A tightrope walker.THE HIGHER WALK OF THE DRAMA.
THE HIGHER WALK OF THE DRAMA.
Mr. Levy, of Holywell-street, perceiving that his neighbour JACOB FAITHFUL’S farce, entitled “The Cloak and Bonnet,” has not given general satisfaction, begs respectfully to offer to the notice of the committee, his large and carefully-assorted stock of second-hand wearing apparel, from which he will undertake to supply any number of dramas that may be required, at a moment’s notice.
Mr. L. has at present on hand the following dramatic pieces, which he can strongly recommend to the public:—
“The Dressing Gown and Slippers.”—A fashionable comedy, suited for a genteel neighbourhood.
“The Breeches and Gaiters.”—A domestic drama. A misfit at the Adelphi.
“The Wig and Wig-box.”—A broad farce, made to fit little Keeley or anybody else.
“The Smock-frock and Highlows.”—A tragedy in humble life, with a terrificdénouement.
*∗* The above will be found to be manufactured out of the best materials, and well worthy the attention of those gentlemen who have so nobly come forward to rescue the stage from its present degraded position.
The scarcity of money is frightful. As much as a hundred per cent., to be paid in advance, has been asked upon bills; but we have not yet heard of any one having given it. There was an immense run for gold, but no one got any, and the whole of the transactions of the day were done in copper. An influential party created some sensation by coming into the market late in the afternoon, just before the close of business, with half-a-crown; but it was found, on inquiry, to be a bad one. It is expected that if the dearth of money continues another week, buttons must be resorted to. A party, whose transactions are known to be large, succeeded in settling his account with the Bulls, by means of postage-stamps; an arrangement of which the Bears will probably take advantage.
A large capitalist in the course of the day attempted to change the direction things had taken, by throwing an immense quantity of paper into the market; but as no one seemed disposed to have anything to do with it, it blew over.
The parties to the Dutch Loan are much irritated at being asked to take their dividends in butter; but, after the insane attempt to get rid of the Spanish arrears by cigars, which, it is well known, ended in smoke, we do not think the Dutch project will be proceeded with.
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The “mysterious and melodramatic silence” which Mr. C. Mathews promised to observe as to his intentions in regard to the present season, has at length been broken. On Monday last, September the sixth, Covent Garden Theatre opened to admit a most brilliant audience. Amongst thecompanywe noticed Madame Vestris, Mr. Oxberry, Mr. Harley, Miss Rainsforth, and several otherdistingué artistes. It would seem, from the substitution of Mr. Oxberry for Mr. Keeley, that the former gentleman is engaged to take the place of the latter. Whispers are afloat that, in consequence, one of the most important scenes in the play is to be omitted. Though of little interest to the audience, it was of the highest importance to the gentleman whose task it has hitherto been to perform the parts of Quince, Bottom, and Flute.
We, who are conversant with all the mysteries of theflats’side of thegreencurtain, beg to assure our readers, that the Punch scene hath takenwing, and that the dressing-room of the above-named characters will no longer be redolent of the fumes of compounded bowls. We may here remark that, had our hint of last season been attended to, the Punch would have still been continued:—Mr. Harley would not consent to have the flies picked out of the sugar. Rumour is busy with the suggestion that for this reason, and this only, Keeley seceded from the establishment.
Three characters pour into a bowl marked PUNCH.
We think it exceedingly unwise in the management not to have secured the services of Madame Corsiret for the millinery department. Mr. Wilson still supplies the wigs. We have not as yet been able to ascertain to whom the swords have been consigned. Mr. Emden’s assistant superintends the blue-fire and thunder, but it has not transpired who works the traps.
With such powerful auxiliaries, we can promise Mr. C. Mathews a prosperous season.
Quoth Will, “On that young servant-maidMy heart its life-string stakes.”“Quite safe!” cries Dick, “don’t be afraid—She pays for all she breaks.”
Quoth Will, “On that young servant-maidMy heart its life-string stakes.”“Quite safe!” cries Dick, “don’t be afraid—She pays for all she breaks.”
