Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject;
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

And made us blush that you forbore to blame,
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours.

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obeyed,
The Drama's homage by her herald paid,
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.
The curtain rises-may our stage unfold
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,

Still may we please-long, long may you preside.

Hereon followed "The Rejected Addresses" by the brothers Horace and James Smith, published in 1812 by John Miller, 25, Bow Street, Covent Garden, London, and the wonderfully clever and amusing imitations and

*This would seem to show that poet and prophet are synonymous, the noble bard having afterwards returned to England, and again quitted it, under domestic circumstances painfully notorious. His good-humoured forgiveness of the Authors has already been alluded to in the preface. Nothing of this illustrious poet, however trivial, can be otherwise than interesting. We knew him well." At Mr. Murray's dinner-table the annotator met him and Sir John Malcolm, Lord Byron talked of intending to travel in Persia. "What must I do when I set off?" said he to Sir John. "Cut off your buttons!" "My buttons! what, these metal ones?" Yes; the Persians are in the main very honest fellows; but if you go thus bedizened, you will infallibly be murdered for your buttons!" At a dinner at Monk Lewis's chambers in the Albany, Lord Byron expressed to the writer his determination not to go there again, adding, "I never will dine with a middle-aged man who fills up his table with young ensigns, and has looking-glass panels to his book-cases." Lord Byron. when one of the Drury-lane Committee of Management, challenged the writer to sing alternately (like the swains in Virgil) the praises of Mrs. Mardyn, the actress, who, by-the-bye, was hissed off the stage for an imputed intimacy of which she was quite innocent.

The contest ran as follows:

"Wake muse of fire, your ardent lyre,
Pour forth your amorous ditty,

But first profound, in duty bound,
Applaud the new committee;
Their scenic art from Thespis' cart
All jaded nags discarding,

To London drove this queen of love,
Enchanting Mrs. Mardyn.

Though tides of love around her rove,
I fear she'll choose Pactolus-

In that bright surge bards neer immerge,
So I must e'en swim solus.

'Out, out, alas !' ill-fated gas,

That shin'st round Govent Garden,

Thy ray how flat, compared with that
From eye of Mrs. Mardyn !"

As

parodies contained in the book made it at once popular, and caused it to prominently attract the attention of the literati of the day. The imitation. of Lord Byron is not perhaps so successful as some of the other poems. Lord Jeffrey remarked in The Edinburgh Review: "The author has succeeded better in copying the melody and misanthropic sentiments of Childe Harold, than the nervous and impetuous diction in which his noble biographer has embodied them." It is not to be expected that the burlesque address, by the brothers Smith, should present any resemblance to Lord Byron's opening address at Drury Lane,

CUI BONO?

(Ascribed to Lord Byron.)
I.

SATED with home, of wife, of children tired,
The restless soul is driven abroad to roam ;*
Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired,
The restless soul is driven to ramble home;
Sated with both, beneath new Drury's dome
The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine,
There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome,
Scorning to view fantastic Columbine,

Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine.

Lord Byron at that time wore a very narrow cravat of white sarsnet, with the shirt-collar falling over it; a black coat and waistcoat, and very broad white trousers, to hide his lame foot. These were of Russia duck in the morning, and jean in the evening. His watch-chain had a number of small gold seals appended to it, and was looped up to a button of his waistcoat. His face was void of colour; he wore no whiskers. His eyes were gray, fringed with long black lashes; and his air was imposing, but rather supercilious. He undervalued David Hume: denying his claim to genius on account of his bulk, and calling him, from the Heroic epistle,

"The fattest hog in Epicurus' sty."

66

66

One of this extraordinary man's allegations was, that "fat is an oily dropsy." To stave off its visitation, he frequently chewed tobacco in lieu of dinner, alleging that it absorbed the gastric juice of the stomach, and prevented hunger. 'Pass your hand down my side," said his lordship to the writer; can you count my ribs ?" Every one of them." "I am delighted to hear you say so. I called last week on Lady; 'Ah, Lord Byron,' said she, 'how fat you grow!' But you know Lady is fond of saying spiteful things!" Let this gossip be summed up with the words of Lord Chesterfield, in his character of Bolingbroke : Upon the whole, on a survey of this extraordinary character, what can we say, but 'Alas, poor human nature !'"

