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Loyal Effusion (William Thomas Fitzgerald)Horace Smith. The Edinburgh Review observed, "The first piece, under the name of the loyal Mr. Fitzgerald, though as good we suppose as the original, is not very interesting. Whether it be very like Mr. Fitzgerald or not, however, it must be allowed that the vulgarity, servility, and gross absurdity of the newspaper scribblers is well rendered in the following lines." One of the brothers encountered Fitzgerald "at an anniversary dinner of the Literary Fund, at the Freemasons' Tavern. Both parties, as two of the stewards, met their brethren in a small room about half an hour before dinner. The lampooner, out of delicacy, kept aloof from the poet. The latter, however, made up to him, when the following dialogue took place: Fitzgerald (with good humour). 'Mr. [Smith] I mean to recite after dinner.' Mr. [Smith]. 'Do you?' Fitzgerald. 'Yes; you'll have more of "God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!"'"The Baby's Debut (William Wordsworth)James Smith. "In no instance were we … betrayed into a greater injustice than in the case of Mr. Wordsworth-the touching sentiment, profound wisdom, and copious harmony of whose loftier writings we left unnoticed, in the desire of burlesquing them; while we pounced upon his popular ballads, and exerted ourselves to push their simplicity into puerility and silliness." Edinburgh Review: "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 maukish affectations of childish semplicity 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."An Address without a Phoenix (*)Horace Smith. This piece was actually a serious submission to the Drury Lane committee, and so was, so to speak, a real rejected address. "One of us had written a genuine Address for the occasion, which was sent to the Committee, and shared the fate it merited, in being rejected. To swell the bulk, or rather to diminish the tenuity of our little work, we added it to the Imitations; and prefixing the initials of S.T.P. for the purpose of puzzling the critics, were not a little amused, in the sequel, by the many guesses and conjectures into which we had ensnared some of our readers. We could even enjoy the mysticism, qualified as it was by the poor compliment, that our carefully written Address exhibited no 'very prominent trait of absurdity,' when we saw it thus noticed in the Edinburgh Review for November 1812. 'An Address by S.T.P. we can make nothing of; and professing our ignorance of the author designated by these letters, we can only add, that the Address, though a little affected, and not very full of meaning, has no very prominent trait of absurdity, that we can detect; and might have been adopted and spoken, so far as we can perceive, without any hazard of ridicule. In our simplicity we consider it as a very decent, mellifluous, occasional prologue; and do not understand how it has found its way into its present company.'"Cui Bono? (Lord Byron)Horace Smith. (James wrote the first stanza.) "Lord Byron, too, wrote thus to Mr. Murray [the publisher] from Italy-'Tell him we forgive him, were he twenty times our satirist.'" Edinburgh Review: "The author has succeeded better in copying the moody and misanthropic sentiments of Childe Harold, than the nervous and impetuous diction in which his noble biographer has embodied them. The attempt, however, indicates very considerable power; and the flow of the verse and the construction of the poetical period are imitated with no ordinary skill."Hampshire Farmer's Address (William Cobbett)James Smith.The Living Lustres (Thomas Moore)Horace Smith. Edinburgh Review: "The Living Lustres appears to us a very fair imitation of the fantastic verses which that ingenious person, Mr. Moore, indites when he is merely gallant, and, resisting the lures of voluptuousness, is not enough in earnest to be tender."The Rebuilding (Robert Southey)James Smith. Edinburgh Review: "The Rebuilding is in the name of Mr. Southey, and is one of the best in the collection. It is in the style of the Kehama of that multifarious author; and is supposed to be spoken in the character of one of his Glendoveers. The imitation of the diction and measure, we think, is nearly almost perfect; and the descriptions as good as the original. It opens with an account of the burning of the old theatre, formed upon the pattern of the Funeral of Arvalan."Drury's Dirge ("Laura Matilda")A Tale of Drury Lane (Walter Scott)Horace Smith. "From that distinguished writer, whose transcendent talents were only to be equalled by his virtues and his amiability, we received favours and notice, both public and private, which it will be difficult to forget, because we had not the smallest claim upon his kindness. 'I certainly must have written this myself!' said that fine-tempered man to one of the authors, pointing to the description of the Fire, 'although I forget upon what occasion.'"Johnson's Ghost (Samuel Johnson)The Beautiful Incendiary (William Spencer)"Lydia White, a literary lady, who was prone to feed the lions of the day, invited one of us to dinner; but, recollecting afterwards that William Spencer formed one of the party, wrote to the latter to put him off; telling him that a man was to be at her table whom he 'would not like to meet.' 'Pray who is this whom I should not like to meet?' inquired the poet. 