[Brother of the preceding; born towards 1779, died on 12th July 1849. Was a stockbroker by profession, and a man of a fine loveable nature, truly generous. Shelley has sketched him:
Virtue and human knowledge, all that might
Make this dull world a business of delight,
Are all combined in Horace Smith.'
He wrote Brambletye House, and some other novels].
LOYAL EFFUSION.1
BY W. T. FITZGERALD,
HAIL, glorious edifice, stupendous work!
God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!
Ye Muses! by whose aid I cried down Fox,
Grant me in Drury-Lane a private box,
Where I may loll, cry Bravo, and profess
The boundless powers of England's glorious press;
While Afric's sons exclaim, from shore to shore,
Quashee ma boo! the slave-trade is no more!"
In fair Arabia (happy once, now stony,
Since ruined by that arch apostate, Boney)
A phoenix late was caught the Arab host
Long pondered, part would boil it, part would roast :
But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies;
Fledged, beaked, and clawed, alive, they see him rise
To heaven, and caw defiance in the skies.
So Drury, first in roasting flames consumed,
Then by old renters to hot water doomed,
By Wyatt's trowel patted, plump and sleek,
Soars without wings, and caws without a beak.
Gallia's stern despot shall in vain advance
From Paris, the metropolis of France;
By this day month the monster shall not gain
A foot of land in Portugal or Spain.
See Wellington in Salamanca's field
Forces his favourite general to yield,
Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted Marmont
Expiring on the plain without his arm on:
Madrid he enters at the cannon's mouth,
And then the villages still further south.
Base Buonaparte, filled with deadly ire,
Sets, one by one, our playhouses on fire.
Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on
The Opera House, then burnt down the Pantheon;
Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames
1 This poem, and the three next ensuing, are from the Rejected Addresses: not so The Jester Condemned to Death.
Next at Millbank he crossed the river Thames :
Thy hatch, O Halfpenny! passed in a trice,
Boiled some black pitch, and burnt down Astley's twice;
Then buzzing on through æther with a vile hum,
Turned to the left hand, fronting the Asylum,
And burnt the Royal Circus in a hurry,-
('Twas called the Circus then, but now the Surry.)
Who burnt (confound his soul !) the houses twain
Of Covent Garden and of Drury-Lane?
Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork,
(God bless the Regent and the Duke of York)
With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas,
And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos ?
Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise?
Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies?
Who thought in flames St. James's court to pinch?
Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch?
Why he who, forging for this isle a yoke,
Reminds me of a line I lately spoke,
"The tree of freedom is the British oak."
Bless every man possessed of aught to give ;
Long may Long Tilney Wellesley Long Pole live;
God bless the army, bless their coats of scarlet,
God bless the navy, bless the Princess Charlotte,
God bless the guards, though worsted Gallia scoff,
And bless their pig-tails, though they're now cut off;
And oh, in Downing-Street should old Nick revel,
England's prime minister, then bless the Devil!!
A TALE OF DRURY LANE.
BY WALTER SCOTT.
To be spoken by Mr. Kemble in a suit of the Black Prince's Armour, borrowed from the Tower.
SURVEY this shield all bossy bright;
These cuisses twain behold;
Look on my form in armour dight
Of steel inlaid with gold.
My knees are stiff in iron buckles,
Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.
These once belonged to Sable Prince,
Who never did in battle wince;
With valour tart as pungent quince,
He slew the vaunting Gaul.
Rest there awhile, my bearded lance,
While from green curtain I advance
To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,
And tell the town what sad mischance
Did Drury Lane befall.
On fair Augusta's towers and trees
Flitted the silent midnight breeze,
Curling the foliage as it passed,
Which from the moon-tipped plumage cast
A spangled light like dancing spray,
Then reassumed its still array:
When, as night's lamp unclouded hung,
And down its full effulgence flung,
It shed such soft and balmy power
That cot and castle, hall and bower,
And spire and dome and turret-height,
Appeared to slumber in the light.
From Henry's chapel, Rufus' hall,
To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul,
From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,
To Redriff, Shadwell, Horselydown,
No voice was heard, no eye unclosed,
But all in deepest sleep reposed.
They might have thought who gazed around, Amid a silence so profound
It made the senses thrill,
That 'twas no place inhabited,
But some vast city of the dead,
All was so hushed and still.
As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise
When light first flashed upon her eyes;
So London's sons in night-cap woke,
In bed-gown woke her dames,
For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke,
"The Playhouse is in flames!"
And lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tail its lustre lends
To every window-pane ;
Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport
A bright ensanguined drain.
Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height
Where patent shot they sell.
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray with Surgeons' Hall,
The ticket-porter's house of call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson's Hotel.
Nor these alone, but far and wide,
Across the Thames's gleaming tide,
To distant fields the blaze was borne,
And daisy white and hoary thorn
In borrowed lustre seemed to sham
The rose or red sweet-Wil-li-am.
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.
And one, 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
'Tis meet that I should tell you how
The others came in view.
The Hand-in-Hand the race begun,
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.
Back, Robins, bac ! 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
'Twas 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 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!
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