Quoth Will, “On that young servant-maid
My heart its life-string stakes.”
“Quite safe!” cries Dick, “don’t be afraid—
She pays for all she breaks.”
Theiniquitiesof the Tories having become proverbial, the House of Lords, with that consideration for the welfare of the country, and care for the morals of the people, which have ever characterised the compeers of the Lord Coventry, have brought in a bill for the creation oftwoVice-Chancellors. Brougham foolishly proposed an amendment, considering one to be sufficient, but found himself in asingularminority when the House
A man tumbles from a carriage.DIVIDED ON THE MOTION.
DIVIDED ON THE MOTION.
In the Egyptian room of the British Museum is a statue of the deity IBIS, between two mummies. This attracted the attention of Sibthorp, as he lounged through the room the other day with a companion. “Why,” said his friend, “is that statue placed between the other two?” “To preserve it to be sure,” replied the keenly-witted Sib. “You know the old saying teaches us, ‘In medio tutissimus Ibis.’”
Two men cross swords to make a letter M.
Mercy on us, what a code of morality—what a conglomeration of plots (political, social, and domestic)—what an exemplar of vice punished and virtue rewarded—is the “Newgate Calendar!” and Newgate itself! what tales might it not relate, if its stones could speak, had its fetters the gift of tongues!
But these need not be so gifted: the proprietor of the Victoria Theatre supplies the deficiency: the dramatic edition of Old-Bailey experience he is bringing out on each successive Monday, will soon be complete; and when it is, juvenile Jack Sheppards and incipient Turpins may complete their education at the moderate charge of sixpence per week. The “intellectualization of the people” must not be neglected: the gallery of the Victoria invites to its instructive benches the young, whose wicked parents have neglected their education—the ignorant, who know nothing of the science of highway robbery, or the more delicate operations of picking pockets. National education is the sole aim of the sole lessee—money is no object; but errand-boys and apprenticesmusttake their Monday night’s lessons, even if they rob the till. By this means an endless chain of subjects will be woven, of which the Victoria itself supplies the links; the “Newgate Calendar” will never be exhausted, and the cause of morality and melodrama continue to run a triumphant career!
The leaf of the “Newgate Calendar” torn out last Monday for the delectation and instruction of the Victoria audience, was the “Life and Death of James Dawson,” a gentleman rebel, who was very properly hanged in 1746.
The arrangement of incidents in this piece was evidently an appeal to the ingenuity of the audience—our own penetration failed, however, in unravelling the plot. There was a drunken, gaming, dissipated student of St. John’s, Cambridge—a friend in a slouched hat and an immense pair of jack-boots, and a lady who delicately invites her lover (the hero) “to a private interview and a cold collation.” There is something about a five-hundred-pound note and a gambling-table—a heavy throw of the dice, and a heavier speech on the vices of gaming, by a likeness of the portrait of Dr. Dilworth that adorns the spelling-books. The hero rushes off in a state of distraction, and is followed by the jack-boots in pursuit; the enormous strides of which leave the pursued but little chance, though he has got a good start.
At another time two gentlemen appear in kilts, who pass their time in a long dialogue, the purport of which we were unable to catch, for they were conversing in stage-Scotch. A man then comes forward bearing a clever resemblance to the figure-head of a snuff-shop, and after a few words with about a dozen companions, the entire body proceed to fight a battle; which is immediately done behind the scenes, by four pistols, a crash, and the double-drummer, whose combined efforts present us with a representation of—as the bills kindly inform us—the “Battle of Culloden!” The hero is taken prisoner; but the villain is shot, and his jack-boots are cut off in their prime.
James Dawson is not despatched so quickly; he takes a great deal of dying,—the whole of the third act being occupied by that inevitable operation. Newgate—a “stock” scene at this theatre—an execution, a lady in black and a state of derangement, a muffled drum, and a “view of Kennington Common,” terminate the life of “James Dawson,” who, we had the consolation to observe, from the apathy of the audience, will not be put to the trouble of dying for more than half-a-dozen nights longer.
