Some clown, or pantaloon――the gazers’ jest, Here, with his train in dirty pageant stood: Some tired-out posture master here may rest, Some conjuring swordsman――guiltless of his blood! The applause of listening cockneys to command, The threats of city-marshal to despise; To give delight to all the grinning band, And read their merit in spectators eyes, Is still their boast;――nor, haply, theirs alone, Polito’s lions (though now dormant laid) And human monsters, shall acquire renown, The spotted Negro――and the armless maid! Peace to the youth who, slumbering at the _Bear_, Forgets his present lot, his perils past: Soon will the crowd again be thronging there, To view the man on wild Sombrero cast. Careful their booths, from insult to protect These furl their tapestry, late erected high; No longer with prodigious pictures deck’d, They tempt the passing youth’s astonish’d eye. But when the day calls forth the belles and beaux, The cunning showmen each device display, And many a clown the useful notice shows, To teach ascending strangers――_where to pay_. Sleep on, ye imps of merriment, sleep on! In this short respite to your labouring train; And when this time of annual mirth is gone, May ye enjoy, in peace, your hard-earned gain! From _The Morning Chronicle_. 1810. Bartholomew (or Bartlemy) Fair, was formerly held in Smithfield on September 3rd, unless that day fell on a Sunday. Of later years it became an intolerable nuisance in the city, the shows were discontinued in 1850, and the Fair was proclaimed for the last time in 1855. A very interesting account of the old customs attending it will be found in Hone’s “Every Day Book.” ――――:o:―――― ELEGY, _Written in Drury Lane Theatre._ The prompter rings the lofty curtain down, The gaping audience leave the pit with glee, Homeward in troops returns the weary town, And leaves the house to emptiness and me. Now fades each glimmering candle to the sight, And thro’ the air a smoky silence reigns, Save where some lobby hero seeks the fight, And bravely gets a beating for his pains: Save that to scare Piazza-haunting flocks, The moping watchman does in oaths complain, Of such as, wandering near his secret box, With clamour loud intrude on his domain. Their parts perform’d, behind that curtain’s shade, Where stretch the scenes in many a motley heap, Each in his humble lodging quiet laid, The chorus-singing tribe securely sleep. The summons of rehearsal-bringing morn, The prompter whispering from his wooden shed, The trumpet, hautboy, clarionet, and horn, Shall rouse each man to-morrow from his bed. And yet for them no opera pours its rhyme; No loud _encore_ rewards their evening care; No children run to hail their pantomime, Or crowd the box, the envied laugh to share.