable page appears

In folly's volume, 'tis the actor's leaf,

Who dries his own by drawing others' tears,

And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.

IV.

Albeit how like young Betty doth he flee!

Light as the mote that danceth in the beam,

He liveth only in man's present e'e,

His life a flash, his memory a dream,

Oblivious down he drops in Lethe's stream;

Yet what are they, the learned and the great?

Awhile of longer wonderment the theme!

Who shall presume to prophesy their date,

Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate?

V.

This goodly pile, upheav'd by Wyatt's toil,

Perchance than Holland's edifice more fleet,

Again red Lemnos' artisan may spoil;

The fire alarm, and midnight drum may beat,

And all be strew'd ysmoking at your feet.

Start ye? Perchance Death's angel may be sent

Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat,

And ye who met on revel idlesse bent

May find in pleasure's fane your grave and monument,

VI.

Your debts mount high--ye plunge in deeper waste,

The tradesman calls--no warning voice ye hear;

The plaintiff sues--to public shows ye haste;

The bailiff threats--ye feel no idle fear.

Who can arrest your prodigal career?

Who can keep down the levity of youth?

What sound can startle age's stubborn ear?

Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth

Men true to falshood's voice, false to the voice of truth?

VII.

To thee, blest saint! who doff'd thy skin to make

The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy,

We dedicate the pile--arise! awake!--

Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy,

Clear our new stage from reason's dull alloy,

Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth

With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy;

While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth,

Harps twang in Drury's walls, and make her boards a booth.

VIII.

For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March?

And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl?

And what is Rolla? Cupid steep'd in starch,

Orlando's helmet in Augustine's cowl.

Shakespeare, how true thine adage, "fair is foul;"

To him whose soul is with fruition fraught

The song of Braham is an Irish howl,

Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,

And nought is everything, and everything is nought.

IX.

Sons of Parnassus? whom I view above,

Not laurel-crown'd but clad in rusty black,

Not spurring Pegasus through Tempé's grove,

But pacing Grub Street on a jaded hack,

What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack,

Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long,

Condemn'd to tread the bard's time-sanctioned track,

Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng,

And reproduce in rags the rags ye blot in song.

X.

So fares the follower in the Muses' train,

He toils to starve, and only lives in death;

We slight him till our patronage is vain,

Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe,

And o'er his bones an empty requiem breathe--

Oh! with what tragic horror would he start

(Could he be conjured from the grave beneath),

To find the stage again a Thespian cart,

And elephants and colts down trampling Shakespeare's art.

XI.

Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules!

Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface;

Back, sister Muses, to your native schools;

Here booted grooms usurp Apollo's place,

Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace,

The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit;

Man yields the drama to the Houynim race,

His prompter spurs, his licencer the bit,

The stage a stable-yard, a jockey-club the pit.

XII.

Is it for these ye rear this proud abode?

Is it for these your superstition seeks

To build a temple worthy of a god,

To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks?

Then be the stage, to recompense your freaks,

A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks,

Where Punch, the lignum vitæ Roscius, squeaks,

And Wisdom weeps, and Folly plays his pranks,

And moody Madness laughs, and hugs the chain he clanks.

_To the Secretary of the Managing Committee of Drury Lane Playhouse._

SIR,

To the gewgaw fetters of rhyme (invented by the monks to enslave the

people) I have a rooted objection. I have therefore written an address

for your theatre in plain, homespun, yeoman's prose; in the doing

whereof I hope I am swayed by nothing but an independent wish to open

the eyes of this gulled people, to prevent a repetition of the dramatic

bamboozling they have hitherto laboured under. If you like what I have

done, and mean to make use of it, I don't want any such aristocratic

reward as a piece of plate with two griffins sprawling upon it, or a dog

and a jackass fighting for a ha'p'worth of gilt gingerbread, or any such

Bartholomew Fair nonsense. All I ask is, that the door-keepers of your

playhouse may take all the sets of my Register, now on hand, and force

everybody who enters your door to buy one, giving afterwards a debtor and

creditor account of what they have received, post-paid, and in due course

remitting me the money and unsold Registers, carriage-paid.

I am, &c.,

W. C.

IN THE CHARACTER OF A HAMPSHIRE FARMER.

Rabidâ qui concitus irâ

Implevit pariter ternis latratibus auras

Et sparsit virides spumis albentibus agros.--OVID.