66

His favourite Pope's description of man is applicable to Byron individually

Chaos of thought and passion all confused,

Still by himself abused or disabused:

Created part to rise and part to fall,

Great lord of all things, yet a slave to all:

Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled

The glory, jest, and riddle of the world."

The writer never heard him allude to his deformed foot except upon one occasion, when, entering the green-room of Drury-lane, be found Lord Byron alone, the younger Byrne and Miss Smith the dancer having just left him, after an angry conference about a pas seul. "Had you been here a minute sooner," said Lord B., 'you would have heard a question about dancing referred to me - me! (looking mournfully downward) whom fate from my birth has prohibited from taking a single step."

66

II.

Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way
To gaze on puppets in a painted dome,
Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,

Like falling stars in life's eternal gloom,
What seek ye here? Joy's evanescent bloom?
Woe's me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave

Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb.

Man's heart, the mournful urn o'er which they wave, Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.

III.

Has life so little store of real woes,

That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?
Or is it that from truth such anguish flows,
Ye court the lying drama for relief?

Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief :
Or if one tolerable page appears

In folly's volume, 'tis the actor's leaf,
Who dries his own by drawing others' tears,

And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.

IV.

Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee! Light as the mote that daunceth in the beam, He liveth only in man's present e'e; His life a flash, his memory a dream, Oblivious down he drops in Lethe's stream. Yet what are they, the learned and the great? Awhile of longer wonderment the theme! Who shall presume to prophesy their date, Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate?

V.

This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt's toil,
Perchance than Holland's edifice* more fleet,

Again red Lemnos' artisan may spoil;

The fire alarm and midnight drum may beat,

And all bestrewed ysmoking at your feet!

Start ye? perchance Death's angel may be sent,

Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat;

And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent,

May find, in pleasure's fane, your grave and monument.

*"Holland's edifice." The late theatre was built by Holland the architect. The writer visited it on the night of its opening. The performances were Macbeth and the Virgin Unmasked. Between the play and the farce, an excellent epilogue, written by George Colman, was excellently spoken by Miss Farren. It referred to the iron curtain which was, in the event of fire, to be let down between the stage and the audience, and which accordingly descended, by way of experiment, leaving Miss Farren between the lamps and the curtain. The fair speaker informed the audience, that should the fire break out on the stage (where it usually originates), it would thus be kept from the spectators; adding, with great solemnity

VI.

Your debts mount high-ye plunge in deeper waste
The tradesman duns-no warning voice ye hear!
The plaintiff sues-to public shows ye haste;
The bailiff threats-ye feel no idle fear.

Who can arrest your prodigal career?

Who can keep down the levity of youth?

What sound can startle age's stubborn ear?

Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth

Men true to falsehood's voice, false to the voice of truth

VII.

To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to make
The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy,
We dedicate the pile-arise! awake!—
Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy

Clear our new stage from reason's dull alloy,
Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth
With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy;
While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth,†

Harps twang in Drury's walls, and make her boards a booth.

VIII.

For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March?
And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl?

And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch,
Orlando's helmet in Augustin's cowl.

Shakespeare, how true thine adage, "fair is foul !"
To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,
The song of Braham is an Irish howl,
Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,

And nought is everything, and everything is nought.

IX.

Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above,
Not laurel-crown'd, but clad in rusty black;
Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè's grove,
But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack;

What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack,

Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long, Condemn'd to tread the bard's time-sanction'd track, Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng, And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song,

"O vain thought !" as Othello says. Notwithstanding the boast in the epilogue-

"Blow, wind-come, rack, in ages yet unborn, Our castle's strength shall laugh a siege to scorn'The theatre fell a victim to the flames within fifteen years from the prognostic! These preparations against fire always presuppose presence of mind and promptness in those who are to put them into action. They remind one of the dialogue in Morton's Speed the Plough, between Sir Able Handy and his son Bob:

"Bob. Zounds, the castle's on fire!

X.

So fares the follower in the Muses' train ! He toils to starve, and only lives in death! We slight him, till our patronage is vain, Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe, And o'er his bones an empty requiem breatheOh! with what tragic horror would he start, (Could he be conjured from the grave beneath) To find the stage again a Thespian cart, And elephants and colts down-trampling Shakespeare's

art.

