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tories of Eastern countries be pursued, whose princes order their affairs according to the mischievous principles of the Earl of Strafford, loose and absolved from all rules of government, they will be found to be frequent in combustions, full of massacres and of the tragical ends of princes."

I need not make selections from a speech so well known as that of Pym on the trial of Strafford. But hear one or two answers to fallacies which are not quite dead yet. To the charge of arbitrary government in Ireland, Strafford had pleaded that the Irish were a conquered nation. "They were a conquered nation," cries Pym. "There cannot be a word more pregnant or fruitful in treason than that word is. There are few nations in the world that have not been conquered, and no doubt but the conqueror may give what law he pleases to those that are conquered; but if the succeeding pacts and agreements do not limit and restrain that right, what people can be secure? England hath been conquered, and Wales hath been conquered; and by this reason will be in little better case than Ireland. If the king by the right of a conqueror gives laws to his people, shall not the people, by the same reason, be restored to the right of the conquered to recover their liberty if they can ?" Strafford had alleged good intentions as an excuse for his evil counsels. "Sometimes, my lords," says Pym, "good and evil, truth and falsehood, lie so near together that they are hard to be distinguished. Matters hurtful and dangerous may be accompanied with such circumstances as may make them appear useful and convenient. But where the matters propounded are evil in their own nature, such as the matters are wherewith the Earl of Strafford is charged, as to break public faith and to subvert laws and government, they can never be justified by any intentions, how good soever they be pretended." Again, to the plea that it was a time of great danger and necessity, Pym replies: "If there were any necessity, it was of his own making: he, by his evil counsel, had brought the King into a necessity; and by no rules of justice can be allowed to gain this advantage by his own fault, as to make that a ground of his justification which is a great part of his offence."

Once, we are told, while Pym was speaking, his eyes met those of Strafford; and the speaker grew confused, lost the thread of his discourse, broke down beneath the haggard glance of his old friend. Let us never glorify revolution!

HORACE SMITH.

SMITH, HORACE, an English poet, whose real name was Horatio; born at London, December 31, 1779; died at Tunbridge Wells, July 12, 1849. His literary and personal life was closely connected with that of his brother, JAMES SMITH (born in London, February 10, 1775; died there, December 24, 1839). They were joint authors of the "Rejected Addresses." Horace Smith accumulated an ample fortune as a member of the Stock Exchange. In 1820 he retired from active business, after which he wrote several novels, among which are "Brambletye House" (1826); "Tor Hill" (1826); "Reuben Apsley" (1827); "The New Forest" (1829); and “Jane Lomax" (1838). In 1812 the rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre, which had been destroyed by fire, led to the offering of a prize for an opening address. None of those offered was accepted, and Byron was asked to produce one, which was pronounced unsuitable. The brothers Smith thereupon put forth a small volume entitled "Rejected Addresses," purporting to have been written by several of the most distinguished living poets. In these the manner of the respective authors is cleverly imitated and sometimes travestied. Perhaps the cleverest of these imitations are that of Crabbe by James Smith, and that of Scott by Horace. Besides his contribu tions to the "Rejected Addresses," James Smith published anonymously articles in the "New Monthly Magazine" and other periodicals, and wrote the greater part of "The Country Cousins," "Trip to France," and "Trip to America," highly successful pieces at the English Opera House.

A TALE OF DRURY LANE. BY W. S.

(From "Rejected Addresses.")

As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Startled with terror and surprise
When light first flashed upon her
So London's sons in night-cap woke,

eyes,

In bed-gown woke her dames;
For shouts were heard, 'mid fire and smoke,
"The play-house is in flames! "

And lo! where Catherine Street extends.

A fiery tale its lustre lends

To every window-pane.

Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican moth-eaten fort,

And Covent Garden Kennels spout
A bright, ensanguined drain.

Meux's new brew-house shows the light,
And 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-porter's 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 the Thames's gleaming tide,
To distant fields the blaze was borne,
And daisy white and hoary thorn
In borrowed lustre seemed 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 seemed that nations did conspire
To offer to the God of Fire

Some vast, stupendous sacrifice!

The summoned firemen woke at call,
And hied to their stations all.
Starting from bed and broken snooze,

Each sought his ponderous hob-nailed shoes;
But first his worsted hosen plied;

Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,

His nether limbs embraced;

Then jacket thick, of red or blue,

Whose massy shoulders gave to view
The badge of each respective crew,
In tin or copper traced.

The engines thundered through the street,
Fire-hook, pick, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared, and clattering feet
Along the pavement paced. . . .

E'en Higginbottom now was posed,
For sadder sight 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, Robbins, back!" 66 "Whitford, keep near the walls!" "Huggins, regard your own behoof!" For lo! the blazing, racking roof Down, down, in thunder falls.

'Crump, stand aloof!"

An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o'er the ruin's volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,
Concealed them from the astonished crowd;

When lo! amid the wreck upreared
Gradual a moving head appeared,
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 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.

Did none attempt before he fell,
To succor 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 sulphurous stench and boiling drench,
Destroying sight, o'erwhelmed 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 feared on? fools, 'od rot em !"
Were the last words of Higginbottom.

HORACE SMITH.

TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. AND thou hast walked about (how strange a story!) In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory, And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous ?

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy: Thou hast a tongue come, let us hear its tune; Thou 'rt standing on thy legs above-ground, Mummy, Revisiting the glimpses of the moon!

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,

But with thy bones and flesh and limbs and features.

Tell us

-

for doubtless thou canst recollect To whom we should assign the Sphinx's fame. Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name ?

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer?

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden

By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade; Then say, what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? Perhaps thou wert a priest; if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass,
Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat,

Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass,

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

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