MOST THINKING PEOPLE,

When persons address an audience from the stage, it is usual, either in

words or gesture, to say, "Ladies and Gentlemen, your servant." If I

were base enough, mean enough, paltry enough, and brute beast enough,

to follow that fashion, I should tell two lies in a breath. In the

first place, you are not ladies and gentlemen, but I hope something

better--that is to say, honest men and women; and in the next place,

if you were ever so much ladies, and ever so much gentlemen, I am not,

nor ever will be, your humble servant. You see me here, most thinking

people, by mere chance. I have not been within the doors of a playhouse

before for these ten years, nor till that abominable custom of taking

money at the doors is discontinued, will I ever sanction a theatre with

my presence. The stage-door is the only gate of freedom in the whole

edifice, and through that I made my way from Bagshaw's in Brydges Street,

to accost you. Look about you. Are you not all comfortable? Nay, never

slink, mun; speak out, if you are dissatisfied, and tell me so before

I leave town. You are now (thanks to Mr. Whitbread) got into a large,

comfortable house. Not into a gimcrack palace; not into a Solomon's

temple; not into a frost-work of Brobdingnag filagree; but into a plain,

honest, homely, industrious, wholesome, brown, brick playhouse. You have

been struggling for independence and elbow-room these three years; and

who gave it you? Who helped you out of Lilliput? Who routed you from a

rat-hole, five inches by four, to perch you in a palace? Again and again

I answer, Mr. Whitbread. You might have sweltered in that place with the

Greek name till Doomsday, and neither Lord Castlereagh, Mr. Canning,

no, nor the Marquis Wellesley, would have turned a trowel to help you

out! Remember that. Never forget that. Read it to your children, and to

your children's children! And now, most thinking people, cast your eyes

over my head to what the builder (I beg his pardon, the architect) calls

the proscenium. No motto, no slang, no Popish Latin to keep the people

in the dark. No _Veluti in speculum_. Nothing in the dead languages,

properly so called, for they ought to die, ay, and be damned to boot!

The Covent Garden manager tried that, and a pretty business he made of

it! When a man says _Veluti in speculum_, he is called a man of letters.

Very well, and is not a man who cries O.P. a man of letters too? You

ran your O.P. against his _Veluti in speculum_, and pray which beat? I

prophesied that, though I never told anybody. I take it for granted,

that every intelligent man, woman, and child, to whom I address myself,

has stood severally and respectively in Little Russell Street, and cast

their, his, her, and its eyes on the outside of this building before they

paid their money to view the inside. Look at the brick-work, English

audience! Look at the brick-work! All plain and smooth like a quaker's

meeting. None of your Egyptian pyramids, to entomb subscribers' capitals.

No overgrown colonnades of stone, like an alderman's gouty legs in white

cotton stockings, fit only to use as rammers for paving Tottenham Court

Road. This house is neither after the model of a temple in Athens, no,

nor a temple in Moorfields, but it is built to act English plays in, and

provided you have good scenery, dresses, and decorations, I dare say you

wouldn't break your hearts if the outside were as plain as the pikestaff

I used to carry when I was a sergeant. _Apropos_, as the French valets

say, who cut their masters' throats--_apropos_, a word about dresses. You

must, many of you, have seen what I have read a description of--Kemble

and Mrs. Siddons in "Macbeth," with more gold and silver plastered on

their doublets than would have kept an honest family in butchers' meat

and flannel from year's end to year's end! I am informed (now mind, I

do not vouch for the fact), but I am informed that all such extravagant

idleness is to be done away with here. Lady Macbeth is to have a plain

quilted petticoat, a cotton gown, and a mob cap (as the court parasites

call it; it will be well for them if, one of these days, they don't

wear a mob cap--I mean a white cap, with a mob to look at them), and

Macbeth is to appear in an honest yeoman's drab coat, and a pair of black

calamanco breeches. Not _Sal_amanca; no, nor Talavera neither, my most

noble Marquis, but plain, honest, black calamanco, stuff breeches. This

is right; this is as it should be. Most thinking people, I have heard

you much abused. There is not a compound in the language but is strung

fifty in a rope, like onions, by the _Morning Post_, and hurled in your

teeth. You are called the mob, and when they have made you out to be the

mob, you are called the scum of the people, and the dregs of the people.

I should like to know how you can be both. Take a basin of broth--not

cheap soup, Mr. Wilberforce, not soup for the poor at a penny a quart, as

your mixture of horses' legs, brick-dust, and old shoes was denominated,

but plain, wholesome, patriotic beef or mutton broth; take this, examine

it, and you will find--mind, I don't vouch for the fact, but I am told

you will find the dregs at the bottom, and the scum at the top. I will

endeavour to explain this to you: England is a large earthenware pipkin.

John Bull is the beef thrown into it. Taxes are the hot water he boils

in. Rotten boroughs are the fuel that blazes under this same pipkin.

Parliament is the ladle that stirs the hodge-podge, and sometimes--but

hold, I don't wish to pay Mr. Newman a second visit. I leave you better

off than you have been this many a day. You have a good house over your

head; you have beat the French in Spain; the harvest has turned out

well; the comet keeps its distance; and red slippers are hawked about in

Constantinople for next to nothing, and for all this, again and again I

tell you, you are indebted to Mr. Whitbread!

THE LIVING LUSTRES.

BY T. M.

Jam te juvaverit

Viros relinquere,

Doctæque conjugis

Sinu quiescere.--SIR T. MORE.

I.

O why should our dull retrospective Addresses

Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire?

Away with blue devils, away with distresses,

And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!

II.

Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury,

The richest to me is when woman is there:

The question of houses I leave to the jury;

The fairest to me is the house of the fair.

III.

When woman's soft smile all our senses bewilders,

And gilds while it carves her dear form on the heart,

What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders,

With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art?

IV.

How well would our actors attend to their duties,

Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit,

In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beauties

Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit.

V.

The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge

By woman were pluck'd, and she still wears the prize,

To tempt us in Theatre, Senate, or College;

I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.

VI.

There too is the lash which, all statutes controlling,

Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair,

For man is the pupil, who, while her eye's rolling,

Is lifted to rapture or sunk in despair.

VII.

Bloom, Theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes

Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile;

And flourish, ye pillars, as green as the rushes

That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle.

