Fire and Ale.-By M. G. L.*

My palate is parch'd with Pierian thirst,
Away to Parnassus I'm beckon'd;

List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehears'd,
I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first,

And the birth of Miss Drury the second.

The Fire King, one day, rather amorous felt
He mounted his hot copper filly ;

t;

His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt
Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt
With the heat of the copper colt's belly.

Sure never was skin half so scalding as his!
When an infant 'twas equally horrid;
For the water when he was baptised gave a fizz,
And bubbled and simmer'd and started off, whizz!
As soon as it sprinkled his forehead.

Oh! then there was glitter and fire in each eye,
For two living coals were the symbols;

His teeth were calcin'd, and his tongue was so dry,
It rattled against them, as though you should try
To play the piano in thimbles.

From his nostrils a lava sulphureous flows,
Which scorches wherever it lingers;

A snivelling fellow he's called by his foes,
For he can't raise his paw to blow his red nose,

For fear it should blister his fingers.

"Rejected Addresses."-The Committee of Drury Lane Theatre having offered a prize for the best Address, to be read at the re-opening in 1812, the brothers James and Horace Smith conceived the idea of publishing a book of poems purporting to be some of the "Rejected Addresses," but which were in reality imitations, caricatures, and parodies of the works of some of the bestknown living authors. This they did admirably, and gave to the world the best collection of satirical imitations and parodies ever produced. Sir Walter Scott, after reading that ascribed to him, said "I certainly must have written this myself, although I forget on what occasion." In a note to his Essays, Lord Jeffrey says:-"I take the Rejected Addresses' to be the very best imitations (and often of difficult originals) that ever were made." In "Fire and Ale" we have a fine imitation of the spirited. rollicking style of M. G. Lewis, better known as Monk Lewis. Speaking of it, the Edinburgh Review says:"Fire and Ale,' by M. G. Lewis, exhibits not only a faithful copy of the spirited, loose, and flowing versification of that singular author, but a very just representation of that mixture of extravagance and jocularity which has impressed most of his writings with the character of a sort of farcical horror." The selection on page 392 is, it is almost needless to say, an admirable parody of Sir Walter Scott's style. In "Living Lustres," page 395, Moore is equally well caricatured,

His wig is of flames curling over his head,

Well powder'd with white smoking ashes;
He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead,
Cream of tartar, and dines on hot spiced gingerbread,
Which black from the oven he gnashes.

Each fire-nymph his kiss from her countenance shields,
'Twould soon set her cheekbone a frying;
He spit in the Tenter-Ground near Spitalfields,
And the hole that it burnt, and the chalk that it yields,
Make a capital lime-kiln for drying.

When he opened his mouth, out there issued a blast, (Nota bene, I do not mean swearing,)

But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast,
I've heard it from those who have seen it, surpass'd
A shot manufactory flaring.

He blazed, and he blazed, as he gallop'd to snatch
His bride, little dreaming of danger;

His whip was a torch, and his spur was a match,
And over the horse's left eye was a patch,

To keep it from burning the manger.

And who is the housemaid he means to enthral
In his cinder-producing alliance?

'Tis Drury Lane Playhouse, so wide and so tall,
Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall,

If she cannot set sparks at defiance.

On his warming-pan kneepan he clattering roll'd,

And the housemaid his hand would have taken,
But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold,
And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold
All melted, like butter or bacon!

Oh! then she look'd sour, and indeed well she might,
For Vinegar Yard was before her;

But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight,
Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas light,

To the skies in a skyrocket bore her.

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 larch;
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;

He taps where the housemaid no more is,
When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung
A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young,
And sported in loco sororis.

Back, lurid in air, for a second regale,
The Cinder King, hot with desire,

To Brydges Street hied; but the Monarch of Ale,
With uplifted spigot and faucet, and pail,
Thus chided the Monarch of Fire:

"Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew;
I rule the roast here, dash the wig o' me!
If, in spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you
Come here with your tinderbox, courting the New,
I'll have you indicted for bigamy!"

Rejected Addresses.

An Electric Trip to London.

Ir has been told of the inhabitants of a certain village in a remote district of the Western Highlands, that they were either so tenacious in the preservation of old customs, or so ignorant of current affairs, that they continued to pray for the health and prosperity of George IV. long after they were blessed with the incomparably better and more exemplary reign of good Queen Victoria. Our village, however, was hardly just so far behind the age, though it could not by any means be cited as a particular example of intelligence, as I shall proceed to show.

