To those who on the hills around As from a lofty altar rise, It seemed that nations did conspire Some vast, stupendous sacrifice! In tin or copper traced. The engines thundered through the street, The Hand-in-Hand the race began, With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole, Crump from St. Giles's Pound: Before the plug was found. Of Bridewell's gloomy mound! For fear the roof should fall. Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof! 'T was Joseph Muggins, name revered, Did none attempt, before he fell, His brother chief to save; But ah! his reckless generous ire Served but to share his grave re! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before. But sulphury stench and boiling drench, Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved, A fireman, and afraid of bumps! What are they feared on? fools! 'od rot 'em!" Were the last words of Higginbottom. Interior of a Theatre described. - Pit gradually fills. The Checktaker. 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, Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art, 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 check 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, Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in, 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. Now all seems hushed, — but, no, one fiddle will Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Give, half ashamed, a tiny flourish still. Perchance, while pit and gallery cry "Hats off!" And awed Consumption checks his chided cough, He who, in quest of quiet, "Silence!" hoots, What various swains our motley walls contain!Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick Lane; Up as a corn-cutter, -a safe employ; 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 handkerchief." 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, THE CATARACT OF LODORE. DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY. "How does the water There first came one daughter, Comes down at Lodore, For their recreation To them and the King. From its sources which well Through moss and through brake, And away it proceeds, Collecting, projecting, And rattling and battling, And dinning and spinning, And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering; Dividing and gliding and sliding, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, BY THE HON. EDWARD E-, OF BOSTON. PONDEROUS projectiles, hurled by heavy hands, On the great path that to her greatness led; Her temple's propylon was shatter-ed ; Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington, Her incubus was from her bosom hurled; And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun, She took the oil with which her hair was curled To the "hub" round which revolves the grease world. This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem," and contains too much of Boston to be considered strictly national. To set such an "anthem" to music would require a Wagner; and even were it And curling and whirling and purling and really accommodated to a tune, it could only be whistled by the populace: We now come to a NATIONAL ANTHEM. BY JOHN GREENLEAF W. My native land, thy Puritanic stock Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true, Told our New England what her sons should do; And, should they swerve from loyalty and right, Then the whole land were lost indeed in night. The sectional bias of this "anthem "renders it unsuitable for use in that small margin of the world situated outside of New England. Hence the above must be rejected. Here we have a very curious NATIONAL ANTHEM. BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H. BACK in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, A DIAGNOSIS of our history proves was monarch Our native land a land its native loves; Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, Norsemen, Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens, Ursa, the noblest of all Vikings and horsemen. Musing he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, Its growth a source of wonder far and near. To love it more, behold how foreign shores The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the above after Where the Aurora lapt stars in a north-polar reading thus far, for such an "anthem" could only be sung by a manner; college of surgeons or a Beacon Street tea-party. Turn we now to a NATIONAL ANTHEM. BY N. P. W. ONE hue of our flag is taken From the cheeks of my blushing pet, And its stars beat time and sparkle Like the studs on her chemisette. Its blue is the ocean shadow That hides in her dreamy eyes, And it conquers all men, like her, And still for a Union flies. Several members of the committee find that this "anthem" has too much of the Anacreon spice to suit them. We next peruse a NATIONAL ANTHEM. BY THOMAS BAILEY A. 誓 THE little brown squirrel hops in the corn, And the shad in the river springs; If Maud did not love me. I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, I love the dainty sunflower, too, And Maud with her snowy breast; I love them all; but I love - I love - This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like Teanyson. Though it may be rejected by the committee, it can never lose its value as a piece of excellent reading for children. It is calculated to fill the youthful mind with patriotism and natural history, beside touching the youthful heart with an emotion palpitat ing for all. We close the list with the following: NATIONAL ANTHEM. BY R. H. STOD BEHOLD the flag! Is it not a flag? Would impious hand of foe disturb Its memories' holy spell, And blight it with a dew of blood? Ha, tr-r-aitor! . . . . It is well. R. H. NEWELL. (ORPHEUS C. KERR.) |