That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, Unsightly though it be,— In spite of all the cold world's scorn, It may be much to thee.

Those eyes,—among thine elder friends Perhaps they pass for blue;— No matter,—if a man can see, What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth—that fissure in thy face By something like a chin,— May be a very useful place To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home, I know thou hast a child, By that subdued, domestic smile Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side, That cherub on thy knee; They do not shudder at thy looks, They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook,— A portrait once was there; It was thine only ornament,— Alas! that hook is bare.

She begged thee not to let it go, She begged thee all in vain: She wept,—and breathed a trembling prayer To meet it safe again.

It was a bitter sight to see That picture torn away; It was a solemn thought to think What all her friends would say!

And often in her calmer hours, And in her happy dreams, Upon its long-deserted hook The absent portrait seems.

Thy wretched infant turns his head In melancholy wise, And looks to meet the placid stare Of those unbending eyes.

I never saw thee, lovely one,— Perchance I never may; It is not often that we cross Such people in our way;

But if we meet in distant years, Or on some foreign shore, Sure I can take my Bible oath I've seen that face before.



MY AUNT. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone; I know it hurts her—though she looks As cheerful as she can; Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span.

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt! Her hair is almost gray; Why will she train that winter curl In such a spring-like way? How can she lay her glasses down, And say she reads as well, When, through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell?

Her father—grandpapa! forgive This erring lip its smiles— Vowed she should make the finest girl Within a hundred miles; He sent her to a stylish school; 'T was in her thirteenth June; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon."

They braced my aunt against a board, To make her straight and tall; They laced her up, they starved her down, To make her light and small. They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, They screwed it up with pins;— O never mortal suffered more In penance for her sins.

So, when my precious aunt was done, My grandsire brought her back; (By daylight, lest some rabid youth Might follow on the track;) "Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook Some powder in his pan, "What could this lovely creature do Against a desperate man!"

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, Nor bandit cavalcade, Tore from the trembling father's arms His all-accomplished maid. For her how happy had it been! And heaven had spared to me To see one sad, ungathered rose On my ancestral tree.



COMIC MISERIES. JOHN G. SAXE.

My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room a-blaze, Don't think yourself a "happy dog," For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It's such a very serious thing To be a funny man!

You're at an evening party, with A group of pleasant folks,— You venture quietly to crack The least of little jokes,— A lady doesn't catch the point, And begs you to explain— Alas for one that drops a jest And takes it up again!

You're talking deep philosophy With very special force, To edify a clergyman With suitable discourse,— You think you 've got him—when he calls A friend across the way, And begs you'll say that funny thing You said the other day!

You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot Into a neighbor's ears, Who likes to give you credit for The clever thing he hears, And so he hawks your jest about The old authentic one, Just breaking off the point of it, And leaving out the pun!

By sudden change in politics, Or sadder change in Polly, You, lose your love, or loaves, and fall A prey to melancholy, While every body marvels why Your mirth is under ban,— They think your very grief "a joke," You're such a funny man!

You follow up a stylish card That bids you come and dine, And bring along your freshest wit (To pay for musty wine), You're looking very dismal, when My lady bounces in, And wonders what you're thinking of And why you don't begin!

You're telling to a knot of friends A fancy-tale of woes That cloud your matrimonial sky, And banish all repose— A solemn lady overhears The story of your strife, And tells the town the pleasant news: You quarrel with your wife!

My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room a-blaze, Don't think yourself "a happy dog," For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It's such a very serious thing To be a funny man!



IDEES NAPOLEONIENNES. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

The impossibility of translating this now well-known expression (imperfectly rendered in a companion-work, "Ideas of Napoleonism"), will excuse the title and burden of the present ballad being left in the original French.—TRANSLATOR.

Come, listen all who wish to learn How nations should be ruled, From one who from his youth has been In such-like matters school'd; From one who knows the art to please, Improve and govern men— Eh bien! Ecoutez, aux Idees, Napoleoniennes!

To keep the mind intently fixed On number One alone— To look to no one's interest, But push along your own, Without the slightest reference To how, or what, or when— Eh bien! c'est la premiere Idee Napoleonienne.

To make a friend, and use him well, By which, of course, I mean To use him up—until he's drain'd Completely dry and clean Of all that makes him useful, and To kick him over then Without remorse—c'est une Idee Napoleonienne.

To sneak into a good man's house With sham credentials penn'd— to sneak into his heart and trust, And seem his children's friend— To learn his secrets, find out where He keeps his keys—and then To bone his spoons—c'est une Idee Napoleonienne.

To gain your point in view—to wade Through dirt, and slime, and blood— To stoop to pick up what you want Through any depth of mud. But always in the fire to thrust Some helpless cat's-paw, when Your chestnuts burn—c'est une Idee Napoleonienne.

To clutch and keep the lion's share— To kill or drive away The wolves, that you upon the lambs May, unmolested, prey— To keep a gang of jackals fierce To guard and stock your den, While you lie down—c'est une Idee Napoleonienne.

To bribe the base, to crush the good, And bring them to their knees— To stick at nothing, or to stick At what or whom you please— To stoop, to lie, to brag, to swear, Forswear, and swear again— To rise—Ah! voia des Idees Napoleoniennes.



THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND WILLIAM AYTOUN

Air—"The days we went a-gipsying."

I would all womankind were dead, Or banished o'er the sea; For they have been a bitter plague These last six weeks to me: It is not that I'm touched myself, For that I do not fear; No female face hath shown me grace For many a bygone year. But 'tis the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall, Or down to Greenwich run, To quaff the pleasant cider cup, And feed on fish and fun; Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, To catch a breath of air: Then, for my sins, he straight begins To rave about his fair. Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

In vain you pour into his ear Your own confiding grief; In vain you claim his sympathy, In vain you ask relief; In vain you try to rouse him by Joke, repartee, or quiz; His sole reply's a burning sigh, And "What a mind it is!" O Lord! it is the greatest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

I've heard her thoroughly described A hundred times, I'm sure; And all the while I've tried to smile, And patiently endure; He waxes, strong upon his pangs, And potters o'er his grog; And still I say, in a playful way— "Why you're a lucky dog!" But oh! it is the heaviest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

I really wish he'd do like me When I was young and strong; I formed a passion every week, But never kept it long. But he has not the sportive mood— That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished o'er the sea. For 'tis the most egregious bore, Of all the bores I know. To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.



PARODIES AND BURLESQUES



WINE. JOHN GAY.

Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt, Quae scribuntur aquae potoribus. HOR.

Of happiness terrestrial, and the source Whence human pleasures flow, sing, heavenly Muse! Of sparkling juices, of the enlivening grape, Whose quickening taste adds vigor to the soul, Whose sovereign power revives decaying nature, And thaws the frozen blood of hoary Age, A kindly warmth diffusing;—youthful fires Gild his dim eyes, and paint with ruddy hue His wrinkled visage, ghastly wan before: Cordial restorative to mortal man, With copious hand by bounteous gods bestow'd!

Bacchus divine! aid my adventurous song, That with no middle flight intends to soar Inspir'd sublime, on Pegasean wing, By thee upborne, I draw Miltonic air. When fumy vapors clog our loaded brows With furrow'd frowns, when stupid downcast eyes, The external symptoms of remorse within, Express our grief, or when in sullen dumps, With head incumbent on expanded palm, Moping we sit, in silent sorrow drown'd; Whether inveigling Hymen has trepann'd The unwary youth, and tied the gordian knot Of jangling wedlock not to be dissolv'd; Worried all day by loud Xantippe's din, Who fails not to exalt him to the stars, And fix him there among the branched crew (Taurus, and Aries, and Capricorn, The greatest monsters of the Zodiac), Or for the loss of anxious worldly pelf, Or Delia's scornful slights, and cold disdain, Which check'd his amorous flame with coy repulse, The worst events that mortals can befall; By cares depress'd, in pensive hippish mood, With slowest pace the tedious minutes roll, Thy charming sight, but much more charming gust, New life incites, and warms our chilly blood. Straight with pert looks we raise our drooping fronts, And pour in crystal pure thy purer juice;— With cheerful countenance and steady hand Raise it lip-high, then fix the spacious rim To the expecting mouth:—with grateful taste The ebbing wine glides swiftly o'er the tongue; The circling blood with quicker motion flies: Such is thy powerful influence, thou straight Dispell'st those clouds that, lowering dark, eclips'd The whilom glories of the gladsome face;— While dimpled cheeks, and sparkling rolling eyes, Thy cheering virtues, and thy worth proclaim. So mists and exhalations that arise From "hills or steamy lake, dusky or gray," Prevail, till Phoebus sheds Titanian rays, And paints their fleecy skirts with shining gold; Unable to resist, the foggy damps, That vail'd the surface of the verdant fields, At the god's penetrating beams disperse! The earth again in former beauty smiles, In gaudiest livery drest, all gay and clear.

