Back, Robins, back ! Crump, stand aloof!
Whitford, keep near the walls !
Huggins, regard your own behoof,
For, lo! the blazing rocking roof
Down, down, in thunder falls !
An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o'er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,
Concealed them from the astonished crowd.
At length the mist awhile was cleared,
When, lo ! amid the wreck upreared,
Gradual a moving head appeared,

And Eagle firemen knew
’T was Joseph Muggins, name revered,

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 !

Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succor one they loved so well ?
Yes, Higgin bottom 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, Through 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 feared on ? fools ! 'od rot 'em !”
Were the last words of Higginbottom.


Rejected Addresses,




And one,

To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury's mound,

As from a lofty altar rise,
It seemed that nations did conspire
To offer to the god of fire

Some vast, stupendous sacrifice !
The summoned firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all :
Starting from short and broken snooze,
Each sought his ponderous hobnailed shoes,
But first his worsted hosen plied ;
Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,

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.
The engines thundered through the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared, and clattering feet
Along the pavement paced.

the leader of the band,
From Charing Cross along the Strand,
Like stag by beagles hunted hard,
Ran till he stopped at Vin'gar Yard.
The burning badge his shoulder bore,
The belt and oil-skin hat he wore,
The cane he had, his men to bang,
Showed foreman of the British gang,
His name was Higginbottom. Now
'T is meet that I should tell you how

The others came in view :
The Hand-in-Hand the race began,
Then came the Phoenix and the Sun,
The Exchange, where old insurers run,

The Eagle, where the new ;
With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole,
Robins from Hockley in the Hole,
Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl,

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.
Hobson and Jobson did not sleep,
But ah! no trophy could they reap,
For both were in the Donjon Keep

Of Bridewell's gloomy mound !
E’en Higginbottom now was posed,
For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed ;
Without, within, in hideous show,
Devouring flames resistless glow,
And blazing rafters downward go,
And never halloo “Heads below!'

Nor notice give at all.
The firemen terrified are slow
To bid the pumping torrent flow,

For fear the roof should fall,


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, 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,

And gape

and gaze

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 Phæbus 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 fill our widened pit, The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark,
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 five, — they want but twopence
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 mind Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,

their talk ; And bawling “Pitfull!” gives the check 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 bestow, 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,

But with a premium he could not come down. Perchance, while pit and gallery cry"Hats off!”. And awed Consumption checks his chided congh, Tonder 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 clap,

Silence, ye gods ! to keep your tongues in awe,

The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.
Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap ;
But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat,
And, as it flies, cludes the chandeliers;

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 fidler'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 Babel strains from Babel tongues? 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 qnest of quiet, “Silence !" hoots,

John Mullens whispers, "Take my handkerchier." Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

“ Thank you," cries Pat; “but one won't make

a line." What various swainsour motley walls contain!-"Take mine," cried Wilson ; and cried Stokes, Fashion from Moortields, honor from Chick Lane; • Take mine."

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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 strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging

As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among ;

Rising and leaping,

Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,

Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,

Around and around
With endless rebound :

Smiting and fighting,

A sight to delight in ;

Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

A inotley 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, -
Upsoars the prize! The youth with joy unfeigned
Regained the felt, and felt what he regained ;
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.




* 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
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water

Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,

As many a time
They had seen it before.

So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store ;
And 't was in my vocation

For their recreation
That so I should sing ;
Because I was Laureate

To them and the King.

From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell ;

From its fountains

In the mountains,

Its rills and its gills;
Through moss and through brake,

It runs and it creeps
For a while, till it sleeps

In its own little lake.
And thence at departing,

Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,

And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,

In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,

Among crags in its flurry,

Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning ;

And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering,


And whitening and brightening, Wildly he started, - for there in the heavens be.
And quivering and shivering,

fore him
And hurrying and skurrying,

Fluttered and flew the original star-spangled And thundering and floundering ;


Two objections are in the way of the acceptance of this ar hem 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, priineval ages. And driving and riving and striving,

Next we quote from a
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,

And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,

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
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Her temple's propylon was shatter-ed ;

On the great path that to her greatness led ; Advancing and prancing and glancing and dan

Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington, cing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

Her incubus was from her bosom hurled ; And gleaming and streaming and steaming and

And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,

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. Tu 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

twirling, 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,
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.

Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true,
Tol our New England what sons should do ;

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 RESPONSE TO AN ADVERTISED in that small margin of the world situated outside of New England.


We now come to a


Hence the above must be rejected.

Here we have a very curious



BY H. W.



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 grandMusing he sat in his stirrups and viewed the; The “ Boston Common" of Victoria's land

horizon, Where the Aurora lapt stars in a north-polar reading thus far, for such an “ anthem " could only be sung by a


The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the above after

college of Surgeons or a Beacon Street tea-party.

Turn we now to a

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The sun sinks softly to his evening post,

The sun swells grandly to his morning crown; Yet not a star our flag of heaven has lost,

And not a sunset stripe with him goes down. So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those

New thrones may rise, to totter like the last ; But still our country's nobler planet glows,

While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast. Upon finding that this does not go well to the air of " Yankee Doodle," the committee feel justified in declining it; being further. more prejudiced against it by a suspicion that the poet has crowded an advertisement of a paper which he edits into the first line.

Next we quote from a

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,

The cricket quaintly sings ;
The emerald pigeon nods his head,

And the shad in the river springs ;
The dainty sunflower hangs its head

On the shore of the summer sea ; And better far that I were dead,

If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,

And the cricket that quaintly sings ; And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,

And the shad that gayly springs.
I love the dainty sunflower, too,

And Maud with her snowy breast;
I love them all ; but I love - I love -

I love my country best.



In the days that tried our fathers,

Many years ago, Our fair land achieved her freedom,

Blood-bought, you know. Shall we not defend her ever,

As we'd defend That fair maiden, kind and tender,

Calling us friend ?

This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like Tea. nyson. Though it may be rejected by the committee, it can never lose its value as a piece of excellent reading for children. It is calculated to fill the youthful mind with patriotism and natural his. tory, beside touching the youthful heart with an emotion palpitating for all.

We close the list with the following:



Behold the flag! Is it not a flag?

Deny it, man, if you dare ! And midway spread 'twixt earth and sky

It hangs like a written prayer.

Yes! Let all the echoes answer,

From hill and vale ;
Yes! Let other nations hearing,

Joy in the tale.
Our Columbia is a lady,

High-born and fair ;
We have sworn allegiance to her, —

Touch her who dare. The tone of this " anthem" not being devotional enough to suit the committee, it should be printed on an edition of linen-cambric handkerchiefs for ladies especially.

Observe this

Would impious hand of foe disturb

Its memories' holy spell,
And blight it with a dew of blood ?
Ha, tr-r-aitor! .... It is well.


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