"Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetae, Nec minimum meruere decus, veetigia Graeca Ausi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta."

HOR.

A PREFACE OF APOLOGIES.

If the following poem should be fortunate enough to be selected for the opening address, a few words of explanation may be deemed necessary, on my part, to avert invidious misrepresentation. The animadversion I have thought it right to make on the noise created by tuning the orchestra will, I hope, give no lasting remorse to any of the gentlemen employed in the band. It is to be desired that they would keep their instruments ready tuned, and strike off at once.

This would be an accommodation to many well-meaning persons who frequent the theatre, who, not being blest with the ear of St.

Cecilia, mistake the tuning for the overture, and think the latter concluded before it is begun.

- "One fiddle will Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still,"

was originally written "one hautboy will;" but, having providentially been informed, when this poem was on the point of being sent off, that there is but one hautboy in the band, I averted the storm of popular and manageria indignation from the head of its blower: as it now stands, "one fiddle" among many, the faulty individual will, I hope, escape detection. The story of the flying play-bill is calculated to expose a practice much too common, of pinning play- bills to the cushions insecurely, and frequently, I fear, not pinning them at all, if these lines save one play-bill only front the fate I have recorded, I shall not deem my labour ill employed. The concluding episode of Patrick Jennings glances at the boorish fashion of wearing the hat in the one-shilling gallery. Had Jennings thrust his between his feet at the commencement of the play, he might have leaned forward with impunity, and the catastrophe I relate would not have occurred. The line of handkerchiefs formed to enable him to recover his loss, is purposely so crossed in texture and materials as to mislead the reader in respect to the real owner of any one of them: for, in the statistical view of life and manners which I occasionally present, my clerical profession has taught me how extremely improper it would be, by any allusion, however slight, to give any uneasiness, however trivial, to any individual, however foolish or wicked.

G. C. {68b}

THE THEATRE

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

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Start into light, and make the lighter start; To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane; While gradual parties fill our widen'd 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 mult.i.tude contracts the span, And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

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

Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks, And bawling "Pit full!" gives the check he takes; Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram, Contending crowders shout rise frequent d.a.m.n, 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 hoa.r.s.e ba.s.soon; 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 tw.a.n.gs the tingling harp; Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in, Attunes to order the chaotic din.

Now all seems hush'd--but no, one fiddle will Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still.

Foil'd in his crash, 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 sc.r.a.p; 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 powder'd 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, honour 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 twopence 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 Axe, {69} for jobs so wary, That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Where scowling Fortune seem'd to threaten woe.

John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Emanuel Jennings polish'd Stubbs's shoes.

Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Up as a corn-cutter--a safe employ; In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred (At number twenty-seven, it is said), Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head: He would have bound him to some shop in town, But with a premium he could not come down.

Pat was the urchin's name--a red-hair'd youth, Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

Silence, ye G.o.ds! to keep your tongues in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurn'd the one to settle in the two.

How shall he act? Pay at the 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 antic.i.p.ate a thief, John Mullens whispers, " Take my handkerchief."

"Thank you," cries Pat; "but one won't make a line."

"Take mine," cried Wilson; and cried Stokes, "Take mine."

A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies.

Like Iris' bow down darts the painted clue, Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.

George Green below, with palpitating hand, Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band - Uproars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeign'd, Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd; While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat.

TO THE MANAGING COMMITTEE OF THE NEW DRURY LANE THEATRE. {70}

GENTLEMEN,

Happening to be wool-gathering at the foot of Mount Parna.s.sus, I was suddenly seized with a violent travestie in the head. The first symptoms I felt were several triple rhymes floating about my brain, accompanied by a singing in my throat, which quickly communicated itself to the ears of everybody about me, and made me a burthen to my friends and a torment to Doctor Apollo; three of whose favourite servants--that is to say, Macbeth, his butcher; Mrs. Haller, his cook; and George Barnwell, his book-keeper--I waylaid in one of my fits of insanity, and mauled after a very frightful fashion. In this woeful crisis, I accidentally heard of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, which cures every disorder incident to Grub Street. I send you inclosed a more detailed specimen of my case: if you could mould it into the shape of an address, to be said or sung on the first night of your performance, I have no doubt that I should feel the immediate effects of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, of which they tell me one hiss is a dose.

I am, &c.,

MOMUS MEDLAR.

CASE, No. I.--MACBETH.

[Enter MACBETH in a red nightcap. PAGE following with a torch.]

Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell (She knows that my purpose is cruel), I'd thank her to tingle her bell As soon as she's heated my gruel.

Go, get thee to bed and repose - To sit up so late is a scandal; But ere you have ta'en off your clothes, Be sure that you put out that candle.

Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol

My stars, in the air here's a knife!

I'm sure it cannot be a hum; I'll catch at the handle, add's life!

And then I shall not cut my thumb.

I've got him!--no, at him again!

Come, come, I'm not fond of these jokes; This must be some blade of the brain - Those witches are given to hoax.

I've one in my pocket, I know, My wife left on purpose behind her; She bought this of Teddy-high-ho, The poor Caledonian grinder.

I see thee again! o'er thy middle Large drops of red blood now are spill'd, Just as much as to say, diddle diddle, Good Duncan, pray come and be kill'd.

It leads to his chamber, I swear; I tremble and quake every joint - No dog at the scent of a hare Ever yet made a cleverer point.