When disappointed Strephon meets repulse, Scoff'd at, despis'd, in melancholic mood Joyless he wastes in sighs the lazy hours, Till reinforc'd by thy most potent aid He storms the breach, and wins the beauteous fort.

To pay thee homage, and receive thy blessing, The British seaman quits his native shore, And ventures through the trackless, deep abyss, Plowing the ocean, while the upheav'd oak, "With beaked prow, rides tilting o'er the waves;" Shock'd by tempestuous jarring winds, she rolls In dangers imminent, till she arrives At those blest climes thou favor'st with thy presence. Whether at Lusitania's sultry coast, Or lofty Teneriffe, Palma, Ferro, Provence, or at the Celtiberian shores, With gazing pleasure and astonishment, At Paradise (seat of our ancient sire) He thinks himself arrived: the purple grapes, In largest clusters pendent, grace the vines Innumerous: in fields grotesque and wild, They with implicit curls the oak entwine, And load with fruit divine his spreading boughs: Sight most delicious! not an irksome thought, Or of left native isle, or absent friends, Or dearest wife, or tender sucking babe, His kindly treacherous memory now presents; The jovial god has left no room for cares.

Celestial Liquor! thou that didst inspire Maro and Flaccus, and the Grecian bard, With lofty numbers, and heroic strains Unparallel'd, with eloquence profound, And arguments convictive, didst enforce Fam'd Tully, and Demosthenes renown'd; Ennius, first fam'd in Latin song, in vain Drew Heliconian streams, ungrateful whet To jaded Muse, and oft with vain attempt, Heroic acts, in flagging numbers dull, With pains essay'd; but, abject still and low, His unrecruited Muse could never reach The mighty theme, till, from the purple fount Of bright Lenaean sire, her barren drought He quench'd, and with inspiring nectarous juice Her drooping spirits cheer'd:—aloft she towers, Borne on stiff pennons, and of war's alarms, And trophies won, in loftiest numbers sings. 'Tis thou the hero's breast to martial acts, And resolution bold, and ardor brave, Excit'st: thou check'st inglorious lolling ease, And sluggish minds with generous fires inflam'st. O thou! that first my quickened soul didst warm, Still with thy aid assist me, that thy praise, Thy universal sway o'er all the world, In everlasting numbers, like the theme, I may record, and sing thy matchless worth.

Had the Oxonian bard thy praise rehears'd, His Muse had yet retain'd her wonted height; Such as of late o'er Blenheim's field she soar'd Aerial; now in Ariconian bogs She lies inglorious, floundering, like her theme, Languid and faint, and on damp wing, immerg'd In acid juice, in vain attempts to rise.

With what sublimest joy from noisy town, At rural seat, Lucretius retir'd: Flaccus, untainted by perplexing cares, Where the white poplar and the lofty pine Join neighboring boughs, sweet hospitable shade, Creating, from Phoebean rays secure, A cool retreat, with few well-chosen friends, On flowery mead recumbent, spent the hours In mirth innocuous, and alternate verse! With roses interwoven, poplar wreaths, Their temples bind, dress of sylvestrian gods! Choicest nectarean juice crown'd largest bowls, And overlook'd the brim, alluring sight, Of fragrant scent, attractive, taste divine! Whether from Formian grape depressed, Falern, Or Setin, Massic, Gauran, or Sabine, Lesbian, or Coecuban, the cheering bowl Mov'd briskly round, and spurr'd their heighten'd wit To sing Mecaena's praise, their patron kind.

But we not as our pristine sires repair To umbrageous grot or vale; but when the sun Faintly from western skies his rays oblique Darts sloping, and to Thetis' wat'ry lap Hastens in prone career, with friends select Swiftly we hie to Devil,* young or old, *[Footnote: The Devil's Tavern, Temple Bar.] Jocund and boon; where at the entrance stands A stripling, who with scrapes and humil cringe Greets us in winning speech, and accent bland: With lightest bound, and safe unerring step, He skips before, and nimbly climbs the stairs. Melampus thus, panting with lolling tongue, And wagging tail, gambols and frisks before His sequent lord, from pensive walk return'd, Whether in shady wood or pasture green, And waits his coming at the well-known gate. Nigh to the stairs' ascent, in regal port, Sits a majestic dame, whose looks denounce Command and sovereignty: with haughty air, And studied mien, in semicircular throne Enclos'd, she deals around her dread commands; Behind her (dazzling sight!) in order rang'd, Pile above pile, crystalline vessels shine: Attendant slaves with eager strides advance, And, after homage paid, bawl out aloud Words unintelligible, noise confus'd: She knows the jargon sounds, and straight describes, In characters mysterious, words obscure: More legible are algebraic signs, Or mystic figures by magicians drawn, When they invoke the infernal spirit's aid.

Drive hence the rude and barbarous dissonance Of savage Thracians and Croatian boors; The loud Centaurian broils with Lapithae Sound harsh, and grating to Lenaean god; Chase brutal feuds of Belgian skippers hence (Amid their cups whose innate temper's shown), In clumsy fist wielding scymetrian knife, Who slash each other's eyes, and blubber'd face, Profaning Bacchanalian solemn rites: Music's harmonious numbers better suit His festivals, from instruments or voice, Or Gasperani's hand the trembling string Should touch; or from the dulcet Tuscan dames, Or warbling Toft's far more melodious tongue, Sweet symphonies should flow: the Delian god For airy Bacchus is associate meet. The stair's ascent now gain'd, our guide unbars The door of spacious room, and creaking chairs (To ear offensive) round the table sets. We sit; when thus his florid speech begins: "Name, sirs! the wine that most invites your taste; Champaign, or Burgundy, or Florence pure, Or Hock antique, or Lisbon new or old, Bourdeaux, or neat French white, or Alicant." For Bourdeaux we with voice unanimous Declare, (such sympathy's in boon compeers). He quits the room alert, but soon returns, One hand capacious glistering vessels bears Resplendent, the other, with a grasp secure, A bottle (mighty charge!) upstaid, full fraught With goodly wine. He, with extended hand Rais'd high, pours forth the sanguine frothy juice, O'erspread with bubbles, dissipated soon: We straight to arms repair, experienc'd chiefs: Now glasses clash with glasses (charming sound!) And glorious Anna's health, the first, the best, Crowns the full glass; at her inspiring name The sprightly wine results, and seems to smile: With hearty zeal and wish unanimous, Her health we drink, and in her health our own.

A pause ensues: and now with grateful chat We improve the interval, and joyous mirth Engages our rais'd souls; pat repartee, Or witty joke, our airy senses moves To pleasant laughter; straight the echoing room With universal peals and shouts resounds.

The royal Dane, blest consort of the Queen, Next crowns the ruby'd nectar, all whose bliss In Anna's plac'd: with sympathetic flame, And mutual endearments, all her joys, Like to the kind turtle's pure untainted love, Center in him, who shares the grateful hearts Of loyal subjects, with his sovereign queen; For by his prudent care united shores Were sav'd from hostile fleets' invasion dire.

The hero Marlborough next, whose vast exploits Fame's clarion sounds; fresh laurels, triumphs new We wish, like those he won at Hockstet's field.

Next Devonshire illustrious, who from race Of noblest patriots sprang, whose worthy soul Is with each fair and virtuous gift adorn'd, That shone in his most worthy ancestors; For then distinct in separate breasts were seen Virtues distinct, but all in him unite.

Prudent Godolphin, of the nation's weal Frugal, but free and generous of his own. Next crowns the bowl; with faithful Sunderland, And Halifax, the Muses' darling son, In whom conspicuous, with full luster, shine The surest judgment and the brightest wit, Himself Mecaenas and a Flaccus too; And all the worthies of the British realm, In order rang'd succeed; such healths as tinge The dulcet wine with a more charming gust.

Now each his mistress toasts, by whose bright eye He's fired; Cosmelia fair, or Dulcibell, Or Sylvia, comely black, with jetty eyes Piercing, or airy Celia, sprightly maid!— Insensibly thus flow unnumber'd hours; Glass succeeds glass, till the Dircean god Shines in our eyes, and with his fulgent rays Enlightens our glad looks with lovely dye; All blithe and jolly, that like Arthur's knights Of Rotund Table, fam'd in old records, Now most we seem'd—such is the power of Wine.

