vouch for it, that Macbeth and Lady Macbeth are no longer to have "more gold and silver plastered over their doublets than would have kept an honest family in butcher's meat and flannel from year's end to year's end;" but that Lady M. is to appear "in a plain quilted petticoat," and Macbeth "in a pair of black calamanco breeches. Not Salamanca; no, nor Talavera neither, my most noble Marquis; but plain, honest, black calamanco, stuff breeches."

In "The Living Lustres," by Thomas (Anacreon) Moore, the poet recommends a row of female beauties instead of lamps to light the theatre. This is perhaps not so perfectly good an imitation as most of the others, but the following stanza will be recognised and applauded by the author's warmest admirers:

"And dear is the Emerald Isle of the Ocean,

Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave;
Whose sons, unaccustomed to rebel commotion,

Tho' joyous, are sober, tho' peaceful, are brave !"

"The Rebuilding," by Robert Southey, must (we think) greatly please that original poet. It may be considered as a new edition of the Curse of Kehama, abridged, with very slight variations:

By Indra fann'd, the god of fire ascends the walls

of Drury;

The tops of houses, blue with lead,
Bend beneath the landlord's tread;
Master and 'prentice, serving man and lord,
Nailor and tailor,

Grazier and brazier,

Thro' streets and alleys poured,
All, all abroad to gaze,

And wonder at the blaze.
Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee,
Mounted on roof and chimney,
The mighty roast, the mighty stew
To see;

As if the dismal view

Were but to them a Brentford jubilee.”

Again,

"Now come the men of fire to quench the fires,
To Russel-street, see Globe and Atlas flock,
Hope gallops first and second Rock;
On flying heel,

See Hand in Hand

O'ertake the band,

View with what glowing wheel

He nicks
Phoenix;

While Albion scampers from Bridge-street, Blackfriars,
Drury Lane! Drury Lane!
Drury Lane! Drury Lane!

They shout and they hollow again and again.
All, all in vain!

Water turns steam;

Each blazing beam

Hisses defiance to the eddying spout;
It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out;
Drury Lane! Drury Lane!

See Drury Lane expires!"

Apollo, or Surya, entitled "the beaming one," and Harlequin, addressed as follows,

"Oh brown of slipper, as of hat!"

must surely have been suggested by the author of the "Curse," the friend of George Withers, himself.

Drury's Dirge," by Laura Matilda, is well executed, but out of time and place. This is stepping aside for the worthy purpose of " thrice slaying the slain." The existence of the Della Cruscans is only to be remembered in their epitaph. As Curl and his crew would have gone out like a stinking candle, unless they had been preserved in all their bad odour by the Dunciad, so would the nameless sentimentalists in question have expired, had they not been consecrated to eternal ridicule in the Baviad and Mæviad: but one such shrine is enough for worthlessness.

"The Tale of Drury Lane," by Walter Scott, Esq. is not uniformly successful: but a part of it is Marmion himself. For instance, the topography of London, and the names, and dresses, and engines of the firemen, are as minute and as full of repetition (that soul of ballad-writing) as propriety required but the pervading force and rapidity of Scott's genius are wanting in the poetry. Must we say,

"Within that circle none dares tread but he?"

Assuredly, they are only the obvious faults of this writer which

are here burlesqued:-but who is Aristarchus enough to frown at the following attempt of "Higginbottom" to rescue "Muggins?"

"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,
Thro' 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 fear'd on, fools, 'od rot 'em,'
Were the last words of Higginbottom."

"A Prologue by Johnson's Ghost," which is the next in succession, contains some passages in which the abstract terms and the sesquipedalia verba of the great moralist are justly though ludicrously represented: but, on the whole, the copy is overcharged, and it is entirely out of date.

"The Beautiful Incendiary, by the Hon. W. S." meaning Mr. Spencer,* is, in parts, very fortunate; the opening in particular:

"Sobriety cease to be sober,

Cease, Labour, to dig and to delve;

All hail to this tenth of October,

One thousand eight hundred and twelve."

