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 play-house 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 {21} 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 Brobdignag filigree; 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 {22} till doomsday, and neither _Lord Castlereagh_,
_Mr. Canning_, no, nor the _Marquess 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
any body. 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 quakers’ meeting. None of your Egyptian
pyramids, to entomb subscribers’ capitals. No overgrown colonnades of
stone, {23a} 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 daresay 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 {23b}—_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 _Sala_manca; no, nor _Talavera_ neither, my most Noble Marquess; 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_ {24a} 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; {24b} 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_!!!
VI.
THE LIVING LUSTRES.
BY T. M. {25}
[THOMAS MOORE.]
[Mr. Moore died 26th February, 1852, in his 73rd year.]
* * * * *
“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 you 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, {26} 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, unaccustom’d to rebel commotion,
Tho’ joyous, are sober—tho’ peaceful, are brave.
IX.
The shamrock their olive, swore 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.
O! 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 Liffey
Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-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 Gibbses 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-bragh!
VII.
THE REBUILDING.
BY R. S. {28a}
[ROBERT SOUTHEY.]
[Mr. Southey died March 13, 1843, in his 69th year.]
—“Per audaces nova dithyrambos
Verba devolvit numerisque fertur
Lege solutis.”
HORAT.
* * * * *
[_Spoken by a Glendoveer_.]
I AM a blessed Glendoveer: {28b}
’Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.
Midnight, {28c} 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
Tops of houses, blue with lead,
Bend beneath the landlord’s tread.
Master and ’prentice, serving-man and lord,
Nailor and tailor,
Grazier and brazier,
Through 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, {29a}
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 Phæton
(By Greeks call’d Apollo {29b}),
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 call’d 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, {31}
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, {32}
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 seemed 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
Answered, “Amen,”
And did
As he was bid.
There lay the buried god, and Time
Seemed to decree eternity of lime;
But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest
Almighty Veeshnoo’s {34} adamantine breast:
He, the preserver, ardent still
To do whate’er he says he will,
From South-hill wing’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,
Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine,
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 your 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:
Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds;
The solicitor reads,
And, merit of merit!
Red wax and green ferret
Are fixed 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 dissolved 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, {36}
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 Carisbrook 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 seized 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,
“Soon as thy maiden sister Di
Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky,
And through the fissures of her clouded fan
Peeps at the naughty monster man.
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!”
VIII.
DRURY’S DIRGE. {38a}
BY LAURA MATILDA. {38b}
“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 envelope 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 ensanguined 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!
IX.
A TALE OF DRURY LANE.
BY W. S. {42}
[SIR WALTER SCOTT.]
[Sir Walter Scott died 21st September, 1832, in his 62nd year.]
* * * * *
[_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 foot-lights—no trivial dance, {43a}
And tell the town what sad mischance
Did Drury Lane befall.
THE NIGHT.
On fair Augusta’s {43b} towers and trees
Flitted the silent midnight breeze,
Curling the foliage as it pass’d,
Which from the moon-tipp’d plumage cast
A spangled light, like dancing spray,
Then re-assumed its still array;
When, as night’s lamp unclouded hung,
And down its full effulgence flung,
It shed such soft and balmy power
That cot and castle, hall and bower,
And spire and dome, and turret height,
Appeared to slumber in the light.
From Henry’s chapel, Rufus’ hall,
To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul;
From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,
To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown,
No voice was heard, no eye unclosed,
But all in deepest sleep reposed.
They might have thought, who gazed around
Amid a silence so profound,
It made the senses thrill,
That ’twas no place inhabited,
But some vast city of the dead—
All was so hush’d and still.
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 nightcap 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 tail its lustre lends
To every window-pane;
Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport
A bright ensanguined drain;
Meux’s new brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill’s Chapel, and the height
Where Patent Shot they sell;
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons’ Hall,
The Ticket-Porters’ House of Call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall, {45}
Wright’s shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson’s Hotel.
Nor these alone, but far and wide,
Across red Thames’s gleaming tide,
To distant fields the blaze was borne,
And daisy white and hoary thorn
In borrow’d lustre seem’d to sham
The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.
To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury’s mound,
As from a lofty altar rise,
It seem’d that nations did conspire
To offer to the god of fire
Some vast, stupendous sacrifice!
The summon’d firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all:
Starting from short and broken snooze,
Each sought his pond’rous hobnail’d shoes,
But first his worsted hosen plied,
Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,
His nether bulk embraced;
Then jacket thick, of red or blue,
Whose massy shoulder gave to view
The badge of each respective crew,
In tin or copper traced.
The engines thunder’d through the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared, and clattering feet
Along the pavement paced.
And one, the leader of the band,
From Charing Cross along the Strand,
Like stag by beagles hunted hard,
Ran till he stopp’d at Vin’gar Yard. {46a}
The burning badge his shoulder bore,
The belt and oil-skin hat he wore,
The cane he had, his men to bang,
Show’d foreman of the British gang—
His name was Higginbottom. Now
’Tis meet that I should tell you how
The others came in view:
The Hand-in-Hand the race begun, {46b}
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 abate his grave!
’Mid blazing beams and scalding streams.
Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
Where Muggins broke before:
But sulphry 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. {48}
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 lollypops,
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 realise 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 pendent portico appears
Dangling beneath, for Whitbread’s shears {49}
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 deemed 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!
X.
JOHNSON’S GHOST. {52}
[_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 organised 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 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.