Thus we the winged hours in harmless mirth And joys unsullied pass, till humid Night Has half her race perform'd; now all abroad Is hush'd and silent, nor the rumbling noise Of coach, or cant, or smoky link-boy's call, Is heard—but universal silence reigns; When we in merry plight, airy and gay, Surpris'd to find the hours so swiftly fly, With hasty knock, or twang of pendant cord, Alarm the drowsy youth from slumbering nod: Startled he flies, and stumbles o'er the stairs Erroneous, and with busy knuckles plies His yet clung eyelids, and with staggering reel Enters confus'd, and muttering asks our wills; When we with liberal hand the score discharge, And homeward each his course with steady step Unerring steers, of cares and coin bereft.



ODE ON SCIENCE. DEAN SWIFT.

O, heavenly born! in deepest dells If fairer science ever dwells Beneath the mossy cave; Indulge the verdure of the woods, With azure beauty gild the floods, And flowery carpets lave.

For, Melancholy ever reigns Delighted in the sylvan scenes With scientific light While Dian, huntress of the vales, Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales Though wrapt from mortal sight

Yet, goddess, yet the way explore With magic rites and heathen lore Obstructed and depress'd; Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine, Untaught, not uninspired, to shine By Reason's power redress'd.

When Solon and Lycurgus taught To moralize the human thought Of mad opinion's maze, To erring zeal they gave new laws, Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause, That blends congenial rays.

Bid bright Astraea gild the morn, Or bid a hundred suns be born, To hecatomb the year; Without thy aid, in vain the poles, In vain the zodiac system rolls, In vain the lunar sphere.

Come, fairest princess of the throng; Bring sweet philosophy along, In metaphysic dreams: While raptured bards no more behold A vernal age of purer gold, In Heliconian streams.

Drive thraldom with malignant hand, To curse some other destined land. By Folly led astray: Ierne bear on azure wing; Energic let her soar, and sing Thy universal sway.

So when Amphion bade the lyre To more majestic sound aspire, Behold the mad'ning throng, In wonder and oblivion drowned, To sculpture turned by magic sound, And petrifying song.



A LOVE SONG, IN THE MODERN TASTE. DEAN SWIFT.

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart: I a slave in thy dominions; Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping Mourned Adonis, darling youth; Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, string the lyre: Soothe my ever-waking slumbers: Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy smooth Meander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander, With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

Thus when Philomela drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate.



BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID. DEAN SWIFT

In ancient time, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality.

It happen'd on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tatter'd habits, went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begg'd from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win; But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woeful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village past, To a small cottage came at last Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what was wonderful) they found 'T was still replenish'd to the top, As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed; For both were frighten'd to the heart, And just began to cry, "What ar't!" Then softly turn'd aside, to view Whether the lights were burning blue The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, Told them their calling and their errand: "Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints," the hermits said; "No hurt shall come to you or yours: But for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drown'd, While you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes."

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, The roof began to mount aloft; Aloft rose every beam and rafter; The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fasten'd to a joist, But with the upside down, to show Its inclination for below: In vain; for a superior force Applied at bottom stops its course: Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increased by new intestine wheels; And, what exalts the wonder more, The number made the motion slower. The flier, though it had leaden feet, Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't; But, slacken'd by some secret power, Now hardly moves an inch an hour. The jack and chimney, near allied, Had never left each other's side; The chimney to a steeple grown, The jack would not be left alone; But, up against the steeple rear'd, Became a clock, and still adhered; And still its love to household cares, By a shrill voice at noon, declares, Warning the cook-maid not to burn That roast meat, which it can not turn.

The groaning-chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail, along the wall; There stuck aloft in public view, And with small change, a pulpit grew.

The porringers, that in a row Hung high, and made a glittering show, To a less noble substance changed, Were now but leathern buckets ranged.

The ballads, pasted on the wall, Of Joan of France, and English Moll Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, The little Children in the Wood, Now seem'd to look abundance better, Improved in picture, size, and letter: And, high in order placed, describe The heraldry of every tribe.

A bedstead of the antique mode, Compact of timber many a load, Such as our ancestors did use, Was metamorphosed into pews; Which still their ancient nature keep By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees, The hermits then desired their host To ask for what he fancied most Philemon, having paused a while, Return'd them thanks in homely style; Then said, "My house is grown so fine, Methinks, I still would call it mine. I'm old, and fain would live at ease; Make me the parson if you please."

He spoke, and presently he feels His grazier's coat fall down his heels: He sees, yet hardly can believe, About each arm a pudding sleeve; His waistcoat to a cassock grew, And both assumed a sable hue; But, being old, continued just As threadbare, and as full of dust. His talk was now of tithes and dues: He smoked his pipe, and read the news; Knew how to preach old sermons next, Vamp'd in the preface and the text; At christenings well could act his part, And had the service all by heart; Wish'd women might have children fast, And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; Against dissenters would repine, And stood up firm for "right divine;" Found his head fill'd with many a system; But classic authors—he ne'er miss'd 'em.

Thus having furbish'd up a parson, Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. Instead of homespun coifs, were seen Good pinners edged with colberteen; Her petticoat transform'd apace, Became black satin, flounced with lace. "Plain Goody" would no longer down, 'T was "Madam," in her grogram gown. Philemon was in great surprise, And hardly could believe his eyes. Amazed to see her look so prim, And she admired as much at him.

Thus happy in their change of life, Were several years this man and wife: When on a day, which proved their last, Discoursing o'er old stories past, They went by chance, amid their talk, To the church-yard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cried out, "My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"— "Sprout," quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? I hope you don't believe me jealous! But yet, methinks I feel it true, And really yours is budding too— Nay—now I can not stir my foot; It feels as if 't were taking root."

Description would but tire my Muse, In short, they both were turn'd to yews. Old Goodman Dobson of the green Remembers he the trees has seen; He'll talk of them from noon till night, And goes with folks to show the sight; On Sundays, after evening prayer, He gathers all the parish there; Points out the place of either yew, Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew: Till once a parson of our town, To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; At which, 'tis hard to be believed How much the other tree was grieved, Grew scrubbed, died a-top, was stunted, So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.



A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER IN IMITATION OP VIRGIL'S GEORGICS. DEAN SWIFT.

Careful, observers may foretell the hour, (By sure prognostics), when to dread a shower. While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. Returning home at night, you'll find the sink Strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then, go not far to dine: You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine A coming shower your shooting corns presage, Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage; Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen; He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings, A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope; Such is that sprinkling which some careless quear. Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean: You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife, But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, And wafted with its foe by violent gust, 'T was doubtful which was rain, and which was dust. Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, When dust and rain at once his coat invade? Sole coat! where dust, cemented by the rain, Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain! Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, Threatening with deluge this DEVOTED town. To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach. Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tuck'd up sempstress walks with hasty strides, While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides. Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs, Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits, While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds; he trembles from within. So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through), Laocoon struck the outside with his spear, And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear.

Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their trophies with them as they go: Filth of all hues and odor, seem to tell What street they sail'd from by their sight and smell. They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course, And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, Fall from the conduit prone to Holborne bridge. Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood; Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud, Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood.



THE PROGRESS OF CURIOSITY; OR A ROYAL VISIT TO WHITBKEAD'S BREWERY. PETER PINDAR.

Sic transit gloria mundi!—Old Sun Dials.

From House of Buckingham, in grand parade, To Whitbread's Brewhouse, moved the cavalcade.

THE ARGUMENT.—Peter's loyalty.—He suspecteth Mr. Warton [Footnote: The Poet Laureate.] of joking.—Complimenteth the poet Laureate.— Peter differeth in opinion from Mr. Warton.—Taketh up the cudgels for King Edward, King Harry V., and Queen Bess.—Feats on Blackheath and Wimbledon performed by our most gracious sovereign.—King Charles the Second half damned by Peter, yet praised for keeping company with gentlemen.—Peter praiseth himself.—Peter reproved by Mr. Warton.—Desireth Mr. Warton's prayers.—A fine simile.—Peter still suspecteth the Laureate of ironical dealings.—Peter expostulateth with Mr. Warton.—Mr. Warton replieth.—Peter administereth bold advice.—Wittily calleth death and physicians poachers.—Praiseth the king for parental tenderness.—Peter maketh a natural simile.—Peter furthermore telleth Thomas Warton what to say.—Peter giveth a beautiful example of ode-writing.

