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Sidelong odours, that give life
Like glances from a neighbour's wife ;
And still live in the by-places
And the suburbs of thy graces,
And in thy borders take delight,
An unconquered Canaanite.

JAMES SMITH. [Born in 1775, son of the solicitor to the Board of Ordnance; died on 24th December 1839. Smith, who succeeded to his father's legal business, was a highly genial and estimable specimen of the man about town-witty, pleasant, and kind-hearted. He wrote very generally in conjunction with his younger brother Horace: thus was produced Horace in London, and afterwards (1812) the more famous Rejected Addresses, from which our extracts are taken. He was a great sufferer from gout in his later years. The reader should understand (if indeed any explanation is needed on the point) that, Drury Lane Theatre having been burned down, the Directors offered a premium for the best poetical address to be spoken at the opening of the re-edified structure : the Smiths seized hold of this idea, concocted addresses in the several styles, not a little burlesqued, of various leading writers of the day; and published the collection under the name of Rejected Addresses, to the huge amusement of the public).

THE BABY'S DEBUT.

BY W. WORDSWORTH. Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise, by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.

My brother Jack was nine in May,
And I was eight on new-year's-day;

So in Kate Wilson's shop
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,

And brother Jack a top.
Jack's in the pouts, and this it is,-
He thinks mine came to more than his ;

So to my drawer he goes,
Takes out the doll, and oh my stars !
He pokes her head between the bars,

And melts off half her nose !
Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
Ănd tie it to his peg-top's peg,

And bang, with might and main,
Its head against the parlour door :
Off Aies the head, and hits the floor,

And breaks a window pane.
This made him cry with rage and spite :
Well, let him cry, it serves him right.

A pretty thing, forsooth !
If he's to melt, all scalding hot,
Half my doll's nose, and I am not

To draw his peg-top's tooth !

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, “O naughty Nancy Lake,

Thus to distress your aunt : No Drury Lane for you to-day!” And while papa said, “ Pooh, she may !”

Mamma said, “No, she shan't !”
Well, after many a sad reproach,
They got into a hackney coach,

And trotted down the street.
I saw them go : one horse was blind,
The tails of both hung down behind,

Their shoes were on their feet.
The chaise in which poor brother Bill
Used to be drawn to Pentonville

Stood in the lumber-room :
I wiped the dust from off the top,
While Molly mopped it with a mop,

And brushed it with a broom.
My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,
Came in at six to black the shoes

(I always talk to Sam):
So what does he but takes and drags
Me in the chaise along the flags,

And leaves me where I am ?
My father's walls are made of brick,
But not so tall, and not so thick,

As these ; and, goodness me!
My father's beams are made of wood,
But never, never half so good

As these that now I see.
What a large floor ! 'tis like a town!
The carpet, when they lay it down,

Won't hide it, I'll be bound ;
And there's a row of lamps ! my eye!
How they do blaze ! I wonder why

They keep them on the ground.
At first I caught hold of the wing,
And kept away ; but Mr. Thing-

umbob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, “Go on, my pretty love,

Speak to 'em, little Nan. “You've only got to curtsey, whisper, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp,

And then you're sure to take :

I've known the day when brats not quite
Thirteen got fifty pounds a night;

Then why not Nancy Lake?”
But while I'm speaking, where's papa ?
And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?

Where's Jack? Oh there they sit !
They smile, they nod ; I'll

go my ways,
And order round poor Billy's chaise,

To join them in the pit.
And now, good gentlefolks, I go
To join mamma, and see the show;

So, bidding you adieu,
I curtsey, like a pretty miss,
And, if you'll blow to me a kiss,
I'll blow a kiss to you.

[Blows kiss, and exit.

THE THEATRE.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE.

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,
Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,
Touched by the lamplighter'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 widened 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 ;
But, when the multitude contracts the span,
And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

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 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 repair ;
Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair ;
In unison their various tones to tune
Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon ;

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,
Attứnes to order the chaotic din.
Now all seems hushed-but no, one fiddle will
Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still.
Foiled 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
Drops, 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 powdered 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 contain ! 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, Culls 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 two-pence more, Till some Samaritan the two-pence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs.

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice baulk, 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 Axe, for jobs so wary That for old clothes they'd even axe 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
Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire ;
But, when John Dwyer listed in the Blues,
Emanuel Jennings polished 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-haired youth,
Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

Silence, ye gods !—to keep your tongues 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, “ Take my handkerchief.” 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 hue, 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.

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