Before the “Syncretic Society” publishes its next octavo on the state of the Drama, it should send a deputation to the Victoria. There they will observe the written and acted drama in the lowest stage it is possible for even their imaginations to conceive. Even “Martinuzzi” will bear comparison with the “Life and Death of James Dawson.”
At the “Boarding School” established by Mr. Bernard in the Haymarket Theatre, young ladies are instructed in flirting and romping, together with the use of the eyes, at the extremely moderate charges of five and three shillings per lesson; those being the prices of admission to the upper and lower departments of Mr. Webster’s academy, which is hired for the occasion by that accomplished professor of punmanship Bayle Bernard. The course of instruction was, on the opening of the seminary, as follows:—
The lovely pupils were first seen returning from their morning walk in double file, hearts beating and ribbons flying; for they encountered at the door of the school three yeomanry officers. The military being very civil, the eldest of the girls discharged a volley of glances; and nothing could exceed the skill and precision with which the ladies performed their eye-practice, the effects of which were destructive enough to set the yeomanry in a complete flame; and being thus primed and loaded for closer engagements with their charming adversaries, they go off.
The scholars then proceed to their duties in the interior of the academy, and we find them busily engaged in the study of “The Complete Loveletter[pg 108]Writer.” It is wonderful the progress they make even in one lesson; the basis of it being abilleteach has received from the red-coats. The exercises they have to write are answers to the notes, and were found, on examination, to contain not a single error; thus proving the astonishing efficacy of the Bernardian system of “Belles’ Lettres.”
Meanwhile the captain, by despatching his subalterns on special duty, leaves himself a clear field, and sets a good copy in strategetics, by disguising himself as a fruit-woman, and getting into the play-ground, for the better distribution of apples and glances, lollipops and kisses, hard-bake and squeezes of the hand. The stratagem succeeds admirably; the enemy is fast giving way, under the steady fire of shells (Spanish-nut) and kisses, thrown with great precision amongst their ranks, when the lieutenant and cornet of the troop cause a diversion by an open attack upon the fortress; and having made a practicable breach (in their manners), enter without the usual formulary of summoning the governess. She, however, appears, surrounded by her staff, consisting of a teacher and a page, and the engagement becomes general. In the end, the yeomanry are routed with great loss—their hearts being made prisoners by the senior students of this “Royal Military Academy.”
The yeomanry, not in the least dispirited by this reverse, plan a fresh attack, and hearing that reinforcements areen route, in the persons of the drawing, dancing, and writing masters of the “Boarding School,” cut off their march, and obtain a second entrance into the enemy’s camp, under false colours; which their accomplishments enable them to do, for the captain is a good penman, the lieutenant dances and plays the fiddle, and the cornet draws to admiration, especially—“at a month.” Under such instructors the young ladies make great progress, the governess being absent to see after the imaginary daughter of a fictitious Earl of Aldgate. On her return, however, she finds her pupils in a state of great insubordination, and suspecting the teachers to be incendiaries, calls in a major of yeomanry (who, unlike the rest of his troop, is an ally of the lady), to put them out. The invaders, however, retreat by the window, but soon return by the door in their uniform, to assist their major in quelling the fears of the minors, and to complete the course of instruction pursued at the Haymarket “Boarding School.”
Mr. J. Webster, asCaptain Harcourt, played as well as he could: and so did Mr. Webster asLieutenant Varley, which was very well indeed, forhecannot perform anything badly, were he to try. An Irish cornet, in the mouth of Mr. F. Vining, was bereft of his proper brogue; but this loss was the less felt, as Mr. Gough personated the English Major with theraleTipperary tongue.Mrs. Grosdenapwas a perfect governess in the hands of Mrs. Clifford, and the hoydens she presided over exhibited true specimens of a finishing school, especially Miss P. Horton;—that careful and pleasingartiste, who stamps character upon everything she does, and individuality upon everything she says. In short, all the parts in the “Boarding School” are so well acted, that one cannot help regretting when it breaks up for the evening. The circulars issued by its proprietors announce that it will be open every night, from ten till eleven, up to the Christmas holidays.