THE CONTENTS OF THE ODE.—His Majesty's [Footnote: George III.] love for the arts and sciences, even in quadrupeds.—His resolution to know the history of brewing beer.—Billy Ramus sent ambassador to Chiswell street.—Interview between Messrs. Ramus and Whitbread.—Mr. Whitbread's bow, and compliments to Majesty.—Mr. Ramus's return from his embassy.—Mr. Whitbread's terrors described to Majesty by Mr. Ramus.—The King's pleasure thereat.—Description of people of worship.—Account of the Whitbread preparation.—The royal cavalcade to Chiswell-street.—The arrival at the brewhouse.—Great joy of Mr. Whitbread.—His Majesty's nod, the Queen's dip, and a number of questions.—A West India simile.—The marvelings of the draymen described.—His Majesty peepeth into a pump.—Beautifully compared to a magpie peeping into a marrow-bone.—The MINUTE curiosity of the King.—Mr. Whitbread endeavoreth to surprise Majesty.—His Majesty puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.—Mr. Whitbread's horse espresseth wonder.—Also Mr. Whitbread's dog.—His Majesty maketh laudable inquiry about Porter.—Again puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.—King noteth NOTABLE things.—Profound questions proposed by Majesty.—As profoundly answered by Mr. Whitbread.—Majesty in a mistake.—Corrected by the brewer.—A nose simile.—Majesty's admiration of the bell.—Good manners of the bell.—Fine appearance of Mr. Whitbread's pigs.—Majesty proposeth questions, but benevolently waiteth not for answers.—Peter telleth the duty of Kings.— Discovereth one of his shrewd maxims.—Sublime sympathy of a water- spout and a king.—The great use of asking questions.—The habitation of truth.—The collation.—The wonders performed by the Royal Visitors.—Majesty proposeth to take leave.—Offereth knighthood to Whitbread.—Mr. Whitbread's objections.—The king runneth a rig on his host.—Mr. Whitbread thanketh Majesty.—Miss Whitbread curtsieth.—The queen dippeth.—The Cavalcade departeth.

Peter triumpheth.—Admonisheth the Laureate.—Peter croweth over the Laureate.—Discovereth deep knowledge of kings, and surgeons, and men who have lost their legs.—Peter reasoneth.—Vaunteth.—Even insulteth the Laureate.—Peter proclaimeth his peaceable disposition.—Praiseth Majesty, and concludeth with a prayer for curious kings.

Tom, soon as e'er thou strik'st thy golden lyre, Thy brother Peter's muse is all on fire, To sing of kings and queens, and such rare folk Yet, 'midst thy heap of compliments so fine, Say, may we venture to believe a line? You Oxford wits most dearly love a joke.

Son of the Nine, thou writest well on naught; Thy thundering stanza, and its pompous thought, I think, must put a dog into a laugh: Edward and Harry were much braver men Than this new-christened hero of thy pen. Yes, laurelled Odeman, braver far by half;

Though on Blackheath and Wimbledon's wide plain, George keeps his hat off in a shower of rain; Sees swords and bayonets without a dread, Nor at a volley winks, nor ducks his head:

Although at grand reviews he seems so blest, And leaves at six o'clock his downy nest, Dead to the charms of blanket, wife, and bolster; Unlike his officers, who, fond of cramming, And at reviews afraid of thirst and famine, With bread and cheese and brandy fill their holsters.

Sure, Tom, we should do justice to Queen Bess: His present majesty, whom Heaven long bless With wisdom, wit, and art of choicest quality, Will never get, I fear, so fine a niche As that old queen, though often called old b—ch, In fame's colossal house of immortality.

As for John Dryden's Charles—that king Indeed was never any mighty thing; He merited few honors from the pen: And yet he was a devilish hearty fellow, Enjoyed his beef, and bottle, and got mellow, And mind—kept company with GENTLEMEN:

For, like some kings, in hobby grooms, Knights of the manger, curry-combs, and brooms, Lost to all glory, Charles did not delight— Nor joked by day with pages, servant-maids, Large, red-polled, blowzy, hard two-handed jades: Indeed I know not what Charles did by night.

Thomas, I AM of CANDOR a GREAT lover; In short, I'm candor's self all over; Sweet as a candied cake from top to toe; Make it a rule that Virtue shall be praised, And humble Merit from the ground be raised: What thinkest thou of Peter now?

Thou cryest "Oh! how false! behold thy king, Of whom thou scarcely say'st a handsome thing; That king has virtues that should make thee stare." Is it so?—Then the sin's in me— 'Tis my vile optics that can't see; Then pray for them when next thou sayest a prayer.

But, p'rhaps aloft on his imperial throne, So distant, O ye gods! from every one, The royal virtues are like many a star, From this our pigmy system rather far: Whose light, though flying ever since creation, Has not yet pitched upon our nation. [Footnote: Such was the sublime opinion of the Dutch astronomer, Huygens]

Then may the royal ray be soon explored— And Thomas, if thou'lt swear thou art not humming, I'll take my spying-glass and bring thee word The instant I behold it coming. But, Thomas Warton, without joking, Art thou, or art thou not, thy sovereign smoking?

How canst thou seriously declare, That George the Third With Cressy's Edward can compare, Or Harry?—'Tis too bad, upon my word: George is a clever king, I needs must own, And cuts a jolly figure on the throne.

Now thou exclaim'st, "God rot it! Peter, pray What to the devil shall I sing or say?"

I'll tell thee what to say, O tuneful Tom: Sing how a monarch, when his son was dying, His gracious eyes and ears was edifying, By abbey company and kettle drum: Leaving that son to death and the physician, Between two fires-a forlorn-hope condition; Two poachers, who make man their game, And, special marksmen! seldom miss their aim.

Say, though the monarch did not see his son, He kept aloof through fatherly affection; Determined nothing should be done, To bring on useless tears, and dismal recollection. For what can tears avail, and piteous sighs? Death heeds not howls nor dripping eyes; And what are sighs and tears but wind and water, That show the leakiness of feeble nature?

Tom, with my simile thou wilt not quarrel; Like air and any sort of drink, Whizzing and oozing through each chink, That proves the weakness of the barrel.

Say—for the prince, when wet was every eye, And thousands poured to heaven the pitying sigh Devout; Say how a King, unable to dissemble, Ordered Dame Siddons to his house, and Kemble, To spout:

Gave them ice creams and wines, so dear! Denied till then a thimble full of beer; For which they've thanked the author of this meter, Videlicet, the moral mender, Peter Who, in his Ode on Ode, did dare exclaim, And call such royal avarice, a shame.

Say—but I'll teach thee how to make an ode; Thus shall thy labors visit fame's abode, In company with my immortal lay; And look, Tom—thus I fire away—

BIRTH-DAY ODE.

This day, this very day, gave birth, Not to the brightest monarch upon earth, Because there are some brighter and as big; Who love the arts that man exalt to heaven, George loves them also, when they're given To four-legged Gentry, christened dog and pig.* Whose deeds in this our wonder-hunting nation Prove what a charming thing is education. *[Footnote: The dancing dogs and wise pig have formed a considerable part of the royal amusement.]

Full of the art of brewing beer, The monarch heard of Mr. Whitbread's fame: Quoth he unto the queen "My dear, my dear, Whitbread hath got a marvelous great name; Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brew— Rich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew: Shame, shame, we have not yet his brewhouse seen!" Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen!

Red-hot with novelty's delightful rage, To Mr. Whitbread forth he sent a page, To say that majesty proposed to view, With thirst of wondrous knowledge deep inflamed, His vats, and tubs, and hops, and hogsheads famed, And learn the noble secret how to brew.

Of such undreamt-of honor proud, Meet reverently the brewer bowed; So humbly (so the humble story goes,) He touched even terra firma with his nose;

Then said unto the page, hight Billy Ramus, "Happy are we that our great king should name us, As worthy unto majesty to show, How we poor Chiswell people brew."

Away sprung Billy Ramus quick as thought, To majesty tha welcome tidings brought, How Whitbread, staring, stood like any stake, And trembled—then the civil things he said— On which the king did smile and nod his head: For monarchs like to see their subjects quake:

Such horrors unto kings most pleasant are, Proclaiming reverence and humility: High thoughts, too, all those shaking fits declare Of kingly grandeur and great capability!

People of worship, wealth, and birth, Look on the humbler sons of earth, Indeed in a most humble light, God knows! High stations are like Dover's towering cliffs, Where ships below appear like little skiffs, While people walking on the strand like crows.

