Come strike me the harp with its soul-stirring twang, The drum shall reply with its hollowest bang; Up, up in the air with the light tamborine, And let the dull ophecleide's groan intervene; For such is our life, lads, a chaos of sounds, Through which the gay traveler actively bounds. With the voice of the public the statesman must chime, And change the key-note, boys, exactly in time; The lawyer will coolly his client survey, As an instrument merely whereon he can play. Then harp, drum, and cymbals together shall clang, With a loud-tooral lira, right tooral, bang, bang! DRAMA FOR EVERY-DAY LIFE. LUDGATE HILL.--A MYSTERY. PUNCH. MR. MEADOWS . . . . A Country Gentleman. PRIGWELL . . . . . With a heavy heart and light fingers. BROWN . . . . . . . Friends of each other. JONES . . . . . . . Friends of each other. BLIND VOCALIST . . Who will attempt the song of "Hey the Bonny Breast Knot." The Scene represents Ludgate Hill in the middle of the day; Passengers, Omnibuses, etc., etc., passing to and fro. MEADOWS enters, musing. MEADOWS. I stand at last on Ludgate's famous hill; I've traversed Farringdon's frequented vale, I've quitted Holborn's heights--the slopes of Snow, Where Skinner's sinuous street, with tortuous track, Trepans the traveler toward the field of Smith; That field, whose scents burst on the offended nose With foulest flavor, while the thrice shocked ear, Thrice shocked with bellowing blasphemy and blows, Making one compound of Satanic sound, Is stunned, in physical and moral sense. But this is Ludgate Hill--here commerce thrives; Here, merchants carry trade to such a height That competition, bursting builders' bonds, Starts from the shop, and rushing through the roof, Unites the basement with the floors above; Till, like a giant, that outgrows his strength, The whole concern, struck with abrupt collapse, In one "tremendous failure" totters down!-- 'Tis food on which philosophy may fatten. [Turns round, musing, and looks into a shop window Enter PRIGWELL, talking to himself. PRIGWELL. I've made a sorry day of it thus far; I've fathomed fifty pockets, all in vain; I've spent in omnibuses half-a-crown; I've ransacked forty female reticules-- And nothing found--some business must be done. By Jove--I'd rather turn Lascar at once: Allow the walnut's devastating juice To track its inky course along my cheek, And stain my British brow with Indian brown. Or, failing that, I'd rather drape myself In cheap white cotton, or gay colored chintz-- Hang roung my ear the massive curtain-ring-- With strings of bold, effective glassy beads Circle my neck--and play the Brahmin Priest, To win the sympathy of passing crowds, And melt the silver in the stranger's purse. But ah! (SEEING MEADOWS) the land of promise looms before me The bulging skirts of that provincial coat Tell tales of well-filled pocket-books within. [Goes behind Meadows and empties his pockets