A TALE OF DRURY LANE--BY W. S. {44} {99}

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

Survey this shield, all bossy bright - These cuisses twain behold!

Look on my form in armour dight Of steel inlaid with gold; My knees are stiff in iron buckles, Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.

These once belong'd to sable prince, Who never did in battle wince; With valour tart as pungent quince, He slew the vaunting Gaul.

Rest there awhile, my bearded lance, While from green curtain I advance To yon foot-lights--no trivial dance, {45} And tell the town what sad mischance Did Drury Lane befall.

THE NIGHT.

On fair Augusta's {46} towers and trees Flitted the silent midnight breeze, Curling the foliage as it pa.s.s'd, Which from the moon-tipp'd plumage cast A spangled light, like dancing spray, Then re-a.s.sumed its still array; When, as night's lamp unclouded hung, And down its full effulgence flung, It shed such soft and balmy power That cot and castle, hall and bower, And spire and dome, and turret height, Appeared to slumber in the light.

From Henry's chapel, Rufus' hall, To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul; From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown, No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, But all in deepest sleep reposed.

They might have thought, who gazed around Amid a silence so profound, It made the senses thrill, That 'twas no place inhabited, But some vast city of the dead - All was so hush'd and still.

THE BURNING.

As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom, Had slept in everlasting gloom, Started with terror and surprise When light first flash'd upon her eyes - So London's sons in nightcap woke, In bed-gown woke her dames; For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke, And twice ten hundred voices spoke - "The playhouse is in flames!"

And, lo! where Catherine Street extends, A fiery tail its l.u.s.tre 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, {47} 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 h.o.a.ry thorn In borrow'd l.u.s.tre seem'd to sham The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.

To those who on the hills around Beheld the flames from Drury's mound, As from a lofty altar rise, It seem'd that nations did conspire To offer to the G.o.d of fire Some vast, stupendous sacrifice!

The summon'd firemen woke at call, And hied them to their stations all: Starting from short and broken snooze, Each sought his pond'rous hobnail'd shoes, But first his worsted hosen plied, Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed, His nether bulk embraced; Then jacket thick, of red or blue, Whose ma.s.sy shoulder gave to view The badge of each respective crew, In tin or copper traced.

The engines thunder'd through the street, Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete, And torches glared, and clattering feet Along the pavement paced.

And one, the leader of the band, From Charing Cross along the Strand, Like stag by beagles hunted hard, Ran till he stopp'd at Vin'gar Yard. {48} The burning badge his shoulder bore, The belt and oil-skin hat he wore, The cane he had, his men to bang, Show'd foreman of the British gang - His name was Higginbottom. Now 'Tis meet that I should tell you how The others came in view: The Hand-in-Hand the race begun, {49} Then came the Phoenix and the Sun, Th' Exchange, where old insurers run, The Eagle, where the new; With these came Rumford, b.u.mford, Cole, Robins from Hockley in the Hole, Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl, Crump from St. Giles's Pound: Whitford and Mitford join'd the train, Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain Before the plug was found.

Hobson and Jobson did not sleep, But ah! no trophy could they reap, For both were in the Donjon Keep Of Bridewell's gloomy mound!

E'en Higginbottom now was posed, For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed Without, within, in hideous show, Devouring flames resistless glow, And blazing rafters downward go, And never halloo "Heads below!"

Nor notice give at all.

The firemen terrified are slow To bid the pumping torrent flow, For fear the roof should fall.

Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!

Whitford, keep near the walls!

Huggins, regard your own behoof, For, lo! the blazing rocking roof Down, down in thunder falls!

An awful pause succeeds the stroke, And o'er the ruins volumed smoke, Rolling around its pitchy shroud, Conceal'd them from th' astonish'd crowd.

At length the mist awhile was clear'd, When lo! amid the wreck uprear'd, Gradual a moving head appear'd, And Eagle firemen knew 'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered, The foreman of their crew.

Loud shouted all in signs of woe, "A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!"

And pour'd the hissing tide: Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, And strove and struggled all in vain, For, rallying but to fall again, He totter'd, sunk, and died!