VIII.

For dear is the Emerald Isle of the Ocean,

Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave,

Whose sons, unaccustomed to rebel commotion,

Tho' joyous are sober, tho' peaceful are brave.

IX.

The shamrock their olive, sworn foe to a quarrel,

Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows;

Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel,

Which flourishes rapidly over their brows.

X.

Oh! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles,

Which each panting bosom indignantly names,

Until not one goose at the capital cackles,

Against the grand question of Catholic claims.

XI.

And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffy

Perchance held the helm of some mack'rel hoy,

Hold the helm of the state, and dispense in a jiffy

More fishes than ever he caught when a boy.

XII.

And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows,

In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock,

When bred to _our_ bar shall be Gibbs's and Garrows,

Assume the silk gown and discard the smock-frock.

XIII.

For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune,

As Dian outshines each encircling star,

And the spheres of the Heavens could never have kept tune

Till set to the music of Erin-go-bra!

THE REBUILDING.

BY R. S.

--per audaces nova dithyrambos

Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur

Lege solutis.--HORAT.

_Spoken by a_ GLENDOVEER.

I am a blessed Glendoveer;

'Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.

MIDNIGHT, yet not a nose

From Tower Hill to Piccadilly snored!

Midnight, yet not a nose

From Indra drew the essence of repose!

See with what crimson fury,

By Indra fann'd, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury;

The tops of houses, blue with lead,

Bend beneath the landlord's tread.

Master and 'prentice, serving man and lord,

Nailer and tailor,

Grazier and brazier,

Thro' streets and alleys pour'd,

All, all abroad to gaze,

And wonder at the blaze.

Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee,

Mounted on roof and chimney,

The mighty roast, the mighty stew

To see;

As if the dismal view

Were but to them a Brentford jubilee.

Vainly, all radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton,

(By the Greeks called Apollo)

Hollow

Sounds from thy harp proceed;

Combustible as reed,

The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs:

From Drury's top, dissever'd from thy pegs,

Thou tumblest,

Humblest,

Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high:

While, by thy somerset excited, fly

Ten million,

Billion

Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky.

Now come the men of fire to quench the fires,

To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run,

Hope gallops first, and second Sun;

On flying heel,

See Hand-in-Hand

O'ertake the band;

View with what glowing wheel

He nicks

Phoenix;

While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars,

Drury Lane! Drury Lane!

Drury Lane! Drury Lane!

They shout and they bellow again and again.

All, all in vain!

Water turns steam;

Each blazing beam

Hisses defiance to the eddying spout,

It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out!

Drury Lane! Drury Lane!

See, Drury Lane expires!

Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more,

Shorn of his ray,

Surya in durance lay:

The workmen heard him shout,

But thought it would not pay

To dig him out.

When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell,

Solemn as lead,

Judge of the dead,

Sworn foe to witticism,

By men called criticism,

Came passing by that way:

"Rise!" cried the fiend, "behold a sight of gladness!

Behold the rival theatre,

I've set O.P. at her,

Who, like a bull-dog bold,

Growls and fastens on his hold;

The many-headed rabble roar in madness:

Thy rival staggers; come and spy her

Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire."

So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one,

And crossing Russell Street,

He placed him on his feet,

'Neath Covent Garden dome. Sudden a sound

As of the bricklayers of Babel rose:

Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper,

Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes,

From the knobb'd bludgeon to the taper switch,

Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards

Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches:

A sea of heads roll'd roaring in the pit;

On paper wings O.P.'s

Reclin'd in lettered ease;

While shout and scoff,

"Ya! ya! off! off!"

Like thunderbolt on Surya's ear-drum fell,

And seem'd to paint

The savage oddities of Saint

Bartholomew in hell.

Tears dimm'd the god of light;

"Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight,

Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick,

Oh! bury me again in brick;

Shall I on New Drury tremble,

To be O.P.'d like Kemble?

No,

Better remain by rubbish guarded,

Than thus hubbubish groan placarded;

Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick,

And bury me again in brick."

Obedient Yamen

Answer'd, Amen,

And did

As he was bid.

There lay the buried god, and Time

Seem'd to decree eternity of lime;

But pity, like a dewdrop, gently prest

Almighty Veeshnoo's adamantine breast:

He, the preserver, ardent still

To do whate'er he says he will,

From South-hill urg'd his way,

To raise the drooping lord of day.

All earthly spells the busy one o'erpower'd;

He treats with men of all conditions,

Poets and players, tradesmen, and musicians;

Nay, even ventures

To attack the renters,

Old and new:

A list he gets

Of claims and debts,

And deems nought done while aught remains to do

Yamen beheld and wither'd at the sight;

Long had he aim'd the sunbeam to control,

For light was hateful to his soul:

"Go on," cried the hellish one, yellow with spite,

"Go on," cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen,

"Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca's queen,

I'll toil to undo every night."

Ye sons of song, rejoice!

Veeshnoo has still'd the jarring elements,

The spheres hymn music;

Again the god of day

Peeps forth with trembling ray,

And pours at intervals a strain divine.

"I have an iron yet in the fire," cried Yamen;

"The vollied flame rides in my breath,

My blast is elemental death;

This hand shall tear their paper bonds to pieces;

Ingross your deeds, assignments, leases,

My breath shall every line erase,

Soon as I blow the blaze."