Muse, sing the stir that Mr. Whitbread made; Poor gentleman! most terribly afraid He should not charm enough his guests divine: He gave his maids new aprons, gowns and smocks; And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks, To make the apprentices and draymen fine:

Busy as horses in a field of clover, Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were tumbled over, Amid the Whitbread rout of preparation, To treat the lofty ruler of the nation.

Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand, To visit the first brewer in the land; Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat In a snug corner christened Chiswell-street; But oftener charmed with fashionable air, Amid the gaudy great of Portman-square.

Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's Lord ALSO, His grace the Duke of Montague LIKEWISE. With Lady Harcourt joined the raree-show, And fixed all Smithfield's marveling eyes: For lo! a greater show ne'er graced those quarters, Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs.

Arrived, the king broad grinned, and gave a nod To smiling Whitbread, who, had God Come with his angels to behold his beer, With more respect he never could have met— Indeed the man was in a sweat, So much the brewer did the king revere.

Her majesty contrived to make a dip: Light as a feather then the king did skip, And asked a thousand questions, with a laugh, Before poor Whitbread comprehended half.

Reader, my Ode should have a simile— Well, in Jamaica, on a tamarind tree, Five hundred parrots, gabbling just like Jews, I've seen—such noise the feathered imps did make, As made my very pericranium ache— Asking and telling parrot news:

Thus was the brewhouse filled with gabbling noise, Whilst draymen and the brewer's boys, Devoured the questions that the king did ask: In different parties were they staring seen, Wondering to think they saw a king and queen! Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask.

Some draymen forced themselves (a pretty luncheon) Into the mouth of many a gaping puncheon; And through the bung-hole winked with curious eye, To view, and be assured what sort of things Were princesses, and queens, and kings, For whose most lofty station thousands sigh! And lo! of all the gaping puncheon clan, Few were the mouths that had not got a man! Now majesty into a pump so deep Did with an opera-glass so curious peep: Examining with care each wondrous matter That brought up water!

Thus have I seen a magpie in the street, A chattering bird we often meet, A bird for curiosity well known; With head awry, And cunning eye, Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone.

And now his curious majesty did stoop To count the nails on every hoop; And, lo! no single thing came in his way, That, full of deep research, he did not say, "What's this! hae, hae? what's that? what's this? what's that?" So quick the words, too, when he deigned to speak, As if each syllable would break his neck.

Thus, to the world of GREAT whilst others crawl, Our sovereign peeps into the world of SMALL; Thus microscopic genuises explore Things that too oft provoke the public scorn, Yet swell of useful knowledges the store, By finding systems in a pepper-corn.

Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare, To make the majesty of England stare, That he had butts enough, he knew, Placed side by side, to reach along to Kew: On which the king with wonder swiftly cried, "What, if they reach to Kew then, side by side, What would they do, what, what, placed end to end?" To whom with knitted, calculating brow, The man of beer most solemnly did vow, Almost to Windsor that they would extend; On which the king, with wondering mien, Repeated it unto the wondering queen: On which, quick turning round his haltered head, The brewer's horse, with face astonished neighed; The brewer's dog too poured a note of thunder, Rattled his chain, and wagged his tail for wonder.

Now did the king for other beers inquire, For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire And, after talking of these different beers, Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs?

This was a puzzling, disagreeing question; Grating like arsenic on his host's digestion: A kind of question to the man of cask, That not even Solomon himself would ask.

Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took A very pretty memorandum-book, With gilded leaves of asses' skin so white, And in it legibly began to write—

MEMORANDUM. A charming place beneath the grates For roasting chestnuts or potates.

MEM. 'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer— Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere.

QUOERE. Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell? Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well?

MEM. To try it soon on our small beer— 'Twill save us several pound a year.

MEM. To remember to forget to ask Old Whitbread to my house one day

MEM. Not to forget to take of beer the cask, The brewer offered me, away.

Now having penciled his remarks so shrewd, Sharp as the point indeed of a new pin, His majesty his watch most sagely viewed, And then put up his asses' skin.

To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say, "Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay!" "Yes, please your majesty," in humble notes, The brewer answered—"also, sir, of oats: Another thing my horses too maintains, And that, an't please your majesty, are grains."

"Grains, grains," said majesty, "to fill their crops? Grains, grains?—that comes from hops—yes, hops, hops? hops?"

Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at fault— "Sire," cried the humble brewer, "give me leave Your sacred majesty to undeceive; Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt."

"True," said the cautious monarch, with a smile: "From malt, malt, malt—I meant malt all the while." "Yes," with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer, "An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure." "Yes," answered majesty, with quick reply, "I did, I did, I did I, I, I, I."

Now this was wise in Whitbread—here we find A very pretty knowledge of mankind; As monarchs never must be in the wrong, 'Twas really a bright thought in Whitbread's tongue, To tell a little fib, or some such thing, To save the sinking credit of a king. Some brewers, in a rage of information, Proud to instruct the ruler of a nation, Had on the folly dwelt, to seem damned clever! Now, what had been the consequence? Too plain! The man had cut his consequence in twain; The king had hated the WISE fool forever!

Reader, whene'er thou dost espy a nose That bright with many a ruby glows, That nose thou mayest pronounce, nay safely swear, Is nursed on something better than small-beer.

Thus when thou findest kings in brewing wise, Or natural history holding lofty station, Thou mayest conclude, with marveling eyes, Such kings have had a goodly education.

Now did the king admire the bell so fine, That daily asks the draymen all to dine: On which the bell rung out (how very proper!) To show it was a bell, and had a clapper.

And now before their sovereign's curious eye, Parents and children, fine, fat, hopeful sprigs, All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their style, Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs: On which the observant man, who fills a throne, Declared the pigs were vastly like his own:

On which, the brewer, swallowed up in joys, Tears and astonishment in both his eyes, His soul brim full of sentiments so loyal, Exclaimed, "O heavens! and can my swine Be deemed by majesty so fine! Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal?" To which the king assented with a nod; On which the brewer bowed, and said, "Good God!" Then winked significant on Miss; Significant of wonder and of bliss; Who, bridling in her chin divine, Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid, And then her lowest courtesy made For such high honor done her father's swine.

Now did his majesty so gracious say To Mr. Whitbread, in his flying way, "Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then? Hae, Whitbread, when d'ye think to leave off trade? Hae? what? Miss Whitbread's still a maid, a maid? What, what's the matter with the men?

"D'ye hunt!—hae, hunt? No, no, you are too old— You'll be lord mayor—lord mayor one day— Yes, yes, I've heard so—yes, yes, so I'm told: Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay? I'll prick you every year, man, I declare: Yes, Whitbread-yes, yes-you shall be lord mayor.

"Whitbread, d'ye keep a coach, or job one, pray? Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best You put your liveries on the draymen-hee? Hae, Whitbread? you have feather'd well your nest. What, what's the price now, hee, of all your stock? But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock?"

Now Whitbread inward said, "May I be cursed If I know what to answer first;" Then searched his brains with ruminating eye: But e'er the man of malt an answer found, Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round, Skipped off, and baulked the pleasure of reply.

Kings in inquisitiveness should be strong- From curiosity doth wisdom flow: For 'tis a maxim I've adopted long, The more a man inquires, the more he'll know.

Reader, didst ever see a water-spout? 'Tis possible that thou wilt answer, "No." Well then! he makes a most infernal rout; Sucks, like an elephant, the waves below, With huge proboscis reaching from the sky, As if he meant to drink the ocean dry: At length so full he can't hold one drop more-. He bursts-down rush the waters with a roar On some poor boat, or sloop, or brig, or ship, And almost sinks the wand'rer of the deep: Thus have I seen a monarch at reviews, Suck from the tribe of officers the news, Then bear in triumph off each WONDROUS matter, And souse it on the queen with such a clatter!

I always would advise folks to ask questions; For, truly, questions are the keys of knowledge: Soldiers, who forage for the mind's digestions, Cut figures at the Old Bailey, and at college; Make chancellors, chief justices, and judges, Even of the lowest green-bag drudges.

The sages say, Dame Truth delights to dwell, Strange mansion! in the bottom of a well, Questions are then the windlass and the rope That pull the grave old gentlewoman up: Damn jokes then, and unmannerly suggestions, Reflecting upon kings for asking questions.