Did none attempt, before he fell, To succour one they loved so well?

Yes, Higginbottom did aspire (His fireman's soul was all on fire) His brother chief to save; But ah! his reckless generous ire Served but to abate his grave!

'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams.

Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before: But sulphry stench and boiling drench Destroying sight o'erwhelm'd him quite, He sunk to rise no more.

Still o'er his head, while fate he braved, His whizzing water-pipe he waved; "Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps, "You, Clutterbuck, come stir your stumps, "Why are you in such doleful dumps?

"A fireman, and afraid of b.u.mps! - "What are they fear'd on? fools! 'od rot 'em!"

Were the last words of Higginbottom. {50}

THE REVIVAL.

Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom, And toil rebuilds what fires consume!

Eat we and drink we, be our ditty, "Joy to the managing committee!"

Eat we and drink we, join to rum Roast beef and pudding of the plum!

Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come, With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, For this is Drury's gay day: Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops, And buy, to glad thy smiling chops, Crisp parliament with lollypops, And fingers of the Lady.

Didst mark, how toil'd the busy train, From morn to eve, till Drury Lane Leap'd like a roebuck from the plain?

Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again, And nimble workmen trod; To realise bold Wyatt's plan Rush'd many a howling Irishman; Loud clatter'd many a porter-can, And many a ragam.u.f.fin clan With trowel and with hod.

Drury revives! her rounded pate Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate; She "wings the midway air" elate, As magpie, crow, or chough; White paint her modish visage smears, Yellow and pointed are her ears, No pendent portico appears Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears {51} Have cut the bauble off.

Yes, she exalts her stately head; And, but that solid bulk outspread Opposed you on your onward tread, And posts and pillars warranted That all was true that Wyatt said, You might have deemed her walls so thick Were not composed of stone or brick, But all a phantom, all a trick, Of brain disturb'd and fancy sick, So high she soars, so vast, so quick!

JOHNSON'S GHOST. {52}

[Ghost of Dr. Johnson rises from trap-door P. S., and Ghost of BOSWELL from trap-door O. P. The latter bows respectfully to the House, and obsequiously to the Doctor's Ghost, and retires.]

DOCTOR'S GHOST loquitur.

That which was organised by the moral ability of one has been executed by the physical efforts of many, and DRURY LANE THEATRE is now complete. Of that part behind the curtain, which has not yet been destined to glow beneath the brush of the varnisher, or vibrate to the hammer of the carpenter, little is thought by the public, and little need be said by the committee. Truth, however, is not to be sacrificed for the accommodation of either; and he who should p.r.o.nounce that our edifice has received its final embellishment would be disseminating falsehood without incurring favour, and risking the disgrace of detection without partic.i.p.ating the advantage of success.

Professions lavishly effused and parsimoniously verified are alike inconsistent with the precepts of innate rect.i.tude and the practice of external policy: let it not then be conjectured that because we are una.s.suming, we are imbecile; that forbearance is any indication of despondency, or humility of demerit. He that is the most a.s.sured of success will make the fewest appeals to favour, and where nothing is claimed that is undue, nothing that is due will be withheld. A swelling opening is too often succeeded by an insignificant conclusion. Parturient mountains have now produced muscipular abortions; and the auditor who compares incipient grandeur with final vulgarity is reminded of the pious hawkers of Constantinople, who solemnly perambulate her streets, exclaiming, "In the name of the Prophet--figs!"

Of many who think themselves wise, and of some who are thought wise by others, the exertions are directed to the revival of mouldering and obscure dramas; to endeavours to exalt that which is now rare only because it was always worthless, and whose deterioration, while it condemned it to living obscurity, by a strange obliquity of moral perception const.i.tutes its t.i.tle to posthumous renown. To embody the flying colours of folly, to arrest evanescence, to give to bubbles the globular consistency as well as form, to exhibit on the stage the piebald denizen of the stable, and the half-reasoning parent of combs, to display the brisk locomotion of Columbine, or the tortuous att.i.tudinizing of Punch;--these are the occupations of others, whose ambition, limited to the applause of unintellectual fatuity, is too innocuous for the application of satire, and too humble for the incitement of jealousy.