The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor,

And Yamen's visage grows blanker and blanker,

The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown,

And Yamen's cheek is a russety brown,

Veshnoo, now thy work proceeds;

The solicitor reads,

And, merit of merit!

Red wax and green ferret,

Are fix'd at the foot of the deeds!

Yamen beheld and shiver'd;

His finger and thumb were cramp'd;

His ear by the flea in't was bitten,

When he saw by the lawyer's clerk written,

"Sealed and delivered,"

Being first duly stamped.

"Now for my turn," the demon cries, and blows

A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose;

Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend,

Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell,

Is judged in his turn;

Parchment won't burn!

His schemes of vengeance are dissolv'd in air,

Parchment won't tear!

Is it not written in the Himakoot book

(That mighty Baly from Kehama took),

"Who blows on pounce

Must the Swerga renounce?"

It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh;

Like as an eagle claws an asp,

Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp,

And hurl'd him in spite of his shrieks and his squalls,

Whizzing aloft like the Temple fountain,

Three times as high as Meru mountain,

Which is

Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul's.

Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew,

Who a durable grave meant

To dig in the pavement

Of Monument Yard;

To earth by the laws of attraction he flew,

And he fell, and he fell,

To the regions of hell;

Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock,

And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock,

Like a pebble in Carisbrooke well.

Now Veeshnoo turn'd round to a capering varlet,

Array'd in blue and white and scarlet,

And cried, "Oh! brown of slipper as of hat!

Lend me, harlequin, thy bat!"

He seiz'd the wooden sword, and smote the earth,

When lo! upstarting into birth,

A fabric, gorgeous to behold,

Outshone in elegance the old,

And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, "Hail, playhouse mine!"

Then, bending his head, to Surya he said,

"Go, mount yon edifice,

And show thy steady face

In renovated pride,

More bright, more glorious than before!"

But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge,

Still smarted from his former singe,

And to Veeshnoo replied,

In a tone rather gruff,

"No, thank you! one tumble's enough!"

DRURY'S DIRGE.

BY LAURA MATILDA.

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

Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse:

We want their strength, agreed; but we atone

For that and more, by sweetness all our own.--GIFFORD.

I.

Balmy Zephyrs lightly flitting,

Shade me with your azure wing;

On Parnassus' summit sitting,

Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

II.

Softly slept the dome of Drury,

O'er the empyreal crest,

When Alecto's sister-fury,

Softly slumb'ring sunk to rest.

III.

Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,

Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,

Cytherea yielding tamely,

To the Cyclops dark and dire.

IV.

Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,

Dulcet joys and sports of youth,

Soon must yield to haughty sadness,

Mercy holds the veil to Truth.

V.

See Erostratus the second,

Fires again Diana's fane;

By the Fates from Orcus beckon'd,

Clouds envelop Drury Lane.

VI.

Lurid smoke and frank suspicion,

Hand in hand reluctant dance;

While the god fulfils his mission,

Chivalry, resign thy lance.

VII.

Hark! the engines blandly thunder,

Fleecy clouds dishevell'd lie,

And the firemen, mute with wonder,

On the son of Saturn cry.

VIII.

See the bird of Ammon sailing,

Perches on the engine's peak,

And the Eagle firemen hailing,

Soothes them with its bickering beak.

IX.

Juno saw, and mad with malice,

Lost the prize that Paris gave.

Jealousy's ensanguin'd chalice,

Mantling pours the orient wave.

X.

Pan beheld Patroclus dying,

Nox to Niobe was turn'd;

From Busiris Bacchus flying,

Saw his Semele inurn'd.

XI.

Thus fell Drury's lofty glory,

Levell'd with the shuddering stones,

Mars with tresses black and gory,

Drinks the dew of pearly groans.

XII.

Hark! what soft Eolian numbers,

Gem the blushes of the morn;

Break, Amphion, break your slumbers,

Nature's ringlets deck the thorn.

XIII.

Ha! I hear the strain erratic,

Dimly glance from pole to pole,

Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic

Fire my everlasting soul.

XIV.

Where is Cupid's crimson motion?

Billowy ecstasy of woe,

Bear me straight, meandering ocean,

Where the stagnant torrents flow.

XV.

Blood in every vein is gushing,

Vixen vengeance lulls my heart,

See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!

Never, never let us part.

A TALE OF DRURY LANE.

BY W. S.

Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the

style his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating as near

as he could their very phrase.--DON QUIXOTE.

_To be spoken by_ MR. KEMBLE _in a Suit of the Black Prince's Armour,

borrowed from the Tower_.

Survey this shield all bossy bright;

These cuisses twain behold;

Look on my form in armour dight

Of steel inlaid with gold.

My knees are stiff in iron buckles,

Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.

These once belong'd to sable prince,

Who never did in battle wince;

With valour tart as pungent quince,

He slew the vaunting Gaul:

Rest there awhile, my bearded lance,

While from green curtain I advance

To yon footlights, no trivial dance,

And tell the town what sad mischance

Did Drury Lane befall.

The Night.

On fair Augusta's towers and trees

Flitted the silent midnight breeze,

Curling the foliage as it past,

Which from the moon-tipp'd plumage cast

A spangled light like dancing spray.