As a subject, this is a perfectly fair, nay, moral one; despite some silly opinions that have stated to the contrary. Satire, when based upon truth, is the highest province of the stage, which enables us to laugh away folly and wickedness, when they cannot be banished by direct exposure. Ladies’ boarding-schools form, in the mass, a gross and fearful evil, to which the Haymarket author has cleverly awakened attention. Why they are an evil, might be easily proved, but a theatrical critique in PUNCH is not precisely the place for a discussion on female education.
The “Council of the Dramatic Authors’ Theatre” enticed us from home on Monday last, by promising what as yet they have been unable to perform—“Enjoyment.” As usual, they obtained our company under false pretences: for if any “enjoyment” were afforded by their new farce, the actors had it all to themselves.
It is astonishing how vain some authors are of their knowledge of any particular subject. Brewster monopolises that of the polarization of light and kaleidoscopes—poor Davy surfeited us with choke damps and the safety lantern—the author of “Enjoyment” is great on the subject of cook-shops; the whole production being, in fact, a dramatic lecture on the “slap-bang” system.Mr. Bang, the principal character, is the master of an eating-house, to which establishment all the other persons in the piece belong, and all are made to display the author’s practical knowledge of the internal economy of a cook-shop. Endless are the jokes about sausages—roast and boiled beef are cut, and come to again, for a great variety of facetiæ—in short, the entire stock of fun is cooked up from the bill of fare. The master gives his instructions to his “cutter” about “working up the stale gravy” with the utmost precision, and the “sarver out” undergoes a course of instruction highly edifying to inexperienced waiters.
This burletta helps to develop the plan which it is the intention of the “council” to follow up in their agonising efforts to resuscitate the expiring drama. They, it is clear, mean to make the stage a vehicle for instruction.
Miss Martineau wrote a novel called “Berkeley the Banker,” to teach political economy—the “council” have produced “Enjoyment” as an eating-house keepers’ manual, complete in one act. This mode of dramatising the various guides to “trade” and to “service” is, however, to our taste, more edifying than amusing; for much of the author’s learning is thrown away upon the mass of audiences, who are only waiters between the acts. They cannot appreciate the nice distinctions between “buttocks and rounds,” neither does everybody perceive the wit ofJoey’selegant toast, “Cheap beef and two-pence for the waiter!” This kind of erudition—like that expended upon Chinese literature and the arrow-headed hieroglyphics of Asia Minor—is confined to too small a class of the public for extensive popularity, though it may be highly amusing to the table-d’hôte and ham-and-beef interest.
The chief beauty of the plot is its extreme simplicity; a half-dozen words will describe it:—Mr. Banggoes out for a day’s “Enjoyment,” and is disappointed! This is the head and front of the farceur’s offending—no more. Any person eminently gifted with patience, and anxious to give it a fair trial, cannot have a better opportunity of testing it than by spending a couple of hours in seeing that single incident drag its slow length along, and witnessing a new comedian, named Bass, roll his heavy breadth about in hard-working attempts to be droll. As a specimen of manual labour in comedy, we never saw the acting of thisdébutantequalled.
We are happy to find that, determined to give “livingEnglishdramatists a clear stage and fair play,” the “Council” are bringing forward a series of stale translations from theFrenchin rapid succession. The “Married Rake,” and “Perfection,”—one by an author no longer “living,” both loans from theMagasin Théâtral—have already appeared.
The members of this institution have, with their usual liberality, given the use of their Galleries for the exhibition of the pictures selected by the prize-holders of the Art-Union of London of the present year. The works chosen are 133 in number; and as they are the representatives of “charming variety,” it is naturally to be expected that, in most instances, the selection does not proclaim that perfect knowledge of the material from which the 133 jewel-hunters have had each an opportunity of choosing; nevertheless, it is a blessed reflection, and a proof of the philanthropic adaptation of society to societies’ means—a beneficent dovetailing—an union of sympathies—that to every one painter who is disabled from darting suddenly into the excellencies of his profession, there are, at least, one thousand “connoisseurs” having an equal degree of free-hearted ignorance in the matter, willing to extend a ready hand to his weakly efforts, and without whose generosity he could never place himself within the observation and patronage of the better informed in art. As this lottery was formed to give an interest, indiscriminately, to the mass who compose it, the setting apart so large a sum as £300 for a prize is, in our humble opinion, anything but well judged.