XI.

Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules!
Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface;
Back, sister Muses, to your native schools;
Here booted grooms usurp Apollo's place,
Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace,
The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit,
Man yields the drama to the Hou'yn'm race,
His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit,
The stage a stable-yard,* a jockey-club the pit.
XII.

Is it for these ye rear this proud abode ?
Is it for these your superstition seeks
To build a temple worthy of a god,
To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks!
Then be the stage to recompense your freaks,

A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks,
Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks,
And Wisdom weeps and Folly plays his pranks,
And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he
clanks.

From The Rejected Addresses. Following close upon The Rejected Addresses, by J. and H. Smith, appeared a small volume entitled,

THE GENUINE REJECTED ADDRESSES, Presented to the Committee of Management for Drury-Lane Theatre, preceded by that written by Lord Byron, and adopted by the Committee. London: B. McMillan, 1812.-This contained a collection of as many of the Addresses, sent in to the Committee for the competition, as the Editor could gather from the various authors. He admits that it is not a complete collection, nor do the authors' real names appear with every poem.

Several of the addresses were really written by authors who had been parodied in The Rejected Addresses, notably W. T. Fitzgerald, and Dr. Busby.

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his price;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

LORD BYRON.

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ALDERMEN.
A Mansion House Melody.

APOPLEXIA came down on the Alderman fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming with jaundice like gold,
And the sheen of the spectres that own'd his behest
Glimmer'd bright as the gas at a new Lord Mayor's feast.

Every fiend that humanity shrinks from was there,
Hepatitis, Lumbago, with hollow-eyed Care,
Hypochondria, and Gout, grinning ghastly with pain,
And of Incubi phantoms a horrible train.

*

Then he straightway amongst them his grisly form cast,
And breathed on each puffing red face as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the feasters wax'd deadly and chill,
And their stomachs once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And the turtle devourers were stretched on the floor-
Each cheek changed to purple-so crimson before !
Their dewlaps all dabbled with red wine and ale,
And extremities cold as a live fish's tale!

And there lay the Liv'ryman, breathless and lorn,
With waistcoat and new inexpressibles torn ;
And the Hall was all silent, the band having flown,
And the waiters stared wildly on, sweating and blown.

And Cripplegate windows are loud in their wail,
And Mary-Axe orphans all trembling and pale!
For the Alderman glory has melted away,
As mists are dispersed by the glad dawn of day.
Punch, November 13, 1841.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
"A four-in-hand" in early Editions.

*

A NEW SENNACHERIB.

SIR Robert came down on the Corn Laws so bold,
And his backers felt savage, and sorry, and sold;
But the Premier of votes had a majority,
Amounting, in all, to about ninety-three.

As sheep follow the wether, submissive and mean,
That host at the heels of their leader were seen;
As sheep scatter wide when you leave them alone,
That host, says the Times, are now broke and o'erthrown.

For the Iron Duke set his fate on the cast,
And nailed, for the Corn-laws, his flag to the mast;
And the Cabinet's hopes felt a sensible chill,

When they thought of the Duke, and his potent "I will "

And there sat the Premier, his head on one side;
His arguments pooh-poohed, his statements denied ;
And tho' he tried hard, he had need of his nerve,
A decent composure of face to preserve.

And there sat grim Grahame, so nervous and pale,
With his hat on his head, and his mouth to his nail;
And their measures were done for, their plans overthrown,
And Peel had to leave his own trumpet unblown.

And Conservative gentry are loud in their wail,
That the country is ruined if Peel should turn tail;
And repeal of the Corn-laws, we soon shall record,
Has been won, not by Peel, but a certain small lord.
Punch, on Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington in
the struggle for the repeal of the Corn-laws in 1846.

THE DESTRUCTION OF NICHOLAS.

