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.

Bombastes Furioso.

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

——♦——

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

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,

{ 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 Phœnix, 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 phœnix 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 PHŒNIX.

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.

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 Salamanca; 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

Phœnix;

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.