of the "Addresses," he has distinguished himself by his novels and historical romances, and was a frequent contributor to the periodicals and annuals, and in light literature was one of the most entertaining writers of his day. He died at Tunbridge Wells, whither he had gone for his health, on the 12th of July, 1849.

A TALE OF DRURY LANE.

*

*

BY W. S. (SCOTT.)

*

As Chaos which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise,
When light first flash'd upon her eyes—
So London's sons in nightcap woke,

In bedgown woke her dames,

For shouts were heard mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke,
"The playhouse is in flames."

And lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tail its lustre lends

To every window-pane:

Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport
A bright ensanguined drain;
Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height
Where patent shot they sell:
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,
The Ticket Porters' house of call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson's hotel.

Nor these alone, but far and wide
Across red Thames's gleaming tide,
To distant fields the blaze was borne;
And daisy white and hoary thorn,
In borrow'd lustre seem'd to sham
The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.

To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury's mound,
As from a lofty altar rise;

It seem'd that nations did conspire,
To offer to the god of fire

Some vast stupendous sacrifice!
The summon'd firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all.

(anonymous;) No. 9, "A Tale of Drury Lane," by W. S., (Scott;) No. 10, "Johnson's Ghost;" No. 11, "The Beautiful Incendiary," by Hon. W. S., (William Spencer;) No. 12, "Fire and Ale," by M. G. L., (Matthew Gregory Lewis, otherwise called Monk Lewis;) No. 15, "Architectural Atoms," by Dr. B., (Busby;) and No. 21, "Punch's Apotheosis," by T. H., (Theodore Hook.)

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!

An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o'er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,

Conceal'd them from the astonish'd crowd.

At length the mist awhile was clear'd,
When lo! amid the wreck uprear'd,
Gradual a moving head appear'd,
And Eagle firemen knew

'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,
The foreman of their crew.
Loud shouted all in signs of wo,
"A Muggins to the rescue, ho!"
And pour'd the hissing tide;
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
And strove and struggled all in vain,
For rallying but to fall again,
He totter'd, sunk, and died!
Did none attempt before he fell
To succor 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,

Of the prose addresses, the following portion of that spoken by "Johnson's Ghost" is an admirable imitation of the style of the author of the "Rambler." [Ghost of DR. JOHNSON rises from trap-door P. S., and Ghost of BOSWELL from trap-door O. P. The latter bows respectfully to the House, and obsequiously to the Doctor's Ghost, and retires.]

Doctor's Ghost loquitur.

That which was organized 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 favor, 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 conjectured, 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 favor, 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 !"

1 "A Tale of Drury Lane," by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably executed, though the introduction is rather tame. The burning is described with the mighty minstrel's characteristic love of localities.-Edinburgh Review.

"I certainly must have written this myself," said Sir Walter, pleasantly, to one of the authors, pointing to the description of the Fire, "although I forget upon what occasion."

TO HIS DAUGHTER. /

Oh, daughter dear, my darling child,
Prop of my mortal pilgrimage,
Thou who hast care and pain beguiled,
And wreath'd with Spring my wintry age!-
Through thee a second prospect opes
Of life, when but to live is glee;
And jocund joys and youthful hopes

Come thronging to my heart through thee.

Backward thou lead'st me to the bowers

Where love and youth their transports gave;
While forward still thou strewest flowers,
And bidd'st me live beyond the grave;
For still my blood in thee shall flow,
Perhaps to warm a distant line;
Thy face my lineaments shall show,
And e'en my thoughts survive in thine.

Yes, daughter, when this tongue is mute,
This heart is dust, these eyes are closed-
And thou art singing to thy lute

Some stanza by thy sire composed-
To friends around thou may'st impart
A thought of him who wrote the lays,
And from the grave my form shall start,
Embodied forth to fancy's gaze.

Then to their memories will throng

Scenes shared with him who lies in earth

The cheerful page, the lively song,

The woodland walk, or festive mirth;
Then may they heave the pensive sigh,
That friendship seeks not to control,
And from the fix'd and thoughtful eye
The half unconscious tears may roll:

Such now bedew my cheek-but mine
Are drops of gratitude and love,
That mingle human with divine,
The gift below, its source above.

How exquisitely dear thou art

Can only be by tears express'd,
And the fond thrillings of my heart,

While thus I clasp thee to my breast!

ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION.

And thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago,

When the Memnonium was in all its glory,

And time had not begun to overthrow

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous!

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy;
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune;
Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon.

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,

But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.

Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name?

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer?

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden

By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade-
Then say, what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise play'd?
Perhaps thou wert a priest-if so, my struggles
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.
Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat,
Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh, glass to glass;
Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat,

Or doff'd thine own to let Queen Dido pass,
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd,
Has any Roman soldier maul'd and knuckled,
For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalm'd,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled:
Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop, if that wither'd tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,
How the world look'd when it was fresh and young,
And the great deluge still had left it green;
Or was it then so old that history's pages
Contain'd no record of its early ages?

Still silent, incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows;

But prithee tell us something of thyself;

Reveal the secrets of thy prison house;

Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumber'd,

What hast thou seen-what strange adventures number'd?

Since first thy form was in this box extended,

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen-we have lost old nations,
And countless kings have into dust been humbled,
Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,