"Fire and Ale," by M. G. Lewis, Esq. revives the half forgotten extravagancies of "The Tales of Wonder," and displays as much fancy as the wildest attempts of the original:

“Look! look! 'tis the ale king! so stately and starch,
Whose votaries scorn to be sober;

He pops from his vat, like a cedar or torch;
Brown stout is his doublet, he hops in his march,
And froths at the mouth in October.

"His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung," &c. &c.

This imitation has been supposed to be intended for Mr. Skeffington instead

of Mr. Spencer: but in both cases the title honourable is incorrect.

The allusion to the restorer of Old Drury in this passage is good-humoured and unobjectionable.

"Play House Musings," by S. T. Coleridge, is one of the best burlesques that we ever had the pleasure of reading. The mournful yet familiar sentimentality of these "Musings" opens an exquisite vein of humour:

"My pensive public, wherefore look you sad?
I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey
To carry to the mart her crockery ware,
And when that donkey look'd me in the face,
His face was sad! and you are sad, my public!

"Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October
Again assembles us in Drury Lane.

Long wept my eye to see the timber planks
That hid our ruins; many a day I cried
Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it!
Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve,
As along Charles-street I prepared to walk,
Just at the corner, by the pastry cook's,
I heard a trowel tick against a brick.
I look'd me up, and straight a parapet
Uprose, at least seven inches o'er the planks.
Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said,

He of Blackfriars Road who hymn'd thy downfal

In loud hosannahs, and who prophecied

That flames like those from prostrate Solyma

Would scorch the hand that ventur'd to rebuild thee,
Has proved a lying prophet."-

"Oh! 'twas a goodly sound to hear the people
Who watched the work, express their various thoughts!
While some believed it never would be finished,
Some on the contrary believed it would.

"I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane,
Much criticised; they say 'tis vulgar brick work,
A mimic manufactory of floor cloth.

One of the morning papers wished that front
Cemented, like the front in Brydges-street!
As it now looks, they call it Wyatt's Mermaid,
A handsome woman with a fish's tail."

The conclusion is indeed "to the life:"

"Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions,
It grieves me much to see live animals

Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit,
Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig;
Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist
Of former Drury, imitated life

<

Quite to the life. The elephant in Blue Beard,

Stuffed by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis
As spruce as he who roared in Padmanaba.

"Naught born on earth should die. On hackney stands

I reverence the coachman who cries Gee,'

And spares the lash. When I behold a spider

Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm,

Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife,

Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton,
Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick!

[Exit hastily.]"

"Drury Lane Hustings," by " A Pic Nic Poet," is a song of very little merit; and who is the author intended we are ignorant.

"Architectural Atoms," by Dr. Busby, contain an imitation of an inedited work; and, not having attended the Doctor's recitations, we have no means of appreciating the similarity: but we perceive a strong likeness of Dr. Darwin in several passages, whether that resemblance be intentional or accidental. Perhaps, indeed, the imitation may kill two birds with one stone; and that this must often be the case, a very superficial acquaintance with modern poetry will sufficiently evince. Who can precisely distinguish between some compositions of Anacreon Moore, Lord Strangford, and Mr. Spencer? Who exactly knows where Wordsworth's childishness ends, and Southey's puerility begins? Who can indisputably mark the line of circumvallation, which shuts out Scott in his feebler moments from Constance of Castile,* from the Minstrels of Acre,t from Roncevalles, + from Wallace, § from Christina? || tr facies non omnibus una

"Nec diversa tamen, qualis decet esse sororum."

"The Theatrical Alarm Bell," by the editor of the Morning Post, exhibits some good burlesque on outrageous loyalty; and on that irrational idea which seems to engross the minds of so many party-men, that those who oppose them must necessarily be wicked as well as foolish.

"An Address without a Phoenix, by S. T. P." compared with what is said [about the introduction of a Phoenix into such compositions] in the preface, seems to have been written by the author, or some of his friends. It is evidently serious, and perhaps as evidently shows the truth of the old saying, non omnia possumus omnes." The humour of S. T. P., we are greatly inclined to think, exceeds his gravity. However By F. T. Balfour.

66

❤ By Sotheby.

S By Miss Holford.

VOL. I. New Series.

† Anonymous.
By Miss Mitford.

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