Now having well employed his royal lungs On nails, hoops, staves, pumps, barrels, and their bungs, The king and Co. sat down to a collation Of flesh and fish, and fowl of every nation. Dire was the clang of plates, of knife and fork, That merciless fell like tomahawks to work, And fearless scalped the fowl, the fish, and cattle, While Whitbread, in the rear, beheld the battle.

The conquering monarch, stopping to take breath Amidst the regiments of death, Now turned to Whitbread with complacence round, And, merry, thus addressed the man of beer "Whitbread, is't true? I hear, I hear, You're of an ancient family—renowned— What? what? I'm told that you're a limb Of Pym, the famous fellow Pym: What Whitbread, is it true what people say? Son of a round-head are you? hae? hae? hae? I'm told that you send Bibles to your votes— A snuffling round-headed society— Prayer-books instead of cash to buy them coats— Bunyans, and Practices of Piety: Your Bedford votes would wish to change their fare— Rather see cash—yes, yes—than books of prayer. Thirtieth of January don't you FEED? Yes, yes, you eat calf's head, you eat calf's head."

Now having wonders done on flesh, fowl, fish, Whole hosts o'erturned—and seized on all supplies; The royal visitors expressed a wish To turn to House of Buckingham their eyes.

But first the monarch, so polite, Asked Mr. Whitbread if he'd be a KNIGHT. Unwilling in the list to be enrolled, Whitbread contemplated the knights of Peg, Then to his generous sovereign made a leg, And said, "He was afraid he was too old. He thanked however his most gracious king, For offering to make him SUCH A THING." But, ah! a different reason 'twas I fear! It was not age that bade the man of beer The proffered honor of the monarch shun: The tale of Margaret's knife, and royal fright, Had almost made him damn the NAME of knight, A tale that farrowed such a world of fun.

He mocked the prayer too by the king appointed, Even by himself the Lord's Anointed:— A foe to FAST too, is he, let me tell ye; And though a Presbyterian, can not think Heaven (quarrelling with meat and drink) Joys in the grumble of a hungry belly!

Now from the table with Caesarean air Up rose the monarch with his laureled brow, When Mr. Whitbread, waiting on his chair, Expressed much thanks, much joy, and made a bow. Miss Whitbread now so quick her curtsies drops, Thick as her honored father's Kentish hops; Which hop-like curtsies were returned by dips That never hurt the royal knees and hips; For hips and knees of queens are sacred things, That only bend on gala days Before the best of kings, When odes of triumph sound his praise.—

Now through a thundering peal of kind huzzas, Proceeding some from hired* and unhired jaws, The raree-show thought proper to retire; Whilst Whitbread and his daughter fair Surveyed all Chiswell-street with lofty air, For, lo! they felt themselves some six feet higher *[Footnote: When his majesty goes to a play-house, or brew-house, or parliament, the Lord Chamberlain provides some pounds' worth of mob to huzza their beloved monarch. At the play-house about forty wide- mouthed fellows are hired on the night of their majesties' appearance, at two shillings and sixpence per head, with the liberty of seeing the play GRATIS. These STENTORS are placed in different parts of the theater, who, immediately on the royal entry into the stage-box, set up [illeg.] of loyalty; to whom their majesties, with sweetest smiles, acknowledge the obligation by a genteel bow, and an elegant curtesy. This congratulatory noise of the Stentors is looked on by many, particularly country ladies and gentlemen, as an infallible thermometer, that ascertains the warmth of the national regard—P. P.]

Such, Thomas, is the way to write! Thus shouldst thou birth-day songs indite; Then stick to earth, and leave the lofty sky: No more of ti tum tum, and ti tum ti.

Thus should an honest laureate write of kings— Not praise them for IMAGINARY THINGS; I own I can not make my stubborn rhyme Call every king a character sublime; For conscience will not suffer me to wander So very widely from the paths of candor. I know full well SOME kings are to be seen, To whom my verse so bold would give the spleen, Should that bold verse declare they wanted BRAINS I won't say that they NEVER brains possessed— They MAY have been with such a present blessed, And therefore fancy that some STILL remains;

For every well-experienced surgeon knows, That men who with their legs have parted, Swear that they've felt a pain in all their TOES, And often at the twinges started; They stared upon their oaken stumps in vain! Fancying the toes were all come back again.

If men, then, who their absent toes have mourned, Can fancy those same toes at times returned; So kings, in matters of intelligences, May fancy they have stumbled on their senses. Yes, Tom—mine is the way of writing ode— Why liftest thou thy pious eyes to God!

Strange disappointment in thy looks I read; And now I hear thee in proud triumph cry, "Is this an action, Peter, this a deed To raise a monarch to the sky? Tubs, porter, pumps, vats, all the Whitbread throng, Rare things to figure in the Muse's song!"

Thomas, I here protest, I want no quarrels On kings and brewers, porter, pumps, and barrels— Far from the dove-like Peter be such strife, But this I tell thee, Thomas, for a fact— Thy Caesar never did an act More wise, more glorious in his life.

Now God preserve all wonder-hunting kings, Whether at Windsor, Buckingham, or Kew-house: And may they never do more foolish things Than visiting Sam Whitbread and his brewhouse.



THE AUTHOR AND THE STATESMAN [ADDRESSED BY FIELDING TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.]

While at the helm of state you ride, Our nation's envy, and its pride; While foreign courts with wonder gaze, And curse those councils which they praise; Would you not wonder, sir, to view Your bard a greater man than you? Which that he is you can not doubt, When you have read the sequel out. You know, great sir, that ancient fellows, Philosophers, and such folks, tell us, No great analogy between Greatness and happiness is seen. If then, as it might follow straight, WRETCHED to be, is to be GREAT; Forbid it, gods, that you should try What'tis to be so great as I!

The family that dines the latest, Is in our street esteem'd the greatest; But latest hours must surely fall 'Fore him who never dines at all.

Your taste in architect, you know, Hath been admired by friend and foe: But can your earthly domes compare With all my castles—in the air?

We're often taught it doth behoove as To think those greater who're above us; Another instance of my glory, Who live above you, twice two story; And from my garret can look down On the whole street of ARLINGTON.

Greatness by poets still is painted With many followers acquainted: This too doth in my favor speak; YOUR levee is but twice a week; From mine I can exclude but one day, My door is quiet on a Sunday.

Nor in the manner of attendance, Doth your great bard claim less ascendance Familiar you to admiration May be approached by all the nation; While I, like the Mogul in INDO, Am never seen but at my window. If with my greatness you're offended, The fault is easily amended; For I'll come down, with wondrous ease, Into whatever PLACE you please. I'm not ambitious; little matters Will serve us great, but humble creatures.

Suppose a secretary o' this isle, Just to be doing with a while; Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop: Or I can foreign treaties dish up. If the good genius of the nation Should call me to negotiation, Tuscan and French are in my head, LATIN I write, and GREEK—I read.

If you should ask, what pleases best? To get the most, and do the least. What fittest for?—You know, I'm sure; I'm fittest for—a SINE-CURE.



THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE GRINDER. [Footnote: Some stanzas of the original poem, by Southey, are here subjoined:]

ANTI-JACOBIN. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. [Footnote: The "Friend of Humanity" was intended for Mr. Tierney, M.P. for Southwark, who in early times was among the more forward of the Reformers. "He was," says Lord Brougham, "an assiduous member of the Society of Friends of the People, and drew up the much and justly celebrated Petition in which that useful body laid before the House of Commons all the more striking particulars of its defective title to the office of representing the people, which that House then, as now, but with far less reason, assumed.]

"Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order— Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't, So have your breeches!"

THE WIDOW.

SAPPHIOS

Cold was the night wind; drifting fast the snows fell: Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked; When a poor wand'rer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections; Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom: She had no home, the world was all before her. She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her: "Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer, "Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger Here I should perish."

"Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- road, what hard work 'tis crying all day 'Knives and "'Scissors to grind O!'

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney?

"Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit?

"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story."

KNIFE-GRINDER.

"Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.

"Constables came up, for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish— Stocks for a vagrant.

"I should be glad to drink your Honor's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir."

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

"I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first— Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance— Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!"

[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]



INSCRIPTION

FOR THE DOOR OF THE CELL IN NEWGATE, WHERE MRS. BROWNRIGG, THE 'PRENTICE-CIDE WAS CONFINED PREVIOUS TO HER EXECUTION.* FROM THE ANTI-JACOBIN. 1797

For one long term, or e'er her trial came, Here BROWNRIGG linger'd. Often have these cells Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice She screamed for fresh Geneva. Not to her Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street, St. Giles, its fair varieties expand; Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart she went To execution. Dost thou ask her crime? SHE WHIPP'D TWO FEMALE 'PRENTICES TO DEATH, AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HOLE. For her mind Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes! Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog The little Spartans; such as erst chastised Our Milton, when at college. For this act Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come When France shall reign, and laws be all repeal'd!

