PLAY-HOUSE MUSINGS. [A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF COLERIDGE.—REJECTED ADDRESSES.] JAMES SMITH My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad? Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October Long wept my eye to see the timber planks I looked me up, and straight a parapet Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks. Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said: He of the Blackfriars' Road, who hymned thy downfall In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma, Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee, Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour, As leisure offered, close to Mr. Spring's Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders. Oh! 't was a goodly sound, to hear the people While some believed it never would be finished, I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane One of the morning papers wished that front White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet-street, White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet-street, Oh, Mr. Whitbread! fie upon you, sir! Cries, "There you go! this comes of playhouses!" Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish! Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theaters! Astley's, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil, Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee pushed Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions, It grieves me much to see live animals Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit, Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist Of former Drury, imitated life Quite to the life. The elephant in Blue Beard, Stuffed by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis Naught born on earth should die. On hackney stands Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife [Exit hastily. THE THEATER.† LA BURLESQUE IMITATION OF CRABBE.―REJECTED ADDRESSES.] JAMES SMITH. Interior of a Theater described.--Pit gradually fills.-The Check-taker.—Pit full.-The Orchestra tuned.-One Fiddle rather dilatory.—Is reproved-and repents. Evolutions of a Play-bill.-Its final Settlement on the Spikes.—The Gods taken to task-and why.-Motley Group of Play-goers.-Holywell-street, St. Pancras.-Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice-not in London—and why.-Episode of the Hat. 'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, * “Padmanaba,” viz., in a pantomime called Harlequin in Padmanaba. This elephant, some years afterward, was exhibited over Exeter 'Change, where it was found necessary to destroy the poor animal by discharges of musketry. When he made his entrance in the pantomime above-mentioned, Johnson, the machinist of the rival house, exclaimed, "I should be very sorry if I could not make a better elephant than that!" + "The Theater,' by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think, is the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author. It does not aim, of course, at any shadow of his pathos or moral sublimity, but seems to us to be a singularly faithful copy of his pas sages of mere description."-Edinburg Review. * * * To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, 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 checks 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- 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, fingering in, Attunes to order the chaotic din. Now all seems hushed-but, no, one fiddle wil Give half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still. Foiled in his clash, the leader of the clan "Hats off!" Perchance, while pit and gallery cry Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap; Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes, 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! With pence twice five-they want but twopence more; And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs. Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, But talk their minds-we wish they'd mind their talk: Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Where scowling fortune seemed to threaten woe. |