Thus with the flames that from old Drury rise
Its elements primeval sought the skies;
There pendulous to wait the happy hour
When new attractions should restore their power;
So, in this procreant theatre elate,
Echoes unborn their future life await;
Here embryo sounds in ether lie conceal'd,
Like words in northern atmosphere congeal'd.
Here many a foetus laugh and half encore
Clings to the roof, or creeps along the floor;
By puffs concipient some in ether flit,
And soar in bravos from the thundering pit;
Some forth on ticket-nights from tradesmen
break,

To mar the actor they design to make;
While some this mortal life abortive miss,
Crush'd by a groan, or strangled by a hiss.

So, when Dog's-meat" re-echoes through the

streets,

Rush sympathetic dogs from their retreats, Beam with bright blaze their supplicating eyes, Sink their hind-legs, ascend their joyful cries; Each, wild with hope, and maddening to prevail, Points the pleased ear, and wags the expectant tail.

Ye fallen bricks! in Drury's fire calcined, Since doom'd to slumber, couch'd upon the wind, Sweet was the hour, when, tempted by your freaks, Congenial trowels smooth'd your yellow cheeks. Float dulcet serenades upon the ear, Bends every atom from its ruddy sphere, Twinkles each eye, and, peeping from its veil, Marks in the adverse crowd its destined male, The oblong beauties clap their hands of grit, And brick-dust titterings on the breezes fit; Then down they rush in amatory race, Their dusty bridegrooms eager to embrace. Some choose old lovers, some decide for new, But each, when fix'd, is to her station true. Thus various bricks are made, as tastes inviteThe red, the gray, the dingy, or the white. Perhaps some half-baked rover, frank and free, To alien beauty bends the lawless knee, But of unhallow'd fascinations sick, Soon quits his Cyprian for his married brick; The Dido atom calls and scolds in vain, No crisp Eneas soothes the widow's pain.

As atoms in one mass united mix,
So bricks attraction feel for kindred bricks;
Some in the cellar view, perchance, on high,
Fair chimney chums on beds of mortar lie;
Enamour'd of the sympathetic clod,

Leaps the red bridegroom to the labourer's hod:
And up the ladder bears the workman, taught
To think he bears the bricks-mistaken thought!
A proof behold if near the top they find
The nymphs or broken-corner'd or unkind,
Back to the base, "resulting with a bound,"
They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground!

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

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 upon the point of being sent off, that there is but one hautboy in the band, I averted the storm of popular and managerial 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 from the fate I have recorded, I shall not deem my labor 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 satirical 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.

THE THEATRE.

G. C.

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 Play-bill.-Its final settlement on

the Spikes.-The Gods 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 lamp-lighter'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;

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 the frequent damn, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam.

See to their desks Apollo's sons repairSwift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair! In unison their various tones to tune, Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bas

soon;

In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Tang goes the harpischord, too-too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,

Winds the French-horn, and twangs 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
Dropt, reft of pin, her play-bill from above:
Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,
Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;
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 con

tain!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;

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

"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-
Upsoars the prize! The youth, with joy un-
feign'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.

Gentlemen,

HAPPENING to be wool-gathering at the foot of Mount Parnassus, 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 every body 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.

CASE NO. I.

MOMUS MEDLAR.

MACBETH.

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

Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell
(She knows that my purpose is cruel),
I'd thank her to tingle my 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 can not 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 brainThose 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. Ah, no! 't was a dagger of straw

Give me blinkers, to save me from starting; The knife that I thought that I saw

Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin.

Now o'er this terrestrial hive

A life paralytic is spread; For while the one half is alive,

The other is sleepy and dead. King Duncan, in grand majesty,

Has got my state-bed for a snooze; I've lent him my slippers, so I

May certainly stand in his shoes.

Blow softly, ye murmuring gales!

Ye feet, rouse no echo in walking! For though a dead man tells no tales,

Dead walls are much given to talking. This knife shall be in at the death

I'll stick him, then off safely get! Cries the world, this could not be Macbeth, For he'd ne'er stick at any thing yet.

Hark, hark! 't is the signal, by goles !
It sounds like a funeral knell;

O, hear it not, Duncan! it tolls

To call thee to heaven or hell.
Or if you to heaven won't fly,
But rather prefer Pluto's ether,

Only wait a few years till I die,
And we'll go to the devil together.
Ri fol de rol, &c.

CASE NO. II.

THE STRANGER.

WHO has e'er been at Drury must needs know the Stranger,

A wailing old Methodist, gloomy and wan,
A husband suspicious-his wife acted Ranger,
She took to her heels, and left poor Hypocon.
Her martial gallant swore that truth was a libel,
That marriage was thraldom, elopement no sin;
Quoth she, I remember the words of my Bible-
My spouse is a Stranger, and I'll take him in.
With my sentimentalibus lachrymæ roar'em,
And pathos and bathos delightful to see;
And chop and change ribs, à-la-mode Ger-
manorum,

And high diddle ho diddle, pop tweedle dee.

To keep up her dignity no longer rich enough, Where was her plate ?-why, 't was laid on the shelf;

Her land fuller's earth, and her great riches kitchen-stuff

Dressing the dinner instead of herself.
No longer permitted in diamonds to sparkle,
Now plain Mrs. Haller, of servants the dread,
With a heart full of grief, and a pan full of
charcoal,

She lighted the company up to their bed.

Incensed at her flight, her poor Hubby in dud

geon

Roam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout,

Cried Milwood, whose cruel heart's core
Was so flinty that nothing could shock it,
If ye mean to come here any more,
Pray come with more cash in your pocket:
Make Nunky surrender his dibs,

Rub his pate with a pair of lead towels,
Or stick a knife into his ribs-

I'll warrant he'll then shew some bowels.
Rum ti, &c.

A pistol he got from his love-
'Twas loaded with powder and bullet;
He trudged off to Camberwell Grove,
But wanted the courage to pull it.

There's Nunky as fat a hog,
While I am as lean as a lizard;

Here's at you, you stingy old dog!-
And he whips a long knife in his gizzard.
Rum ti, &c.

Dance, Regan! dance, with Cordelia and Goneril

Down the middle, up again, pousette, and cross; Stop, Cordelia, do not tread upon her heel, Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse.

See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub,

And t'other's clack, who pats her back, is louder far than hell's hubbub.

*THEODORE HOOK.

Then Director of the Opera House.

At the time the chief dancer at this establishment.