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The side of our country must ollers be took,
try ; An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per con
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.
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
tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em
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
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,
In bedgown woke her dames ;
“The playhouse is in flames !” And, lo ! where Catherine Street extends, A fiery tail its lustre lends
To every window-pane ;
A bright ensanguined drain ;
Where Patent Shot they sell ;
And Richardson's Hotel.
A TALE OF DRURY LANE.
IMITATION OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
"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,
Did Drury Lane befall.
Back, Robins, back ! Crump, stand aloof!
And Eagle firemen knew
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
As from a lofty altar rise,
Some vast, stupendous sacrifice !
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.
Along the pavement paced.
The others came in view :
The Eagle, where the new;
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.
Of Bridewell's gloomy mound !
Nor notice give at all.
For fear the roof should fall
Did none attempt, before he fell,
His brother chief to save ;
Served but to share his grave ! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
Where Muggins broke before.
He sunk to rise no more.
HORACE SMITH. From the
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.
Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat,
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,
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.
THE CATARACT OF LODORE.
DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY.
“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
Comes down at Lodore,
As many a time
So I told them in rhyme,
For their recreation
To them and the King.
The cataract strong
As if a war waging
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Flying and flinging,
Around and around
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.
From its sources which well
From its fountains
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills ; Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps
In its own little lake.
Awakening and starting,
And away it proceeds,
In sun and in shade,
Among crags in its flurry,
And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering,
BY THE HON. EDWARD E-, OF BOSTON.
And whitening and brightening, Wildly he started, for there in the heavens be.
Fluttered and flew the original star-spangled And thundering and floundering ;
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
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
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
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,
Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true,
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
BY H. W. L, OF CAMBRIDGE.
BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H
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