THE Russian came down like a thief in the night,
And his legions were arm'd with all weapons, save Right;
And the sheen of their spears to the Turks seem'd afar
Like the passion that burn'd in the heart of the Czar.
Like the loaves of the baker, when breakfast is laid,
That host in their armour of "plate" were array'd ;
Like the loaves of the baker, ere tea time next day,
That host lay all "cut up," and crumbled away!
For the warcry of England is borne on the air,
And France sends her brave in the conflict to share ;
And link'd with the Moslem, they shout as they go,
And all Europe is thrill'd with the groans of the foe.

And there lay the sea, but no more on its tide
His vessels shall float in their strength and their pride;
And the foam of its billows shall dash o'er the graves
Of the serfs, who had come to make other men slaves.

And there lay the Czar, all dejected and pale,
With a frown on his brow, and his teeth at his nail;
His palace all silent, deserted, alone;

He trembled to think on his tottering throne !

And the widows of Russia are loud in their cries, Though idle the tears that may flow from their eyes; And the might of the tyrant, down-struck by the gun, Hath melted, like butter when placed in the sun. Diogenes. October, 1853.

THE BLIZZARD.

THE blizzard came down like a thousand of brick :
His breathings were cakes of ice four inches thick,
And his hair streamed far out in a stiffness that bent
With the swirl and the speed of the pathway he went.
His beard that found roots to the lids of his eyes
Hid his face in a hairy, unpierced disguise,
And spread out in ice-like rigidity far
From his one eye that flashed like a pivotal star.

Unseen was the rest of the demon-like form
Of the swift-moving blizzard, the god of the storm,
But the presence was felt of an unconquered will,
For the fast-running rivers stood suddenly still.

And the noses of people who travelled the street Turned white with affright, and the hurrying feet Were stung as with sting of a hundred bees, While the blood crept away and allowed them to freeze Columbus Dispatch.

THE ROUT OF BELGRAVIA.

THE Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold,
And their costumes were gleaming with purple and gold,
And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the sea,
As their chariots roll'd proudly down Piccadill-ee.
Like the leaves of Le Follet when summer is green,
That host in its glory at noon-tide was seen;

Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked and worn,
That host four hours later was tattered and torn.

For the crush of the crowd, which was eager and vast,
Had rumpled and ruin'd and wreck'd as it pass'd;
And the eyes of the wearer wax'd angry in haste,
As a dress but once-worn was dragged out of waist.
And there lay the feather and fan, side by side,
But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride;
And there lay lace flounces, and ruching in slips,
And spur-torn material in plentiful strips.

And there were odd gauntlets, and pieces of hair;
And fragments of back-combs, and slippers were there;
And the gay were all silent; their mirth was all hush'd ;
Whilst the dew-drops stood out on the brows of the crush'd

And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail,
And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale;
And they vow, as they hurry, unnerved, from the scene,
That it's no trifling matter to call on the Queen.

Jon Duan.

THE DESTRUCTION OF A CAT.

MISS Pussy jumped down, like a thief in the night,
From the cream in the cupboard with eyes gleaming bright;
And the ends of her whiskers bedabbled her face,
When Somnus had chloroform'd Europa's race.

Like all guilty creatures, she feared to be seen,
And crawled o'er the carpet so spotlessly clean;
Like the streaks of the sunlight so daintily thrown,
The whiskers of Pussy a demon had drawn.

This image of death spread its wings o'er the cat,
And rising on tip-toe he lifted his hat;
But the eyes of Miss Pussy grew deadly and chill,
For something had told her-and told her still-
That she had ta'en poison, there could be no doubt,
For there she lay gasping and rolling about,
And as she lay sprawling and thumping the floor,
The demon arose and went out at the door.
And then Puss was silent, distorted, and pale,
From the point of her nose to the end of her tail,
And all the night long she lay there all alone,
Till out of the window at last she was thrown.

THE Yankee came down with long Fred on his back,
And his colours were gleaming with cherry and black.
He flashed to the front, and the British Star paled,
As the field died away, and the favourite failed.
Like the leaves of the summer when summer is green,
The faces of Peregrine's backers were seen;

Like the leaves of the autumn when autumn is red,
Flushed the cheeks of the Yanks as their champion led.
Iroquois !!!-then the shoutings shook heaven's blue dome,
As the legs of the Tinman safe lifted him home.

Oh! A was an Archer, A 1 at this fun.