The painter of a picture worth so high a sum needs not the assistance which the lottery affords; and although it may be urged, that some one possessing sufficient taste, but insufficient means to indulge that taste, might, perchance, obtain the high prize, it is evident that such bald reasoning is adduced only to support individual interest. The principle is, consequently, inimical to those upon which the Art-Union of London was founded; and, farther, it is most undeniable, that more general good, and consequent satisfaction, would arise both to the painter and the public (i.e.that portion of the public whose subscriptions form the support of the undertaking), had the large prize been divided into two, four, or even six other, and by no means inconsiderable ones. We are fully aware of the benefits that have been conferred and received, and that must still continue to be so, from this praiseworthy undertaking. As an observer of these things, we cannot withhold expressing our opinions upon any part of the system which, in honest thought, appears imperfect, or not so happily directed as it might be. But should PUNCH become prosy, his audience will vanish.
To prevent those visitors to this exhibition, who do not profess an intimacy with the objects herein collected for their amusement, from being misled by the supposititious circumstance of the highest prize having commanded the best picture, we beg to point to their attention the following peculiarities (by no means recommendatory) in the work selected by the most fortunate of thejewel-hunters; it is catalogued “The Sleeping Beauty,” by D. Maclise, R.A., and assuredly painted with the most independent disdain for either law or reason. Never has been seen so signal a failure in attempting to obtain repose by the introduction of so many sleeping figures. The appointment of parts to form the general whole, the first and last aim of every other painter, D. Maclise, R.A., has most gallantly disregarded. If there be effect, it certainly is not in the right place, or rather there is no concentration of effect; it possesses the glare of a coloured print, and that too of a meretricious sort—incidents there are, but no plot—less effect upon the animate than the inanimate. The toilet-table takes precedence of the lady—the couch before the sleeper—the shadow, in fact, before the substance; and as it is a sure mark of a vulgar mind to dwell upon the trifles, and lose the substantial—to scan the dress, and neglect the wearer, so we opine the capabilities of D. Maclise, R.A., are brought into requisition to accommodate such beholders. He has, moreover, carefully avoided any approximation to the vulgarity of flesh and blood, in his representations of humanity; and has, therefore, ingeniously sought the delicacy of Dresden china for his models. To conclude our notice, we beg to suggest the addition of a torch and a rosin-box, which, with the assistance of Mr. Yates, or the Wizard of the North, would render it perfect (whereas, without these delusive adjuncts, it is not recognisable in its puppet-show propensities) as a first-rate imitation of the last scene in a pantomime.
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DESCRIPTION
Kindness was a characteristic of Agamemnon’s disposition, and it is not therefore a matter of surprise that “the month”—themonth,par excellence, of “all the months i’the kalendar”—produced a succession of those annoyances which, in the best regulated families, are certain to be partially experienced by the masculine progenitor. O, bachelors! be warned in time; let not love link you to his flowery traces and draw you into the temple of Hymen! Be not deluded by the glowing fallacies of Anacreon and Boccaccio, but remember that they were bachelors. There is nothing exhilarating in caudle, nor enchanting in Kensington-gardens, when you are converted into a light porter of children. We have been married, and are now seventy-one, and wear a “brown George;” consequently, we have experience and cool blood in our veins—two excellent auxiliaries in the formation of a correct judgment in all matters connected with the heart.
Our pen must have been the pinion of a wild goose, or why these continued digressions?
Agamemnon’s troubles commenced with the first cough of Mrs. Pilcher on the door-mat. Mrs. P. was the monthly nurse, and monthly nurses always have a short cough. Whether this phenomenon arises from the obesity consequent upon arm-chairs and good living, or from an habitual intimation that they are present, and have not received half-a-crown, or a systematic declaration that the throat is dry, and would not object to a gargle of gin, and perhaps a little water, or—but there is no use hunting conjecture, when you are all but certain of not catching it.