Then reassumed its still array:

Whenas night's lamp unclouded hung,

And down its full effulgence flung,

It shed such soft and balmy power,

That cot and castle, hall and bower,

And spire and dome, and turret height,

Appear'd to slumber in the light.

From Henry's chapel, Rufus' hall,

To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul,

From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,

To Redriff, Shadwell, Horsleydown,

No voice was heard, no eye unclosed,

But all in deepest sleep reposed.

They might have thought, who gazed around

Amid a silence so profound,

It made the senses thrill,

That 'twas no place inhabited,

But some vast city of the dead,

was so hush'd and still.

The Burning.

As Chaos which, by heavenly doom,

Had slept in everlasting gloom,

Started with terror and surprise,

When light first flash'd upon her eyes;

So London's sons in night-cap woke,

In bed-gown woke her dames,

For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke,

And twice ten hundred voices spoke,

"The Playhouse is in flames."

And lo! where Catherine Street extends,

A fiery tale its lustre lends

To every window-pane;

Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,

And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,

And Govent Garden kennels sport,

A bright ensanguin'd drain;

Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,

Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height

Where patent shot they sell:

The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,

Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,

The ticket porter's house of call,

Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,

Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,

And Richardson's Hotel.

Nor these alone, but far and wide

Across the Thames's gleaming tide,

To distant fields the blaze was borne,

And daisy white and hoary thorn

In borrow'd lustre seem'd to sham

The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.

To those who on the hills around

Beheld the flames from Drury's mound,

As from a lofty altar rise;

It seem'd that nations did conspire,

To offer to the god of fire

Some vast stupendous sacrifice!

The summon'd firemen woke at call,

And hied them to their stations all.

Starting from short and broken snooze,

Each sought his pond'rous hobnail'd shoes,

But first his worsted hosen plied,

Plush breeches next in crimson dyed,

His nether bulk embraced;

Then jacket thick of red or blue,

Whose massy shoulder gave to view

The badge of each respective crew,

In tin or copper traced.

The engines thunder'd thro' the street,

Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,

And torches glared, and clattering feet

Along the pavement paced.

And one, the leader of the band,

From Charing Cross along the Strand,

Like stag by beagles hunted hard,

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

The burning badge his shoulder bore,

The belt and oilskin hat he wore,

The cane he had his men to bang,

Show'd foreman of the British gang.

His name was Higginbottom; now

'Tis meet that I should tell you how

The others came in view:

The Hand-in-Hand the race begun,

Then came the Phoenix and the Sun,

Th' Exchange, where old insurers run,

The Eagle, where the new;

With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole,

Robins from Hockley-in-the-Hole,

Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl,

Crump from St. Giles's Pound:

Whitford and Mitford join'd the train,

Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane,

And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain

Before the plug was found.

Hobson and Jobson did not sleep,

But ah! no trophy could they reap,

For both were in the Donjon Keep

Of Bridewell's gloomy mound!

E'en Higginbottom now was posed,

For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed;

Without, within, in hideous show,

Devouring flames resistless glow,

And blazing rafters downward go,

And never halloo "heads below!"

Nor notice give at all:

The firemen, terrified, are slow

To bid the pumping torrent flow,

For fear the roof should fall.

Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!

Whitford, keep near the walls!

Huggins, regard your own behoof,

For lo! the blazing rocking roof

Down, down in thunder falls!

An awful pause succeeds the stroke,

And o'er the ruins volumed smoke,

Rolling around its pitchy shroud,

Conceal'd them from th' astonish'd crowd.

At length the mist awhile was clear'd,

When lo! amid the wreck uprear'd,

Gradual a moving head appear'd,

And Eagle firemen knew:

'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,

The foreman of their crew.

Loud shouted all in signs of woe,

"A Muggins to the rescue, ho!"

And pour'd the hissing tide:

Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,

And strove and struggled all in vain,

For rallying but to fall again.

He totter'd, sunk, and died!

Did none attempt, before he fell,

To succour one they loved so well?

Yes, Higginbottom did aspire

(His fireman's soul was all on fire)

His brother chief to save;

But ah! his reckless generous ire

Served but to share his grave!

'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,

Thro' fire and smoke he dauntless broke,

Where Muggins broke before.

But sulphury stench and boiling drench,

Destroying sight, o'erwhelm'd him quite,

He sunk to rise no more.

Still o'er his head, while fate he braved,

His whizzing water-pipe he waved;

"Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps,

You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps,

Why are you in such doleful dumps?

A fireman and afraid of bumps!

What are they fear'd on? fools! 'od rot 'em!"

Were the last words of Higginbottom.

The Revival.

Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom,

And toil rebuilds what fires consume!

Eat we and drink we, be our ditty,

"Joy to the managing committee."

Eat we and drink we, join to rum

Roast beef and pudding of the plum;

Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come,

With bread of ginger brown thy thumb,

For this is Drury's gay day:

Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops,

And buy, to glad thy smiling chops,

Crisp parliament with lollipops,

And fingers of the lady.

Didst mark, how toil'd the busy train

From morn to eve, till Drury Lane

Leap'd like a roebuck from the plain?

Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,

And nimble workmen trod;

To realize bold Wyatt's plan

Rush'd many a howling Irishman,

Loud clatter'd many a porter can,

And many a ragamuffin clan,

With trowel and with hod.

