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HORACE SMITH

(1779-1849)

REJECTED ADDRESSES: DR JOHNSON'S GHOST

DOCTOR'S GHOST loquitur.

THAT which was organised by the moral ability of one has been executed by the physical efforts of many, and DRURY LANE THEATRE is now complete. Of that part behind the curtain, which has not yet been destined to glow beneath the brush of the varnisher, or vibrate to the hammer of the carpenter, little is thought by the public, and little need be said by the committee. Truth, however, is not to be sacrificed for the accommodation of either; and he who should pronounce that our edifice has received its final embellishment would be disseminating falsehood without incurring favour, and risking the disgrace of detection without participating the advantage of success. Professions lavishly effused and parsimoniously verified are alike inconsistent with the precepts of innate rectitude and the practice of external policy: let it not then be con20 jectured that because we are unassuming, we are imbecile; that forbearance is any indication of despondency, or humility of demerit. He that is the most assured of success will make the fewest appeals to favour; and where nothing is claimed that is undue, nothing that is due will be withheld. A swelling opening is too often succeeded by an insignificant conclusion. Parturient mountains have ere now produced muscipular abortions; and the auditor who compares incipient grandeur with final vulgarity is reminded of the pious hawkers of Constantinople, who solemnly perambulate her streets, exclaiming, In the name of the Prophet-figs!'

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[Of many who think themselves wise, and of some who are thought wise by others, the exertions are directed to the revival of mouldering and obscure dramas; to endeavours to exalt that which is now rare only because it was always worthless, and whose deterioration, while it condemned it to living obscurity, by a strange obliquity of moral perception constitutes its title to posthumous renown. To embody the flying colours of folly, to arrest evanescence, to give to bubbles the globular consistency as well as form, to exhibit on the stage the piebald denizen of the stable, and the halfreasoning parent of combs, to display the brisk locomotion of Columbine, or the tortuous

attitudinizing of Punch;-these are the occupa 50 tions of others, whose ambition, limited to the applause of unintellectual fatuity, is too innocuous for the application of satire, and too humble for the incitement of jealousy.]

Our refectory will be found to contain every species of fruit, from the cooling nectarine and luscious peach to the puny pippin and the noxious nut. There Indolence may repose, and Inebriety revel; and the spruce apprentice, rushing in at second account, may there chatter 60 with impunity; debarred, by a barrier of brick and mortar, from marring that scenic interest in others, which nature and education have disqualified him from comprehending himself.

Permanent stage-doors we have none. That which is permanent cannot be removed, for, if removed, it soon ceases to be permanent. What stationary absurdity can vie with that ligneous barricado, which, decorated with frappant and tintinnabulant appendages, now serves as the entrance of the lowly cottage, and now as the exit of a lady's bed-chamber; at one time insinuating plastic Harlequin into a butcher's shop, and, at another, yawning, as a flood-gate, to precipitate the Cyprians of St Giles's into the embraces of Macheath? To elude this glaring absurdity, to give to each respective mansion the door which the carpenter would doubtless have given, we vary our portal with the varying scene, passing from deal to mahogany, and from mahogany to oak, as the opposite claims of cottage, palace, or castle may appear to require.

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Amid the general hum of gratulation which flatters us in front, it is fit that some regard should be paid to the murmurs of despondence that assail us in the rear. They, as I have elsewhere expressed it, who live to please,' should not have their own pleasures entirely t overlooked. The children of Thespis are general in their censures of the architect, in having placed the locality of exit at such a distance from the oily irradiators which now dazzle the eyes of him who addresses you. I am, cries the Queen of Terrors, robbed of my fair proportions. When the king-killing Thane hints to the breathless auditory the murders he means to perpetrate, in the castle of Macduff, 'ere his purpose cool'; so vast is the interval 10

he has to travel before he can escape from the stage, that his purpose has even time to freeze.

Time forcibly reminds me that all things which have a limit must be brought to a conclusion. Let me, ere that conclusion arrives, recall to your recollection, that the pillars which rise on either side of me, blooming in virid antiquity, like two massy evergreens, had yet slumbered in their native quarry but

for the ardent exertions of the individual who called them into life: to his never-slumbering talents you are indebted for whatever pleasure this haunt of the Muses is calculated to afford. If, in defiance of chaotic malevolence, the destroyer of the temple of Diana yet survives in the name of Herostratus, surely we may confidently predict that the rebuilder of the temple of Apollo will stand recorded to distant posterity in that of-SAMUEL WHITBREAD.

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THE FIRE AT DRURY LANE

REJECTED ADDRESSES: SIR WALTER SCOTT

THE summoned firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all.
Starting from short and broken snooze,
Each sought his pond'rous 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,
Firehook, 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.
'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;

Now

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, 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!

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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 face 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! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,

Where Muggins broke before;

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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.

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JAMES SMITH
(1775-1839)

THE THEATRE

REJECTED ADDRESSES: 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.

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 harpsichord, 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,
Attunes 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:

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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 Mullens whispers, "Take my hand-
kerchief.'

"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 clue,
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 un-
feigned,

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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W. C. (WILLIAM COBBETT), farmer

-'rabida qui concitus ira

REJECTED ADDRESSES

implevit pariter ternis latratibus auras, et sparsit virides spumis albentibus aequor.'-OVID.

In

MOST THINKING PEOPLE, WHEN persons address an audience from the stage, it is usual, either in words or gesture, to say, 'Ladies and Gentlemen, your servant.' If I were base enough, mean enough, paltry enough, and brute beast enough, to follow that fashion, I should tell two lies in a breath. the first place you are not Ladies and Gentlemen, but I hope something better, that is to say, honest men and women; and in the next place, if you were ever so much ladies, and ever so much gentlemen, I am not, nor ever will be, your humble servant. You see me here, most thinking people, by mere chance. I have not been within the doors of a playhouse before for these ten years; nor, till that abominable custom of taking money at the doors is discontinued, will I ever sanction a theatre with my presence. The stage-door is the only gate of freedom in the whole edifice, and through that I made my way from Bagshaw's in Brydges Street, to accost you. Look about you. Are you not all comfortable? Nay, never slink, mun; speak out, if you are dissatisfied, and tell me so before I leave town,

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You are now (thanks to Mr Whitbread) got into a large, comfortable house. Not into a gimcrack palace; not into a Solomon's temple; not into a frost-work of Brobdignag filigree; but into a plain, honest, homely, industrious, wholesome, brown brick playhouse. You have been struggling for independence and elbowroom these three years; and who gave it you? Who helped you out of Lilliput? Who routed you from a rat-hole five inches by four, to perch you in a palace? Again and again I answer, Mr Whitbread. You might have sweltered in that place with the Greek name till doomsday, and neither Lord Castlereagh, Mr Canning, no, nor the Marquess 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! And now, most thinking people, cast your eyes over my head to what the builder (I beg his pardon, the architect) calls the proscenium. No motto, no slang, no Popish Latin, to keep the people in the dark. No veluti in speculum. Nothing in the dead languages.... The Covent Garden manager tried that, and a 50 pretty business he made of it! When a man

*The old Lyceum Theatre.

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