"Bless every man possessed of aught to give; "The Baby's Debut" follows: it is spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age; who is drawn on the stage in a child's chaise by her uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes. We have room only for one short extract, which needs not be attributed to Mr. W. Wordsworth. The vacant simplicity of the thoughts, and the perverse silliness of courting the use of vulgar and monosyllabic words in poetry, are self-evident proofs of authenticity: "What a large floor, 'tis like a town! Won't hide it, I'll be bound; And there's a row of lamps, my eye! They keep them on the ground.' The author might have chosen his motto to this address from Cowper : "A little address May be followed, perhaps, by a smile:" but he may have done better in adopting the words of Cumberland, used on a similar subject: "Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee." "Cui Bono ?" by Lord Byron, is a most living imitation of "Childe Harold." The verses, in the first place, are very good; and the flow of Spenser's stanza, as written by Lord B., is entirely preserved. The boldness and occasional quaintness of the noble author's phraseology are equally well imitated; and that satiety of pleasure, and wearisomeness of existence, that almost absorbing sensation of the "dull, stale and unprofitable" in life, which pervade his lordship's melancholy but strong effort of genius, are here re-echoed and ridiculed in an unrivalled manner: "Sated with home, of wife, of children tired, Sated with both, beneath new Drury's dome Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine, "Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way, Man's heart, the mournful urn o'er which they wave, "Has life so little store of real woes, 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." We must subjoin one other brief specimen, which is as ludicrously solemn as any thing that we recollect. 6 "Shakspeare, 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 naught is every thing, and every thing is naught." A prose address by W. Cobbett succeeds. It is spoken in the character of a Hampshire farmer who has rarely visited the theatres, and who declares his intention of doing so as rarely in future, until "that abominable custom of taking money at the doors is discontinued." He praises the want of ornament in the exterior of the theatre, which, he reminds the audience, is of truly English manufacture," a plain, homely, honest, industrious, wholesome, brown brick play-house." He says to that" most thinking people," whom he addresses, " you might have sweltered till doomsday in that place with the Greek name," (the Lyceum,)" and neither Lord Castlereagh, Mr. Canning, no, nor the Marquis Wellesley, would have turned a trowel to help you out! Remember that. Never forget that. Read it to your children, and to your children's children." He rejoices to be informed, although he does not vouch for it, that Macbeth and Lady Macbeth are no longer to have "more gold and silver plastered over their doublets than would have kept an honest family in butcher's meat and flannel from year's end to year's end;" but that Lady M. is to appear "in a plain quilted petticoat," and Macbeth" in a pair of black calamanco breeches. Not Salamanca; no, nor Talavera neither, my most noble Marquis; but plain, honest, black calamanco, stuff breeches." In "The Living Lustres," by Thomas (Anacreon) Moore, the poet recommends a row of female beauties instead of lamps to light the theatre. This is perhaps not so perfectly good an imitation as most of the others, but the following stanza will be recognised and applauded by the author's warmest admirers: "And dear is the Emerald Isle of the Ocean, Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave; Tho' joyous, are sober, tho' peaceful, are brave!" "The Rebuilding," by Robert Southey, must (we think) greatly please that original poet. It may be considered as a new edition of the Curse of Kehama, abridged, with very slight variations: "I am a blessed Glendoveer; 'Tis mine to speak and yours to hear. Midnight, yet not a nose From Tower-hill to Piccadilly snored! From Indra drew the essence of repose. By Indra fann'd, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury; The tops of houses, blue with lead, Grazier and brazier, Thro' streets and alleys poured, Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee, As if the dismal view Were but to them a Brentford jubilee." Again, "Now come the men of fire to quench the fires, On flying heel, See Hand in Hand O'ertake the band, View with what glowing wheel He nicks While Albion scampers from Bridge-street, Blackfriars, Drury Lane! Drury Lane! They shout and they hollow again and again. Water turns steam; Each blazing beam Hisses defiance to the eddying spout; See Drury Lane expires!" Apollo, or Surya, entitled "the beaming one," and Harlequin, addressed as follows, "Oh brown of slipper, as of hat!" must surely have been suggested by the author of the "Curse," the friend of George Withers, himself. "Drury's Dirge," by Laura Matilda, is well executed, but out of time and place. This is stepping aside for the worthy purpose of " thrice slaying the slain." The existence of the Della Cruscans is only to be remembered in their epitaph. As Curl and his crew would have gone out like a stinking candle, unless they had been preserved in all their bad odour by the Dunciad, so would the nameless sentimentalists in question have expired, had they not been consecrated to eternal ridicule in the Baviad and Mæviad: but one such shrine is enough for worthlessness. "The Tale of Drury Lane," by Walter Scott, Esq. is not uniformly successful: but a part of it is Marmion himself. For instance, the topography of London, and the names, and dresses, and engines of the firemen, are as minute and as full of repetition (that soul of ballad-writing) as propriety requi red: but the pervading force and rapidity of Scott's genius are wanting in the poetry. Must we say, "Within that circle none dares tread but he?" Assuredly, they are only the obvious faults of this writer which are here burlesqued:-but who is Aristarchus enough to frown at the following attempt of "Higginbottom" to rescue "Muggins?" "Did none attempt, before he fell, Still o'er his head, while fate he braved, 'What are they fear'd on, fools, 'od rot 'em,' "A Prologue by Johnson's Ghost," which is the next in succession, contains some passages in which the abstract terms and the sesquipedalia verba of the great moralist are justly though ludicrously represented: but, on the whole, the copy is overcharged, and it is entirely out of date. "The Beautiful Incendiary, by the Hon. W. S." meaning Mr. Spencer,* is, in parts, very fortunate; the opening in particular : "Sobriety cease to be sober, Cease, Labour, to dig and to delve; All hail to this tenth of October, One thousand eight hundred and twelve." "Fire and Ale," by M. G. Lewis, Esq. revives the half forgotten extravagancies of "The Tales of Wonder," and displays as much fancy as the wildest attempts of the original: "Look! look! 'tis the ale king! so stately and starch, He pops from his vat, like a cedar or torch; "His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung," &c. &c. This imitation has been supposed to be intended for Mr. Skeffington instead of Mr. Spencer: but in both cases the title honourable is incorrect. |