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The side of our country must ollers be took,
An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our coun-

try ; An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per con

An' John P.

Robinson he
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies ; Sezthey 're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw,

fum : And thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half ov it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum ;

But John P.

Robinson he
Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so

must we.

THE NIGHT. On fair sugusta's towers and trees Flitted 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, 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 't was no place inhabited, But some vast city of the dead, –

All was so hushed and still.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-

tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em

votes ;
But John P.

Robinson he
Sez they did n't know everythin' down in



Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I

vow, God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fel

lers, To drive the world's team wen it gits in a

slough ;
Fer John P.

Robinson he
Ser the world 'll go right, ef he hollers out

Gee !


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 nightcap woke,

In bedgown 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 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 lustre seemed to sham
The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.



"Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the style his books of chivalry had taught hin, 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 armor, borrowed from the Tower,
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.

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 the astonished crowd.
At length the mist awhile was cleared,
When, lo ! amid the wreck upreared,
Gradual 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 !

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 suminoned firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all :
Starting from short and broken snooze,
Each sought his ponderous 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
'T is meet that I should tell you how

The others came in view :
The Hand-in-Hand the race began,
Then came the Phænix 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 should fall

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 sulphury 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.


Rejected Addresses.

[blocks in formation]

Interior of a Theatre described. -- Pit gradually fills. -- The Check

taker. - Pit full. - The Orchestra tuned. - One fiddle rather dil. atory. - 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, $t. Pancras. - Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice - not in London - and why. – Episode of the Hat.

| 'T is sweet to view, from half past five to six, Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,

Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, Start into light, and make the lighter start; Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court; To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane ; Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane; While gradual parties till our widened pit, The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark, And gape and gaze and wonder ere they sit. The full-price master, and the half-price clerk ;

Boys who long linger at the gallery door, At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, with pence twice tive, — they want but twopur.ee Distant or near, they settle where they please ;

more ; But when the multitude contracts the span, Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs, Now the full benches to late-comers doom

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, No room for standing, miscalled standing room.

But talk their minds, — we wish they'd nind Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,

their talk; And bawling “Pitfull!" gives the cheek he takes; Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live,Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram,

Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Contending crowders shout the frequent damn,

Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam. That for old clothes they 'd even axe St. Mary;

And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, See to their desks Apollo's sons repair, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair ! Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse In unison their various tones to tune,

With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon; In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestov, Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute,

For scowling Fortune seemed to threaten woe. Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling John Richard William Alexander Dwyer harp ;

Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in,

But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Attunes to order the chaotis din.

Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs's shoes. Now all seems hushed, — but, no, one fiddle will Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Give, half ashamed, a tiny flourish still.

Up as a corn-cutter, a safe employ ; Foiled in his crash, the leader of the clan

In Holy-well Street, St. Pancras, he was bred Reproves with frowns the dilatory man;

(At number twenty-seven, it is said), Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow,

Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head ; Nods a new signal, and away they go.

He would have bound him to some shop in town, Perchance, while pit and gallery cry“Hats off!" But with a premium he could not come down. And awed Consumption checks his chided cough, Fonder of purl and skittle grounds than truth.

Pat was the urchin's name, - a red-haired youth, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love Drops, reft of pin, her play-bill from above : Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clan,

Silence, ye gods ! to keep your tongues in awe,

The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.
Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap ;
But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat,
And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers ;

But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat : Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,

Down from the gallery the beaver flew, It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl ; Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes, How shall he act ? Pay at the gallery-door

And spurned the one to settle in the two. And, from mere malice, sticks it on the spikes. Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four?

Say, why these Babelstrains from Babeltongues? Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, Who's that calls “Silence !” with such leathern And gain his hat again at half past eight ? lungs ?

Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, He who, in quest of quiet, “Silence !” hoots,

John Mullenswhispers, "Take my handkerchier." Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

* Thank you," cries Pat; "but one won't make

a line." Whatvarious swainsourmotley walls contain!- “Take mine," cried Wilson ; and cried Stokes, Pushion from Moortiells, honor from Chick Lane; “Take mine."

A inotley 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, –
Upsoars the prize ! The youth with joy unfeigned
Regained the felt, and felt what he regained ;
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.



Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, Till in this rapid race

On which it is bent,

It reaches the place Of its steep descent.



“How does the water Come down at Lodore ?" My little boy asked me

Thus, once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme.

Anon at the word, There first came one daughter,

And then came another,

To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water

Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,

As many a time
They had seen it before.

So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store ;
And 't was in my vocation

For their recreation
That so I should sing ;
Because I was Laureate

To them and the King.

The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging

As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among ;

Rising and leaping,

Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,

Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,

Around and around
With endless rebound :

Smiting and fighting,

A sight to delight in;

Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell ;

From its fountains

In the mountains,

Its rills and its gills ; Through moss and through brake,

It runs and it creeps
For a while, till it sleeps

In its own little lake.
And thence at departing,

Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,

And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,

In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,

Among crags in its flurry,

Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning ;

And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering,


And whitening and brightening, Wildly he started, for there in the heavens be.
And quivering and shivering,

fore him
And hurrying and skurrying,

Fluttered and flew the original star-spangled And thundering and floundering ;

banner. ·

Two objections are in the way of the acceptance of this anthem Dividing and gliding and sliding,

by the committee: in the first place, it is not an anthem at all; sec.

ondly, it is a gross plagiarism from an old Sclavonic war-song of the And falling and brawling and sprawling,

primeval ages. And driving and riving and striving,

Next we quote from a
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,

And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,

PONDEROUS projectiles, hurled by heavy hands, And clattering and battering and shattering ;

Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head,

Ere she a stadium had well advanced
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Her temple's propylon was shatter-ed ;

On the great path that to her greatness led ; Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,

Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

Her incubus was from her bosom hurled ;

And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and

She took the oil with which her hair was curled beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gush. To grease the “hub” round which revolves the

world. ing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slap

This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem," and contains

too much of Boston to be considered strictly national. To set such ping,

an " anthem" to inusic would require a Wagner ; and even were it And curling and whirling and purling and really accommodated to a tune, it could only be whistled by the

populace. twirling,

We now come to a And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,

NATIONAL ANTHEM. And dashing and flashing and splashing and

BY JOHN GREENLEAF Wclashing ; And so never ending, but always descending,

My native land, thy Puritanic stock Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,

Still finds its roots firm bound in Plymouth Rock; All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,

And all thy sons unite in one grand wish,
And this way the water comes down at Lodore. To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.

Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true,
Told our New England what her sons should do ;

And, should they swerve from loyalty and right,

Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.

The sectional bias of this "anthem "renders it unsuitable for use RECEIVED IN RESPONSE TO AN ADVERTISED in that small margin of the world situated outside of New England.

Hence the above must be rejected.

Here we have a very curious






Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, A Diagnosis of our history proves was monarch

Our native land a land its native loves ; Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, Norsemen,

Its growth a source of wonder far and near. Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens,

To love it more, behold how foreign shores Ursa, the noblest of all Vikings and horsemen. Sink into nothingness beside its stores.

Hyde Park at best - though counted ultra grandNusing he sat in his stirrups and viewed the The “Boston Common" of Victoria's land – horizon,

The coinmittee must not be blamed for rejecting the above after Where the Aurora lapt stars in a north-polar reading thus far, for such an “anthem" could only be sung by a


college of Surgeons or a Beacon Street tea-party.

Tuyn we now to a

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