*INSCRIPTION BY SOUTHEY

FOR THE APARTMENT IN CHEPSTOW CASTLE, WHERE HENRY MARTEN, THE REGICIDE WAS IMPRISONED THIRTY YEARS.

For thirty years, secluded from mankind, Here MARTEN lingered. Often have these walls Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread He paced around his prison: not to him Did Nature's fair varieties exist; He never saw the sun's delightful beams, Save when through yon high bars he pour'd a sad And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime? He had REBELL'D AGAINST THE KING, AND SAT In JUDGMENT ON HIM; for his ardent mind Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth, And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such As Plato loved; such as with holy zeal Our Milton worship'd. Bless'd hopes! awhile From man withheld, even to the latter days When Christ shall come, and all things be fulfill'd.



SONG [Footnote: There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of this song, the first five stanzas of which were written by Mr. Canning. Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr. Pitt, who was cognizant of the proceedings of the "Anti-Jacobin" writers, he was so amused with it that he took up a pen and composed the last stanza on the spot.]

SUNG BY ROGERO IN THE BURLESQUE PLAY OF "THE ROVER." FROM THE ANTI-JACOBIN, 1798. CANNING. I.

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U —niversity of Gottingen— —niversity of Gottingen. [Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds—]

II. Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in!— Alas! Matilda THEN was true! At least I thought so at the U— —niversity of Gottingen— —niversity of Gottingen. [At the repetition of this line ROGERO clanks his chains in cadence.]

III. Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew Her neat post-wagon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Forlorn I languish'd at the U— —niversity of Gottingen— —niversity of Gottingen.

IV. This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in, My years are many—they were few When first I entered at the U— —niversity of Gottingen— —niversity of Gottingen.

V. There first for thee my psssion grew, Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wast the daughter of my tu— —tor, law professor at the U— —niversity at Gottingen— —niversity of Gottingen.

VI. Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in; Here doom'd to starve on water gru— —el, never shall I see the U— —niversity of Gottingen— —niversity of Gottingen.

[During the last stanza ROGERO dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.]



THE AMATORY SONNETS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. ROBERT SOUTHEY.

I.

DELIA AT PLAY.

She held a CUP AND BALL of ivory white, LESS WHITE the ivory than her snowy hand! Enrapt, I watched her from my secret stand, As now, intent, in INNOCENT delight, Her taper fingers twirled the giddy ball, Now tost it, following still with EAGLE SIGHT, Now on the pointed end INFIXED its fall. Marking her sport I mused, and musing sighed. Methought the BALL she played with was my HEART; (Alas! that sport like THAT should be her pride!) And the KEEN POINT which steadfast still she eyed Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's DART; Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn Who ON THAT DART IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM?

II.

THE POET PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS LOVE FOR DELIA.

Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED. Far from my Delia now by fate removed, At home, abroad, I view her everywhere: HER ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see, My GODDESS-MAID, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR. FOR LOVE ANNIHILATES THE WORLD TO ME! And when the weary SOL AROUND HIS BED CLOSES THE SABLE CURTAINS OF THE NIGHT, SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight She shines confest. When EVERY SOUND IS DEAD, The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to ROLL The surge of music o'er my wavy brain. Far, far from her my BODY drags its chain, But sure with Delia I EXIST A SOUL!

III.

THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT IN DELIA'S PARLOR.

I would I were that portly gentleman With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane, Who hangs in Delia's parlor! For whene'er From book or needlework her looks arise, On him CONVERGE THE SUN-BEAMS OF HER EYES, And he UNBLAMED may gaze upon MY FAIR, And oft MY FAIR his FAVORED form surveys. O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze; I envy him! and jealous fear alarms, Lest the STRONG GLANCE of those DIVINEST charms WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days, When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms. I would I were that portly gentleman, With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane!



THE LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. ROBERT SOUTHEY.

I.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.

'Tis mine I what accents can my joy declare? Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair, That left the TEMPTING CORNER hanging out!

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, After long travel to some distant shrine. When at the relic of his saint he kneels, For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.

When first with FILCHING FINGERS I drew near, Keen hopes shot tremulous through every vein; And when the FINISHED DEED removed my fear, Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.

What though the EIGHTH COMMANDMENT rose to mind, It only served a moment's qualm to move; For thefts like this it could not be designed— THE EIGTH COMMANDMENT WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE!

Here, when she took the maccaroons from me, She wiped her mouth to clear the crumbs so sweet! Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips on thee! Lips SWEETER than the MACCAROONS she eat.

And when she took that pinch of Moccabaw, That made my love so DELICATELY sneeze, Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw, And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er, SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane For thou hast touched the RUBIES of my fair, And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again.

II.

THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA'S HAIR

The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains The straightning curls of gold so BEAMY BRIGHT, Not spotless merely from the touch remains, But issues forth MORE PURE, more MILKY WHITE.

The rose pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads Sometimes with honored fingers for my fair, No added perfume on her tresses sheds, BUT BORROWS SWEETNESS FROM HER SWEETER HAIR.

Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair With licensed fingers uncontrolled may rove! And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR, Who died to make pomatum for my love.

Oh could I hope that e'er my favored lays Might CURL THOSE LOVELY LOCKS with conscious pride, Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise, I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine, The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart; From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line Wherewith the urchin ANGLED for MY HEART.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads That from the silk-worm, SELF-INTERR'D, proceed; Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads His filmy net-work o'er the tangled mead.

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power, elate, My captive HEART has HANDCUFF'D in a chain, Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate, THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN.

The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair, In FLOWING LUSTER bathe their bright'ning wings; And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care, The ringlets rob for FAIRY FIDDLESTRINGS.

III.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIA S HAIR, AND HER ANGER.

Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth! Ye Seas! to swallow me, in kindness rise! Fall on me, mountains! and thou merciful earth, Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes.

Let universal Chaos now return, Now let the central fires their prison burst, And EARTH, and HEAVEN, and AIR, and OCEAN burn, For Delia FROWNS. She FROWNS, and I am curst.

Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight, Where hostile MILLIONS sought my single life; Would storm VOLCANOES, BATTERIES, with delight, And grapple with Grim Death in glorious strife.

Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove, When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies; What is HIS WRATH to that of HER I love? What is his LIGHTNING to my Delia's eyes?

Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind; Ye SERPENT CURLS, ye POISON TENDRILS, go! Would I could tear thy memory from my mind, ACCURSED LOCK; thou cause of all my woe!

Seize the CURST CURLS, ye Furies, as they fly! Demons of darkness, guard the infernal roll, That thence your cruel vengeance, when I die, May KNIT THE KNOTS OF TORTURE FOR MY SOUL.

Last night—Oh hear me, heaven, and grant my prayer! The BOOK OF FATE before thy suppliant lay, And let me from its ample records tear ONLY THE SINGLE PAGE OF YESTERDAY!

Or let me meet OLD TIME upon his flight, And I will STOP HIM on his restless way; Omnipotent in love's resistless might, I'LL FORCE HIM BACK THE ROAD OF YESTERDAY.

Last night, as o'er the page of love's despair, My Delia bent DELICIOUSLY to grieve, I stood a TREACHEROUS LOITERER by her chair, And drew the FATAL SCISSORS from my sleeve:

And would at that instant o'er my thread The SHEARS OF ATROPOS had opened then; And when I reft the lock from Delia's head, Had cut me sudden from the sons of men!

She heard the scissors that fair lock divide, And while my heart with transport parted big, She cast a FURY frown on me, and cried, "You stupid puppy—you have spoiled my wig!"



THE BABY'S DEBUT. [Footnote: "The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his ALICE FELL, and the greater part of his last volumes—of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation."—Edinburg Review.]

A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH.—REJECTED ADDRESSES JAMES SMITH.

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, O, my stars! He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top's peg, And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlor-door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite: Well, let him cry, it serves him 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 sha'n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney-coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopped it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and 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 those that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won't hide it, I'll be bound; And there's a row of lamps!—my eye! How they do blaze! I wonder 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 curtsy, whisper, 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? O there they sit! They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways, And order round poor Billy's chaise, To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsy like a pretty miss, And if you'll blow to me a kiss, I'll blow a kiss to you.

[Blow a kiss, and exit.]