And A was America, too,-and A won!
And B was the Briton who, ready to melt,

A sort of a je ne sais (Iro)-quois felt,

To see his Blue Riband to Yankeeland go,

B too, none the less, was the hearty "Bravo!"

Which, per Punch, he despatched to "our kin o'er the sea,"
Who, for not the first time, get the pull of J. B.
The Brokers of Wall Street are loud in delight,

And the belles of New York grow more beamingly bright;
Fizz creams like the foam of the storm-beaten surf,
To Jonathan's triumph on John's native turf,
And Punch brims his beaker in Sparkling Champagne,
Your health Brother J.! Come and beat us again!
And cold grudge at a victory honestly scored
Melts away like the snow when the wine is outpoured.
Punch, June 11, 1881.

THE MELTING OF THE IRON DUKE.

"The effect produced by the erection of a life-size silhouette of the statue of the Iron Duke and his war-steed opposite the St. James's Park front of the Horse Guards has quickly resulted in a decision to melt down Mr. Wyatt's equestrian effort, and to shape the materials into another, and, it is hoped, a better statue."-Weekly Paper.

ALL the papers came down, like a wolf on the fold,
And their leaders were trenchant, and fearlessly bold;
And their cynical sneers were as lively and free
As the shrimps on the foreshore of Gravesend-on-Sea.
Thick as leaves of the Forest, when Epping is green,
Had the jokes and the jeers of the "comics" been seen;
Thick as leaves in the Park when the season has flown
Had the jibes of the critics been ruthlessly thrown.
For the chosen Committee an effort had made,
And put up a Duke on the Horse Guards Parade;
But one sight of this model more ludicrous still,
Made those who passed by feel dejected and ill.

For there stood the steed with his nostril all wide,
And his nose all turned up in his evident pride,

And his tail that seemed dressed with the stiffest of starch,
Stood out 'midst the trees, as it had on the Arch.

And there sat the rider, distorted and stern,
That long years of scoffing had failed to o'erturn,
And his hat was still cocked at the angle of yore,
And the same scrubby cape on his shoulders he wore.
And those that passed by gave one shuddering look,
And vowed such a Duke they no longer would brook.
They cried, "Take him off to some near melting-pot!"
And hastened forthwith from the terrible spot.

And the chosen Committee itself had to own
That nought could the horse's appearance condone ;
Whilst as to the rider, they had to confess
That melting alone could his failings redress.

So it straightway decided no site could be found
For this effigy vile of a warrior renowned;
And ere very long they put forth a decree

That the Duke and his charger both melted should be!

And the Statues of London were loud in their wail,
And the Griffin, in agony, waggled his tail,
Exclaiming, "Alas! if the Duke's melted thus,
What chance can there be, then, for eyesores like us?"
Truth, August 16, 1883.

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TORY (NOT SENNACHERIB'S) ARMY.

THE Tories came forth in their pride and their strength,
And flooded the land through its breadth and its length
With speeches whose burden no varying knew—
"Down with Gladstone the traitor and all his base crew!"

Like leaves of the forest when summer is green,
The hosts of the fories in August were seen;
Like leaves of the forest when autumn has blown,
These hosts in September were withered and strown.
For "Gladstone the traitor" went up to the North,
And tackled the foe on the banks of the Forth;
And the hopes of the Tories waxed deadly and chill,
And their tongues wagged but once, and for ever were still,

And the Tory old women are loud in their whines,
For their idols are broke, both at Hatfield and Pynes;
And their army, unsmote by the sword or the lance,
Has melted like snow at old Gladstone's advance..

ALICK SINCLAIR.

The Weekly Dispatch, September 14, 1884.

MR. GLADSTONE'S HOME RULE BILL.
THE Premier came down to the House as of old,
With a smile on his face and a step light and bold,
And the cheers of the Parnellites smote on the air
As he rose in his place and saluted the Chair.

And the senators sat like men under a spell
While the rythmical tones of his voice rose and fell.
Like sleepers who wake from their dreams at the dawn,
Sober reason returned when the glamour was gone.

For the false light that blinded has vanished at last,
Revealing the pitfalls all round as it passed;
The Magician has failed in his task, and the wand
Has dropped from the "old parliamentary hand."