Drury revives! her rounded pate

Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate;

She "wings the midway air" elate,

As magpie, crow, or chough;

White paint her modish visage smears,

Yellow and pointed are her ears,

No pendant portico appears

Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears

Have cut the bauble off.

Yes, she exalts her stately head,

And, but that solid bulk outspread,

Opposed you on your onward tread,

And posts and pillars warranted

That all was true that Wyatt said,

You might have deem'd her walls so thick,

Were not composed of stone or brick,

But all a phantom, all a trick,

Of brain disturb'd and fancy-sick,

So high she soars, so vast, so quick.

JOHNSON'S GHOST.

_Ghost of_ DR. JOHNSON _rises from trap-door P.S. and Ghost of_ BOSWELL,

_from trap-door O.P. The latter bows respectfully to the House, and

obsequiously to the Doctor's Ghost, and retires_.

_Doctor's Ghost loquitur._

That which was organized by the moral ability of one, has been executed

by the physical efforts of many, and Drury Lane Theatre is now complete.

Of that part behind the curtain, which has not yet been destined to

glow beneath the brush of the varnisher, or vibrate to the hammer of

the carpenter, little is thought by the public, and little need be

said by the committee. Truth, however, is not to be sacrificed for the

accommodation of either, and he who should pronounce that our edifice

has received its final embellishment, would be disseminating falsehood

without incurring favour, and risking the disgrace of detection without

participating the advantage of success.

Professions lavishly effused and parsimoniously verified are alike

inconsistent with the precepts of innate rectitude and the practice

of external policy: let it not then be conjectured, that because we

are unassuming, we are imbecile; that forbearance is any indication of

despondency, or humility of demerit. He that is the most assured of

success will make the fewest appeals to favour, and where nothing is

claimed that is undue, nothing that is due will be withheld. A swelling

opening is too often succeeded by an insignificant conclusion. Parturient

mountains have ere now produced muscipular abortions, and the auditor

who compares incipient grandeur with final vulgarity, is reminded of the

pious hawkers of Constantinople, who solemnly perambulate her streets,

exclaiming, "In the name of the Prophet--figs!"

Of many who think themselves wise, and of some who are thought wise

by others, the exertions are directed to the revival of mouldering

and obscure dramas; to endeavours to exalt that which is now rare

only because it was always worthless, and whose deterioration, while

it condemned it to living obscurity, by a strange obliquity of moral

perception constitutes its title to posthumous renown. To embody the

flying colours of folly, to arrest evanescence, to give to bubbles the

globular consistency as well as form, to exhibit on the stage the piebald

denizen of the stable, and the half-reasoning parent of combs, to display

the brisk locomotion of Columbine, or the tortuous attitudinizing of

Punch; these are the occupations of others, whose ambition, limited

to the applause of unintellectual fatuity, is too innocuous for the

application of satire, and too humble for the incitement of jealousy.

Our refectory will be found to contain every species of fruit, from

the cooling nectarine and luscious peach, to the puny pippin and the

noxious nut. There indolence may repose, and inebriety revel; and the

spruce apprentice, rushing in at second account, may there chatter with

impunity, debarred by a barrier of brick and mortar from marring that

scenic interest in others, which nature and education have disqualified

him from comprehending himself.

Permanent stage-doors we have none. That which is permanent cannot be

removed, for if removed it soon ceases to be permanent. What stationary

absurdity can vie with that ligneous barricado, which, decorated with

frappant and tintinabulant appendages, now serves, as the entrance of

the lowly cottage, and now as the exit of a lady's bed-chamber; at one

time insinuating plastic Harlequin into a butcher's shop, and at another,

yawning as the flood-gate to precipitate the Cyprians of St. Giles's into

the embraces of Macheath. To elude this glaring absurdity, to give to

each respective mansion the door which the carpenter would doubtless have

given, we vary our portal with the varying scene, passing from deal to

mahogany, and from mahogany to oak, as the opposite claims of cottage,

palace, or castle may appear to require.

Amid the general hum of gratulation which flatters us in front, it is

fit that some regard should be paid to the murmurs of despondence that

assail us in the rear. They, as I have elsewhere expressed it, "who live

to please," should not have their own pleasures entirely overlooked.

The children of Thespis are general in their censures of the architect

in having placed the locality of exit at such a distance from the oily

irradiators which now dazzle the eyes of him who addresses you. I am,

cries the Queen of Terrors, robbed of my fair proportions. When the

king-killing Thane hints to the breathless auditory the murders he means

to perpetrate in the castle of Macduff "ere his purpose cool," so vast

is the interval he has to travel before he can escape from the stage,

that his purpose has even time to freeze. Your condition, cries the Muse

of Smiles, is hard, but it is cygnet's down in comparison with mine. The

peerless peer of capers and congees has laid it down as a rule, that the

best good thing uttered by the morning visitor should conduct him rapidly

to the doorway, last impressions vieing in durability with first. But

when on this boarded elongation it falls to my lot to say a good thing,

to ejaculate "keep moving," or to chaunt "hic hoc horum genetivo," many

are the moments that must elapse ere I can hide myself from public vision

in the recesses of O.P. or P.S.

