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Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,
Start into light, and make the lighter start; Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;
To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,
Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane ; Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane ;
While gradual parties fill our widened pit, The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark,
And gape and gaze and wonder ere they sit. The full-price master, and the half-price clerk ;

Boys who long linger at the gallery door,
At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, with pence twice five, — they want but twoprace
Distant or near, they settle where they please ;

more; But when the multitude contracts the span, Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs. Now the full benches to late-comers doom No room for standing, miscalled standing room.

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice halk,

But talk their minds, we wish they'd mind Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,

their talk ; And bawling "Pit full !" gives the check he takes; Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live, Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram,

Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Contending crowders shout the frequent damn,

Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary,
And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam. That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary ;

And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,
See to their desks Apollo's sons repair, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait;
Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair !

Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse
In unison their various tones to tune,

With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.
Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon;
In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow,
Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute,

For scowling Fortune seemed to threaten woe.
Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,
Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling John Richard William Alexander Dwyer
harp ;

Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire ;
Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in,

But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Attunes to order the chaotic din.

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.

Up as a corn-cutter, - a safe employ ; Foiled in his crash, the leader of the clan

In Holy-well Street, St. Pancras, he was bred Reproves with frowns the dilatory man;

(At number twenty-seven, it is said), Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow,

Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Heal; Nods a new signal, and away they go.

He would have bound him to some shop in town, Perchance, while pit and gallery cry “Hats off!" But with a premium he could not come down. And awed Consumption checks his chided cough, Fonder of purl and skittle grounds than truth.

Pat was the urchin's name, - a red-haired youth, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love Drops, rest of pin, her play-bill from above : Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,

Silence, ye gods ! to keep your tongues in awe, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printeil scrap;

The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers ;

But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat :
Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,

Down from the gallery the beaver flew,
It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl ;
Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes, How shall he act ? Pay at the gallery-door

And spurned the one to settle in the two.
And, from mere malice, sticks it on the spikes. Two shillings for what cost, when new, bat iour !

Say, why these Babelstrains from Babeltongues? Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, Who's that calls “Silence !" with such leathern And gain his hat again at half past eight? lungs ?

Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, He who, in quest of quiet, “Silence !” hoots,

John Mullens whispers, "Take my handkerchiel." Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

“ Thank you,” cries Pat; "but one won't make

a line." What various swainsourmotley walls contain!— “Take mine," cried Wilson ; and cried Stokes, Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick Lane; “ Take mine."


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A inotley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,
Where Spitalfields with real India vies.
Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clew,
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 unfeigned
Regained the felt, and felt what he regained ;
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.



Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, Till in this rapid race

On which it is bent,

It reaches the place Of its steep descent.



“ How does the water Come down at Lodore ?" My little boy asked me

Thus, once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme.

Anon at the word, There first came one daughter,

And then came another,

To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water

Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,

As many a time
They had seen it before.

So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store;
And 't was in my vocation

For their recreation
That so I should sing ;
Because I was Laureate

To them and the King.

The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging

As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among ;

Rising and leaping,

Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,

Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,

Around and around
With endless rebound :

Smiting and fighting,

A sight to delight in ;

Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell ;

From its fountains

In the mountains,

Its rills and its gills ; Through moss and through brake,

It runs and it creeps
For a while, till it sleeps

In its own little lake.
And thence at departing,

Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,

And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade,

in sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter,

Among crags in its flurry,

Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning ;

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 falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;

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 slap


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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


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We now come to a



My native land, thy Puritanic stock
Still finds its roots firm bound in Plymouth Rock;
And all thy sons unite in one grand wish, -
To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.

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



A DIAGNOSIS of our history proves
Our native land a land its native loves;
Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,
Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,

And dashing and flashing and splashing and

And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.







BACK in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane,
was monarch

Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed

Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the

Ursa, the noblest of all Vikings and horsemen.

To love it more, behold how foreign shores
Sink into nothingness beside its stores.
Hyde Park at best— though counted ultra grand—

Musing he sat in his stirrups and viewed the The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land


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 college of surgeons or a Beacon Street tea-party. manner; Turn we now to a

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The sun sinks softly to his evening post,

The sun swells grandly to his morning crown ; Yet not a star our flag of heaven has lost,

And not a sunset stripe with him goes down. So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those

New thrones may rise, to totter like the last ; But still our country's nobler planet glows,

While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,

The cricket quaintly sings;
The emerald pigeon nods his head,

And the shad in the river springs ;
The dainty sunflower hangs its head

On the shore of the summer sea ; And better far that I were dead,

If Maud did not love me.

Upon finding that this does not go well to the air of " Yankee Doodle," the committee feel justified in declining it; being further. more prejudiced against it by a suspicion that the poet has crowded an advertisement of a paper which he edits into the first line.

Next we quote from a



I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,

And the cricket that quiaintly sings ; And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,

And the shad that gayly springs.
I love the dainty sunflower, too,

And Maud with her snowy breast;
I love them all; but I love - I love -

I love my country best. This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like Tea. nyson. Though it may be rejected by the conimittee, 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 his. tory, beside touching the youthful heart with an emotion palpitat. ing for all.

We close the list with the following:

In the days that tried our fathers,

Many years ago, Our fair land achieved her freedom,

Blood-bought, you know. Shall we not defend her ever,

As we 'd defend That fair maiden, kind and tender,

Calling us friend ?



Behold the flag! Is it not a flag?

Deny it, man, if you dare ! And inidway spread 'twixt earth and sky

It hangs like a written prayer.

Yes! Let all the echoes answer,

From hill and vale ;
Yes! Let other nations hearing,

Joy in the tale.
Our Columbia is a lady,

High-born and fair;
We have sworn allegiance to her, -

Touch her who dare. The tone of this "anthem" not being devotional enough to suit the committee, it should be printed on an edition of linen-cambric handkerchiefs for ladies especially.

Observe this

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, In this beauty of the blis Christ was born

acrop the eca, in his borom that transpuns you

With a glory

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as he died to make mone holy, ht us die to

make man pa While and is n marching

How Inha hand hone.

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