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While some believed it never would be finished,
I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane
White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet-street, The Albion (as its name denotes) is white; Morgan and Saunders’ shop for chairs and tables Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun; White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet-street, The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders, Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury's face.
Oh, Mr. Whitbread! fie upon you, sir ! I think you
should have built a colonnade;
Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions,
Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist
Naught born on earth should die. On hackney stands
THE TI E ATER.
LA BURLESQUE IMITATION OF CRABBE.--REJECTED ADDRESSES.]
Interior of a Theater 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,
*"Padmanaba," viz., in a pantomime called Harlequin in Padmanaba. This elephant, some years afterward, was exhibited over Exeter 'Change, where it was found necessary to destroy the poor animal hy discharges of musketry. When he made his entrance in the pantomime above-mentioned, Johnson, the machinist of the rival house, exclaimed, "I should be very sorry if I could not make a better elephant than that!"
† “ The Theater,' by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think, is the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author.
It does not aim, of course, at any shadow of liis pathos or moral sublimity, but seems to us to be a singularly faithful copy of his pas sages of mere description."-Edinburg Rerier.
To see red Phæbus through the gallery-pane
At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease,
Now the full benches to late comers doom No room for standing, miscalled standing-room.
Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks, And bawling " Pit full !" gives the checks he takes; Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram, Contending crowders shout the frequent damn, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jahbering, 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 coarse bassoon; In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling hari"; Till, like great Jove, the leader, fingering in, Attunes to order the chaotic din. Now all seems hushed—but, no, one fiddle will Give half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still. Foiled in his clash, 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 Drops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from above:
Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,
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 contain! Fashion from Moorfields, honor 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; Till some Samaritan the two-pence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.
Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, But talk their minds—we wish they'd mind their talk : Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live-Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Jews from St. Mary's Ax, for jobs so wary, That for old clothes they'd even ax St. Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.
Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Where scowling fortune seemed to threaten woe.
John Richard William Alexander Dwyer
Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongue in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.
Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat: Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurned the one to settle in the two. How shall he act ? Pay at the gallery-door Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four ? Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, And gain his hat again at half-past eight? Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullins whispers, “ Talee my handkerchief.” “Thank you,” cries Pat; “but one won't make a line.” “Take mine," cries Wilson; and cries Stokes, " Take mine." A motley 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-Up soars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeigned, Regained the felt, and felt the prize regained; While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.