'O!' answered the lady, 'one of those men who have made that shameful attack upon you!' 'The very man upon earth I should like to know!' rejoined the lively and careless bard. The two individuals accordingly met, and have continued fast friends ever since."Fire and Ale (Matthew Gregory "Monk" Lewis)Playhouse Musings (Samuel Taylor Coleridge)James Smith. "To Mr. Coleridge … we must also do a tardy act of justice, by declaring that our burlesque of [his] peculiarities, has never blinded us to those beauties and talents which are beyond the reach of all ridicule."Drury Lane Hustings ("a Pic Nic Poet")Architectural Atoms (Dr. Busby)Theatrical Alarm Bell (the editor of the Morning Post)The Theatre (George Crabbe)James Smith.Macbeth Travestie ("Momus Medlar")Stranger Travestie ("Momus Medlar")George Barnwell Travestie ("Momus Medlar")Punch's Apotheosis (G. Colman, later Theodore Hook) |
| Cui Bono? |
| I Sated with home, of wife, of children tired, The restless soul is driven abroad to roam; Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired, The restless soul is driven to ramble home; Sated with both, beneath new Drury's dome The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine, There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome, Scorning to view fantastic Columbine, Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine. II Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way To gaze on puppets in a painted dome, Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray, Like falling stars in life's eternal gloom, What seek ye here? Joy's evanescent bloom? Woe's me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb. Man's heart, the mournful urn o'er which they wave, Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave. III Has life so little store of real woes, That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief? Or is it that from truth such anguish flows, Ye court the lying drama for relief? Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief: Or if one tolerable page appears In folly's volume, 'tis the actor's leaf, Who dries his own by drawing others' tears, And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years. IV Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee! Light as the mote that daunceth in the beam, He liveth only in man's present e'e, His life a flash, his memory a dream, Oblivious down he drops in Lethe's stream. Yet what are they, the learned and the great? Awhile of longer wonderment the theme! Who shall presume to prophesy their date, Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate? |
A TALE OF DRURY LANEThus he went on, stringing one extravagance; upon another, in the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating, as near as he could, their very phrase. Don Quixote [To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, in a suit of the Black Prince's Armour, borrowed from the Tower.] SURVEY this shield, all bossy bright- These cuisses twain behold! Look on my form in armour dight Of steel inlaid with gold; My knees are stiff in iron buckles, Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles. These once belong'd to sable prince, Who never did in battle wince; With valour tart as pungent quince, He slew the vaunting Gaul. Rest there awhile, my bearded lance, While from green curtain I advance To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,1 And tell the town what sad mischance Did Drury Lane befall. The Night. On fair Augusta's towers and trees Flitted the silent midnight breeze, Curling the foliage as it past, Which from the moon-tipp'd 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 '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 lustre 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 shews 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,1 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 thorne In borrow'd lustre 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 god 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 died, 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 thunder'd through the street, Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete, And torches glared, and clattering feet Crump from St. Giles's Pound: 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. 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, Then came the Phoenix and the Sun, Th' Exchange, where old insurers run, The Eagle, where the new; With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole, Robins from Hockly 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 Clutterback, 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 wo, "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 share his grave! Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before. But sulphury 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 bumps!- "What are they fear'd on? Fools! 'od rot 'em!" Were the last words of Higginbottom. 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 Homer, 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 ruggamuffin 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 pendant portico appears Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears 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 deem'd 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! |
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