PLAY-HOUSE MUSINGS. A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF COLERIDGE.—REJECTED ADDRESSES. JAMES SMITH

My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad? I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey To carry to the mart her crockery-ware, And when that donkey looked me in the face, His face was sad I and you are sad, my Public.

Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October Again assembles us in Drury Lane. Long wept my eye to see the timber planks That hid our ruins; many a day I cried, Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it! Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve, As along Charles-street I prepared to walk. Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's, I heard a trowel tick against a brick. I looked me up, and straight a parapet Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks. Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said: He of the Blackfriars' Road, who hymned thy downfall In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma, Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee, Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour, As leisure offered, close to Mr. Spring's Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders. They had a plan to render less their labors; Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder With hodded heads, but these stretched forth a pole From the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulley Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley; To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks Thus freighted, swung securely to the top, And in the empty basket workmen twain Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.

Oh! 't was a goodly sound, to hear the people Who watched the work, express their various thoughts! While some believed it never would be finished, Some, on the contrary, believed it would.

I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane Much criticised; they say 'tis vulgar brick-work, A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth. One of the morning papers wished that front Cemented like the front in Brydges-street; As now it looks, they call it Wyatt's Mermaid, A handsome woman with a fish's tail.

White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet-street, The Albion (as its name denotes) is white; Morgan and Saunders' shop for chairs and tables Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun; White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet-street, The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders, Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury's face.

Oh, Mr. Whitbread! fie upon you, sir! I think you should have built a colonnade; When tender Beauty, looking for her coach, Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower, And draws the tippet closer round her throat, Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off, And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud Soaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow, She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa Cries, "There you go! this comes of playhouses!" To build no portico is penny wise: Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish!

Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theaters! What is the Regency in Tottenham-street, The Royal Amphitheater of Arts, Astley's, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil, Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee pushed Back from the narrow street that christened thee, I know not why they call thee Drury Lane. Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions, It grieves me much to see live animals Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit, Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig; Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist Of former Drury, imitated life Quite to the life. The elephant in Blue Beard, Stuffed by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis As spruce as he who roared in Padmanaba. [Footnote: "Padmanaba," viz., in a pantomime called Harlequin in Padmanaba. This elephant, some years afterward, was exhibited over Exeter 'Change, where it was found necessary to destroy the poor animal by discharges of musketry. When he made his entrance in the pantomime above-mentioned, Johnson, the machinist of the rival house, exclaimed, "I should be very sorry if I could not make a better elephant than that!"]

Naught born on earth should die. On hackney stands I reverence the coachman who cries "Gee," And spares the lash. When I behold a spider Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm, Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton, Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick! [EXIT HASTILY.]



THE THEATER. [Footnote: "'The Theater,' by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think, is the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author. * * * It does not aim, of course, at any shadow of his pathos or moral sublimity, but seems to us to be a singularly faithful copy of his passages of mere description."—Edinburg Review.]

[A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF CEABBE.—REJECTED ADDRESSES.] JAMES SMITH.

Interior of a Theater described.—Pit gradually fills.-The Check-taker.—Pit full.—The Orchestra tuned.—One Fiddle rather dilatory.—Is reproved—and repents.—Evolutions of a Play-bill.—Its final Settlement on the Spikes.—The Gods taken to task—and why.— Motley Group of Play-goers.—Holywell-street, St. Pancras.—Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice—not in London—and why.—Episode of the Hat.

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Start into light, and make the lighter start; To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane Tinge with his beams the beams of Drury Lane; While gradual parties fill our widened pit, And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.

At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, Distant or near, they settle where they please; But when the multitude contracts the span, And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

Now the full benches to late comers doom No room for standing, miscalled STANDING-ROOM.

Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks, And bawling "Pit full!" gives the checks he takes; Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram, Contending crowders shout the frequent damn, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam.

See to their desks Apollo's sons repair— Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair! In unison their various tones to tune, Murmurs the hautboy, growls the coarse bassoon; In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling harp Till, like great Jove, the leader, fingering in, Attunes to order the chaotic din. Now all seems hushed—but, no, one fiddle will Give half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still. Foiled 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!" And awed Consumption checks his chided 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, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers; Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl, It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl; Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes, And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues? Who's that calls "Silence!" with such leathern lungs? He who, in quest of quiet, "Silence!" hoots, Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

What various swains our motley walls contain! Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick Lane; Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court; From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane; The lottery cormorant, the auction shark, The full-price master, and the half-price clerk; Boys who long linger at the gallery-door, With pence twice five—they want but twopence more; Till some Samaritan the two-pence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, But talk their minds—we wish they'd mind their talk Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live— Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Jews from St. Mary's Ax, for jobs so wary, That for old clothes they'd even ax St. Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Where scowling fortune seemed to threaten woe.

John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Emanuel Jennings polished Stubb'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 haired youth, Ponder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongue in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat: Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurned the one to settle in the two. How shall he act? Pay at the gallery-door 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, Starred, 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 unfeigned, Regained the felt, and felt the prize regained; While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.



A TALE OF DRURY LANE [Footnote: "From the parody of Sir Walter Scott we know not what to select—It Is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as amusing specimens of the MISAPPLICATION of the style and meter of Mr. Scott's admirable romances."—Quarterly Review. "'A Tale of Drury.' by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably execuated; though the introduction is rather tame. The burning is described with the mighty minstrel's characteristic love of localitics. The catastrophe is described with a spirit not unworthy of the name so ventureously assumed by the describer"—Edinburg Review.]

[A BURLESQUE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT'S METRICAL ROMANCES. REJECTED ADDRESSES.] HORACE SMITH.

[To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, In a suit of the Black Prince's Armor, borrowed from the Tower.]

Survey this shield, all bossy bright— These cuisses twin behold! Look on my form in armor dight Of steel inlaid with gold; My knees are stiff in iron buckles, Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles. These once belonged to sable prince, Who never did in battle wince; With valor tart as pungent quince, He slew the vaunting Gaul. Rest there awhile, my bearded lance, While from green curtain I advance To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance, And tell the town what sad mischance Did Drury Lane befall.

THE NIGHT.

On fair Augusta's towers and trees Flittered the silent midnight breeze, Curling the foliage as it past, Which from the moon-tipped plumage cast A spangled light, like dancing spray, Then reassumed its still array; When as night's lamp unclouded hung, And down its full effulgence flung, It shed such soft and balmy power That cot and castle, hall and bower, And spire and dome, and turret height, Appear'd to slumber in the light. From Henry's chapel, Rufus' Hall, To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul, From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, To Redriff Shadwell, Horsleydown, No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, But all in deepest sleep reposed. They might have thought, who gazed around Amid a silence so profound, It made the senses thrill, That't was no place inhabited, But some vast city of the dead All was so hushed and still.

THE BURNING.

As chaos, which, by heavenly doom, Had slept in everlasting gloom, Started with terror and surprise When light first flashed upon her eyes So London's sons in night-cap woke, In bed-gown woke her dames; For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke, And twice ten hundred voices spoke "The playhouse is in flames!" And, lo! where Catharine street extends, A fiery tail its luster 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, 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 borrowed luster seemed to sham The rose of 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 seemed that nations did conspire To offer to the god of fire Some vast stupendous sacrifice! The summoned firemen woke at call, And hied them to their stations all: Starting from short and broken snooze, Each sought his pond'rous hobnailed shoes, But first his worsted hosen plied, Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed, His nether bulk embraced; Then jacket thick, of red or blue, Whose massy shoulder gave to view The badge of each respective crew, In tin or copper traced. The engines thundered through the street, Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete, And torches glared, and clattering 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 stopped at Vin'gar Yard. The burning badge his shoulder bore, The belt and oil-skin hat he wore, The cane he had, his men to bang, Showed foreman of the British gang— His name was Higginbottom. Now 'Tis meet that I should tell you how The others came in view: The Hand-in-Hand the race begun. Then came the Phoenix and the Sun, The Exchange, where old insurers run, The Eagle, where the new; With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole, Robins from Hockley in the Hole, Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl, Crump from St. Giles's Pound: Whitford and Mitford joined the train, Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, And Clutterbuck, who got a 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 would 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, Concealed them from th' astonished crowd. At length the mist awhile was cleared, When, lo! amid the wreck upreared, Gradually a moving head appeared, And Eagle firemen knew 'T was Joseph Muggins, name revered, The foreman of their crew. Loud shouted all in signs of woe, "A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!" And poured the hissing tide: Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, And strove and struggled all in vain, For, rallying but to fall again, He tottered, sunk, and died!