Chirsty and John Macpherson were a couple of the queerest bodies in the village. John was a quiet, harmless, retiring sort of a creature; but his wife, a boisterous, billowy, flippant sort of an individual, was continually bringing him into all kinds of ludicrous plights, and, of course, they soon became a popular pair. About Chirsty, especially, there was a curious natural fondness to be big-big in her own estimation and in every other body's-and few there were in the village, with any patience at all, who were not well drilled into her genealogy from the Covenanters downwards. One morning Chirsty came into Laird Logan's shop, and introduced herself something

after the following fashion :-"It's a douce morning, Laird," said Chirsty, with an aristocratic shake of the head. "Ou ay, there's naething wrang wi' the morning; what's newest wi' ye?" "Newest! preserve us! did ye no hear?" "No hear what?" said the Laird, indifferently. "That me and John hae gotten a fortune left us," answered Chirsty, tossing her head curiously about, while the Laird wondered. "What! a fortune, Chirsty?" “Ay, Laird, a fortune, and its nae mere matter o' shillin's and pence, like some o' yer legacies." "Ay, woman, and ye've had rich freens after a'." The Laird had long since ceased to believe in Chirsty's rich connections, and looked on her boasting as something of a natural weakness.

"Losh keep the man! it's easy seen we're nae ordinar' folk; our very appearance micht convince ye that we've come frae gran' posterity." "But wha's dead, Chirsty?" "Oh! the best o' them, Laird; a man I aye respecket for his honesty, uprightness, and his big fortune; but he's awa' noo, puir fellow, and we'll no forget him in a hurry.” "But what freen' was he?" "Weel, Laird, I hardly just mind the straucht line o' connection. I think he was -ay, wait, let me see- -I think he was second cousin tae my brither-in-law's wife, or someway thereaboot. At ony

6

But

rate, my mither, honest, and discreet, and dutiful woman, used to wash and do bits o' odd turns aboot the house, when they lived in these parts, and I have nae doot that served to strengthen the freen'ship considerable. come as it might, Laird, we are weel dune for now, though me and John hae just come to the determination that we'll no be prood, we'll show the warld that pride and siller are twa different things; and as we were sittin' crackin' by the fire-en' last nicht after we got the news, we just said to each ither, says I, 'John,' Say on, Chirsty,' quo' he. 'Ye're a discreet woman; ye're the guidin' star o' my existence; ye're the best wife e'er I saw.' Weel, Laird, ye ken whatever I say is law, and I says, says I, 'John, we're nane o' your plain common folk noo; we've got riches, John, and it's hard, hard to keep oorsel's frae the vanities and big thochts that come wi' siller, but we'll just throw a' these aside, and we'll speak tae a' the neebors as we did afore; and I says, says I, there's Laird Logan, the decentest and ceevilist man in the village, he has been oor freen' in

mony a hardship, and, says I, we'll go oot and in, buy our things there as we did afore, and we'll just be couthie wi' folk that's couthie wi' us.' I reckon the minister's leddy will be braw and angry at hersel' for flytin' on me and John for sleepin' owre lang last Sunday, but we'll just speak as free tae her as if naething had happened, and let her ain conscience kittle her for speakin' sae croose. It's an unco thing tae be rich, Laird," said Chirsty, giving her head another aristocratic fling. "It tries a body sairly, but we'll aye be the same."

66

Weel, Chirsty, ye're an exemplary woman," said the Laird, somewhat impressed with the fortune. "It'll be a

66

big sum, nae doot.” Ay, ye may weel say't, Laird. My freen's are nane o' your mean, shabby kind o' folk; they never dae things in hauf; when a thing's din ava, it's aye din respecktively."

"Let me

"Hoo-hoo-I was gaun to say, Chirsty, hoo muckle micht it be?" ventured the Laird, diffidently. see-ay, weel, yes, it's just exackwilly the roun' sum o' twenty pound starlin'; but don't let that annoy ye, Laird, we'll aye be the same John and Chirsty tae you.” “Ou, deed, ay; I have nae doot o't," said the Laird, somewhat relieved by the disclosure. However, he desired to probe a little deeper. "But hae ye gotten the siller?" "Weel, no; I'm gaun forrit tae Lunnon tae lift it. Ye ken I manage a' thae things, Laird; John, puir man, wad rather gang tae Gibraltar than look a gentleman straucht i' the face-he's a slack fellow. When I merrit him, the neebours says, 'John, ye're well dune for!' Sae he was, puir man, and I hae nae doot he feels that the day, though he never speaks." "But ye're goin' tae Lunnon, ye say?" "Exackwilly." "Will ye travel it?" asked the Laird, vaguely. Laird Logan was a man who was not at all skilled in subjects of modern interest. He had never been ten miles from his native village, and he knew about as much of the world in general as he knew of its topography. "Certes! hear the man. Travel it! Fegs no, I'm gaun up by electric telegraph." "Chirsty!" cried the Laird, throwing open his eyes to such an extent as to put his other features out of harmony. "By electric telegraph, woman?" 66 Exackwilly, Laird; that's just it." "Chirsty, Chirsty, are ye no fear'd o' bein' killed?"

"Hardly,