Our refectory will be found to contain every species of fruit, from the cooling nectarine and luscious peach to the puny pippin and the noxious nut. There Indolence may repose, and Inebriety revel; and the spruce apprentice, rushing in at second account, may there chatter with impunity; debarred, by a barrier of brick and mortar, from marring that scenic interest in others, which nature and education have disqualified him from comprehending himself.

Permanent stage-doors we have none. That which is permanent cannot be removed, for, if removed, it soon ceases to be permanent. What stationary absurdity can vie with that ligneous barricado, which, decorated with frappant and tintinnabulant appendages, now serves as the entrance of the lowly cottage, and now as the exit of a lady's bed-chamber; at one time insinuating plastic Harlequin into a butcher's shop, and, at another, yawning, as a flood-gate, to precipitate the Cyprians of St. Giles's into the embraces of Macheath? To elude this glaring absurdity, to give to each respective mansion the door which the carpenter would doubtless have given, we vary our portal with the varying scene, pa.s.sing from deal to mahogany, and from mahogany to oak, as the opposite claims of cottage, palace, or castle may appear to require.

Amid the general hum of gratulation which flatters us in front, it is fit that some regard should be paid to the murmurs of despondence that a.s.sail us in the rear. They, as I have elsewhere expressed it, "who live to please," should not have their own pleasures entirely overlooked. The children of Thespis are general in their censures of the architect, its having placed the locality of exit at such a distance from the oily irradiators which now dazzle the eyes of him who addresses you. I am, cries the Queen of Terrors, robbed of my fair proportions. When the king-killing Thane hints to the breathless auditory the murders he means to perpetrate, in the castle of Macduff, "ere his purpose cool;" so vast is the interval he has to travel before he can escape from the stage, that his purpose has even time to freeze. Your condition, cries the Muse of Smiles, is hard, but it is cygnet's down in comparison with mine. The peerless peer of capers and congees {53} has laid it down as a rule, that the best good thing uttered by the morning visitor should conduct him rapidly to the doorway, last impressions vying in durability with first. But when, on this boarded elongation, it falls to my lot to say a good thing, to e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e "keep moving," or to chant "hic hoc horum genitivo," many are the moments that must elapse ere I can hide myself from public vision in the recesses of O. P. or P. S.

To objections like these, captiously urged and querulously maintained, it is time that equity should conclusively reply.

Deviation from scenic propriety has only to vituperate itself for the consequences it generates. Let the actor consider the line of exit as that line beyond which he should not soar in quest of spurious applause: let him reflect, that in proportion as he advances to the lamps, he recedes from nature; that the truncheon of Hotspur acquires no additional charm from encountering the cheek of beauty in the stage-box; and that the bravura of Mandane may produce effect, although the throat of her who warbles it should not overhang the orchestra. The Jove of the modern critical Olympus, Lord Mayor of the theatric sky, {54} has, ex cathedra, a.s.serted that a natural actor looks upon the audience part of the theatre as the third side of the chamber he inhabits. Surely, of the third wall thus fancifully erected, our actors should, by ridicule or reason, be withheld from knocking their heads against the stucco.

Time forcibly reminds me that all things which have a limit must be brought to a conclusion. Let me, ere that conclusion arrives, recall to your recollection, that the pillars which rise on either side of me, blooming in virid antiquity, like two ma.s.sy evergreens, had yet slumbered in their native quarry but for the ardent exertions of the individual who called them into life: to his never-slumbering talents you are indebted for whatever pleasure this haunt of the Muses is calculated to afford. If, in defiance of chaotic malevolence, the destroyer of the temple of Diana yet survives in the name of Erostratus, surely we may confidently predict that the rebuilder of the temple of Apollo will stand recorded to distant posterity in that of--SAMUEL WHITBREAD.

THE BEAUTIFUL INCENDIARY {55}--BY THE HON. W. S. {99}

Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas.--VIRGIL.

Scene draws, and discovers a Lady asleep on a couch.

Enter PHILANDER.