To distant fields the blaze was borne, It seem'd that nations did conspire Some vast stupendous sacrifice! His nether bulk embraced; In tin or copper traced. The engines thunder'd through the street, The others came in view: 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, And Eagle firemen knew And pour'd the hissing tide: Did none attempt, before he fell, Served but to share his grave! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before. Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved, Why are you in such doleful dumps? Were the last words of Higginbottom. THE REVIVAL. Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom, With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, For this is Drury's gay day: And fingers of the Lady. With trowel and with hod. As magpie, crow, or chough; You might have deem'd her walls so thick HORACE SMITH. THE THEATRE. Interior of a Theatre described.-Pit gradually fills.The Check-taker.-Pit full-The Orchestra tuned.-One Fiddle rather dilatory.-Is reproved, and re pents.-Evolutions of a Play-bill-Its final Settlement on the Spikes.-The Gods taken to task-and why.-Motley Group of Play-goers.- Holywell street, St. Pancras.-Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice-not in London-and why.-Episode of the Hat. "TIS sweet to view, from half-past five to six, Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Start into light, and make the lighter start; To see red Phoebus through the gallerypane Tinge with his beams the beams of Drury Lane: While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit, In unison their various tones to tune, Murmurs the hautboy, growls the coarse bassoon; In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches court; From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane; The lottery cormorant, the auction shark, Winds the French horn, and twangs the The full-price master, and the half-price clerk; tingling harp; Till, like great Jove, the leader, fingering in, Boys who long linger at the galleryAttunes to order the chaotic din. door, Now all seems hush'd-but, no, one fiddle With pence twice five-they want but two will Give, half ashamed, a tiny flourish still. Foil'd in his clash, the leader of the clan Reproves with frowns the dilatory man : Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, Nods a new signal, and away they go. Perchance, while pit and gallery cry "Hats off!" pence more; Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallerystairs. Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, But talk their minds: we wish they'd mind their talk: And awed Consumption checks his chided Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live— cough, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love Drops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from above: Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap; But, wiser far than he, combustion fears, And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes. Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues? Who's that calls "Silence!" with such leathern lungs? He who, in quest of quiet, "Silence!" hoots, Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes. What various swains our motley walls contain ! Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick Lane; Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Jews from St. Mary's Axe, for jobs so wary That for old clothes they'd even ax St. Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait ; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Where scowling fortune seem'd to threaten woe. John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; But when John Dwyer 'listed in the Blues, Emanuel Jennings polish'd Stubbs's shoes. Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Up as a corn-cutter-a safe employ; In Holywell street, St. Pancras, he was bred (At number twenty-seven, it is said), Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head: He would have bound him to some shop in town, But with a premium he could not come down. Pat was the urchin's name-a red-hair'd youth, Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth. Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongue in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat: Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurn'd the one to settle in the two. How shall he act? Pay at the gallerydoor Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four? Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, And gain his hat again at half-past eight? Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief." "Thank you," cries Pat; "but one won't make a line." "Take mine," cries Wilson; and cries Stokes, "Take mine." A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies. Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clew, Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, Old calico, torn silk and muslin new. George Green below, with palpitating hand Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band Up soars the prize! The youth with joy unfeign'd, Regain'd the felt, and felt the prize regain'd; While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat. JAMES SMITH. THE BABY'S DÉBUT. [Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl of 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 brother Jack a top. Jack's in the pouts, and this it is— Takes out the doll, and, oh, my stars! Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlor-door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane. This made him cry with rage and spite; A pretty thing, forsooth! Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt! No Drury Lane for you to-day!" And while papa said, "Pooh, she may !” Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!" Well, after many a sad reproach, And trotted down the street. The chaise in which poor brother Bill, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, (I always talk to Sam): So what does he, but takes, and drags And leaves me where I am? My father's walls are made of brick, As these; and, goodness me! As those that now I see. What a large floor! 'tis like a town! Won't hide it, I'll be bound; They keep them on the ground? At first I caught hold of the wing, umbob, the prompter-man, "You've only got to curtsy, whisp er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp, And then you're sure to take: So, bidding you adieu, [Blows a kiss, and exit.] JAMES SMITH. THE EXECUTION. My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day; So his lordship rang for his cabriolet. Tiger Tim was clean of limb, His boots were polish'd, his jacket was trim; With a very smart tie in his smart cravat, Tallest of boys, or shortest of men, And he ask'd, as he held the door on the "Pray, did your lordship please to ring?" My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head, "Malibran's dead, Duvernay's fled, Tim look'd up, and Tim look'd down, He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown, And he held up his hat, and he peep'd in the crown; I've known the day when brats, not He bit his lip, and he scratch'd his head, quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; Then why not Nancy Lake?" But while I'm speaking, where's papa? He let go the handle, and thus he said, And where's my aunt? and where's My Lord Tomnoddy jump'd up at the |