To objections like these, captiously urged and querulously maintained,

it is time that equity should conclusively reply. Deviation from

scenic propriety has only to vituperate itself for the consequences

it generates. Let the actor consider the line of exit as that line

beyond which he should not soar in quest of spurious applause: let him

reflect that in proportion as he advances to the lamps, he recedes from

nature; that the truncheon of Hotspur acquires no additional charm from

encountering the cheek of beauty in the stage-box, and that the bravura

of Mandane may produce effect, although the throat of her who warbles

it should not overhang the orchestra. The Jove of the modern critical

Olympus, Lord Mayor of the theatric sky, has, _ex cathedrâ_, asserted

that a natural actor looks upon the audience part of the theatre as the

third side of the chamber he inhabits. Surely of the third wall thus

fancifully erected, our actors should by ridicule or reason be withheld

from knocking their heads against the stucco.

Time forcibly reminds me that all things which have a limit must be

brought to a conclusion. Let me, ere that conclusion arrives, recall

to your recollection that the pillars which rise on either side of

me, blooming in varied antiquity, like two massy evergreens, had yet

slumbered in their native quarry, but for the ardent exertions of the

individual who called them into life: to his never-slumbering talents you

are indebted for whatever pleasure this haunt of the Muses is calculated

to afford. If, in defiance of chaotic malevolence, the destroyer of the

temple of Diana yet survives in the name of Erostratus, surely we may

confidently predict, that the rebuilder of the temple of Apollo will

stand recorded to distant posterity in that of--SAMUEL WHITBREAD.

THE BEAUTIFUL INCENDIARY.

BY THE HON. W. S.

Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida silvas.--VIRGIL.

_Scene draws, and discovers a Lady asleep on a couch. Enter_ PHILANDER.

PHILANDER.

I.

Sobriety, cease to be sober,

Cease, Labour, to dig and to delve,

And hail to this tenth of October,

One thousand eight hundred and twelve.

Hah! whom do my peepers remark?

'Tis Hebe with Jupiter's jug;

Oh no, 'tis the pride of the Park,

Fair Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

II.

Why, beautiful nymph, do you close

The curtain that fringes your eye?

Why veil in the clouds of repose

The sun that should brighten our sky?

Perhaps jealous Venus has oil'd

Thy hair with some opiate drug,

Not choosing her charms should be foil'd

By Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

III.

But ah! why awaken the blaze

The bright burning-glasses contain,

Whose lens with concentrated rays

Proved fatal to old Drury Lane.

'Twas all accidental they cry,--

Away with the flimsy humbug!

'Twas tired by a flash from the eye

Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

IV.

Thy glance can in us raise a flame,

Then why should old Drury be free?

Our doom and its doom are the same,

Both subject to beauty's decree.

No candles the workmen consum'd,

When deep in the ruins they dug,

Thy flash still their progress illum'd,

Sweet Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

V.

Thy face a rich fireplace displays;

The mantel-piece marble--thy brows;

Thine eyes are the bright beaming blaze,

Thy bib which no trespass allows,

The fender's tall barrier marks;

Thy tippet's the fire-quelling rug,

Which serves to extinguish the sparks

Of Lady Elizabeth Mugg.

VI.

The Countess a lily appears,

Whose tresses the dewdrops emboss;

The Marchioness blooming in years,

A rosebud envelop'd in moss;

But thou art the sweet passion-flower,

For who would not slavery hug,

To pass but one exquisite hour

In the arms of Elizabeth Mugg?

VII.

When at Court, or some dowager's rout,

Her diamond aigrette meets our view,

She looks like a glow-worm dress'd out,

Or tulips bespangled with dew.

Her two lips denied to man's suit,

Are shared with her favourite Pug;

What lord would not change with the brute,

To live with Elizabeth Mugg?

VIII.

Could the stage be a large _vis-à-vis_,

Reserv'd for the polish'd and great,

Where each happy lover might see

The nymph he adores _tête-à-tête_;

No longer I'd gaze on the ground,

And the load of despondency lug,

For I'd book myself all the year round,

To ride with the sweet Lady Mugg.

IX.

Yes, she in herself is a host,

And if she were here all alone,

Our house might nocturnally boast

A bumper of fashion and ton.

Again should it burst in a blaze,

In vain would they ply Congreve's plug,

For nought could extinguish the rays

From the glance of divine Lady Mugg.

X.

O could I as Harlequin frisk,

And thou be my Columbine fair,

My wand should with one magic whisk

Transport us to Hanover Square;

St. George should lend us his shrine,

The parson his shoulders might shrug,

But a licence should force him to join

My hand in the hand of my Mugg.

XI.

Court-plaister the weapons should tip,

By Cupid shot down from above,

Which cut into spots for thy lip,

Should still barb the arrows of love.

The god who from others flies quick,

With us should be slow as a slug,

As close as a leech he should stick

To me and Elizabeth Mugg.

XII.

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

Put filings of steel in his glass,

To dry up the blots of his hand,

And spangle life's page as they pass.

Since all flesh is grass ere 'tis hay,

O may I in clover live snug,

And when old Time mows me away,

Be stack'd with defunct Lady Mugg.

FIRE AND ALE.

BY M. G. L.

Omnia transformat sese in miracula rerum.--VIRGIL.

My palate is parch'd with Pierian thirst,

Away to Parnassus I'm beckon'd;

List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehears'd,

I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first,

And the birth of Miss Drury the second.

The Fire King one day rather amorous felt;

He mounted his hot copper filly;

His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt

Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt

With the heat of the copper colt's belly.

Sure never was skin half so scalding as his!

When an infant, 'twas equally horrid,

For the water when he was baptized gave a fizz,

And bubbled and simmer'd and started off, whizz!

As soon as it sprinkled his forehead.

Oh! then there was glitter and fire in each eye,

For two living coals were the symbols;

His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry,

It rattled against them as though you should try

To play the piano in thimbles.

From his nostrils a lava sulphureous flows,

Which scorches wherever it lingers,

A snivelling fellow he's call'd by his foes,

For he can't raise his paw up to blow his red nose,

For fear it should blister his fingers.

His wig is of flames curling over his head,

Well powder'd with white smoking ashes;

He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead,

Cream of tartar, and dines on hot spice gingerbread,

Which black from the oven he gnashes.

Each fire nymph his kiss from her countenance shields,

'Twould soon set her cheekbone a-frying

He spit in the tenter-ground near Spitalfields,

And the hole that it burnt and the chalk that it yields

Make a capital limekiln for drying.

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

(_Nota bene_, I do not mean swearing,)

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

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

A shot manufactory flaring.

He blaz'd and he blaz'd as he gallop'd to snatch

His bride, little dreaming of danger;

His whip was a torch, and his spur was a match,

And over the horse's left eye was a patch,

To keep it from burning the manger.

And who is the housemaid he means to enthral

In his cinder-producing alliance?

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

Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall,

If she cannot set sparks at defiance.

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

And the housemaid his hand would have taken,

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

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

All melted, like butter or bacon!

Oh! then she look'd sour, and indeed well she might,

For Vinegar Yard was before her,

But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight,

Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas-light,

To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her.

Look! look! 'tis the Ale King, so stately and starch,

Whose votaries scorn to be sober;

He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch:

Brown stout is his doublet, he hops in his march,

And froths at the mouth in October.

His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung;

He taps where the housemaid no more is,

When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung

A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young,

And sported _in loco sororis_.

Back, lurid in air, for a second regale,

The Cinder King, hot with desire,

To Brydges Street hied; but the Monarch of Ale,

With uplifted spigot and faucet, and pail,

Thus chided the Monarch of Fire:

"Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew,

I rule the roast here, dash the wig o' me!

If, spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you

Come here with your tinderbox, courting the New,

I'll have you indicted for bigamy!"

PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS.

BY S. T. C.

Ille velut fidis aroana sodalibus olim

Credebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquam

Decurrens alio, neque si bene.--HORAT.

My pensive public, wherefore look you sad?

I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey

To carry to the mart her crockery ware,

And when that donkey look'd me in the face,

His face was sad! and you are sad, my public!

Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October

Again assembles us in Drury Lane.

Long wept my eye to see the timber planks

That hid our ruins; many a day I cried,

"Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it!"

Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve,

As along Charles Street I prepared to walk,

Just at the corner, by the pastry-cook's,

I heard a trowel tick against a brick.

I look'd me up, and straight a parapet

Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks.

"Joy to thee, Drury!" to myself I said:

"He of Blackfriars Road who hymn'd thy downfall

In loud hosannahs, and who prophesied

That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma,

Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee,

Has proved a lying prophet." From that hour,

As leisure offer'd, close to Mr. Spring's

Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders.

They had a plan to render less their labours;

Workmen in elder times would mount a ladder

With hodded heads, but these stretch'd forth a pole

From the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulley

Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley;

To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks

Thus freighted, swung securely to the top,

And in the empty basket workmen twain

Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.

Oh! 'twas a goodly sound to hear the people

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

While some believ'd it never would be finish'd,

Some on the contrary believ'd it would.

I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane

Much criticis'd; they say 'tis vulgar brick-work,

A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth.

One of the morning papers wish'd that front

Cemented like the front in Brydges Street;

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

A handsome woman with a fish's tail.

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

The Albion (as its name denotes) is white;

Morgan and Saunders' shop for chairs and tables

Gleams like a snowball in the setting sun;

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

The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders,

Nor white Whitehall is white as Drury's face.

Oh, Mr. Whitbread! fie upon you, sir!

I think you should have built a colonnade;

When tender Beauty, looking for her coach,

Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower,

And draws the tippet closer round her throat.

Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off,

And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud

Soaks thro' her pale kid slipper. On the morrow

She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa

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

To build no portico is penny wise:

Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish!

Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theatres!

What is the Regency in Tottenham Street,

The Royal Amphitheatre of Arts,

Astley's Olympic, or the Sans Pareil,

Compar'd with thee? Yet when I view thee push'd

Back from the narrow street that christen'd thee,

I know not why they call thee Drury Lane.

Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions,

It grieves me much to see live animals

Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit,

Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig;

Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist

Of former Drury, imitated life

Quite to the life. The elephant in Blue Beard,

Stuff'd by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis,

As spruce as he who roar'd in Padmanaba.

Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands

I reverence the coachman who cries "Gee,"

And spares the lash. When I behold a spider

Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm,

Or view a butcher with horn-handle knife

Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton,

Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick! [_Exit hastily._

DRURY LANE HUSTINGS.

A NEW HALFPENNY BALLAD.

BY A PIC-NIC POET.

This is the very age of promise. To promise is most courtly and

fashionable. Performance is a kind of will or testament, which

argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it.--TIMON OF

ATHENS.