Mrs. Pilcher was “the moral of a nurse;” she was about forty-eight and had, according to her own account, “been the mother of eighteen lovely babes, born in wedlock,” though her most intimate friends had never been introduced to more than one young gentleman, with a nose like a wart, and hair like a scrubbing-brush. When he made hisdebut, he was attired in a suit of blue drugget, with the pewter order of the parish of St. Clement on his bosom; and rumour declared that he owed his origin to half-a-crown a week, paid every Saturday. Mrs. Pilcher weighed about thirteen stone, including her bundle, and a pint medicine-bottle, which latter article she invariably carried in her dexter pocket, filled with a strong tincture of juniper berries, and extract of cloves. This mixture had been prescribed to her for what she called a “sinkingness,” which afflicted her about 10 A.M., 11 A.M. (dinner), 2 P.M., 3 P.M. 4 P.M. 5 P.M. (tea), 7 P.M., 8 P.M. (supper), 10 P.M., and at uncertain intervals during the night.
Mrs. Pilcher was a martyr to a delicate appetite, for she could never “make nothing of a breakfast if she warn’t coaxed with a Yarmouth bloater, a rasher of ham, or a little bit of steak done with the gravy in.”
Her luncheon was obliged to be a mutton-chop, or a grilled bone, and a pint of porter, bread and cheese having the effect of rendering her “as cross as two sticks, and as sour as werjuice.” Her dinner, and its satellites, tea and supper, were all required to be hot, strong, and comfortable. A peculiar hallucination under which she laboured is worthy of remark. When eating, it was always her declared conviction that shenever drank anything, and when detected coquetting with a pint pot or a tumbler, she was equally assured that she neverdid eat anything after her breakfast.
Mrs. Pilcher’s duties never permitted her to take anything resembling continuous rest; she had therefore another prescription for an hour’s doze after dinner. Mrs. Pilcher was also troubled with a stiffness of the knee-joints, which never allowed her to wait upon herself.
When this amiable creature had deposited herself in Collumpsion’s old easy-chair, and, with her bundle on her knees, gasped out her first inquiry—
“I hopes all’s as well as can be expected?”
The heart ofPaterCollumpsion trembled in his bosom, for he felt that to this incongruous mass was to be confided the first blossom of his wedded love; and that for one month the dynasty of 24, Pleasant-terrace was transferred from his hands to that of Mrs. Waddledot, his wife’s mother, and Mrs. Pilcher, the monthly nurse. There was a short struggle for supremacy between the two latter personages; but an angry appeal having been made to Mrs. Applebite, by the lady, “who hadnussedthe first families in this land, and, in course, know’d her business,” Mrs. Waddledot was forced to yield to Mrs. Pilcher’s bundle intransitu, and Mrs. Applebite’s hysterics in perspective.
Mrs. Pilcher was a nursery Macauley, and had the faculty of discovering latent beauties in very small infants, that none but doting parents ever believed. Agamemnon was an early convert to her avowed opinions of the heir of Applebite, who, like all other heirs of the same age, resembled a black boy boiled—that is, if there is any affinity between lobsters and niggers. This peculiar style of eloquence rendered her other eccentricities less objectionable; and when, upon one occasion, the mixture of juniper and cloves had disordered her head, instead of comforting her stomachic regions, she excused herself by solemnly declaring, that “the brilliancy of the little darling’s eyes, and his intoxicating manners, had made her feel as giddy as a goose.” Collumpsion and Theresa both declared her discernment was equal to her caudle, of which, by-the-bye, she was an excellent concocter and consumer.
Old John and the rest of the servants, however, had no parental string at which Mrs. Pilcher could tug, and the consequence was, that they decided that she was an insufferable bore. Old John, in particular, felt the ill effects of the heir of Applebite’s appearance in the family, and to such a degree did they interfere with his old comforts, without increasing his pecuniary resources, that he determined one morning, when taking up his master’s shaving water, absolutely to give warning; for what with the morning calls, and continual ringing for glasses—the perpetual communication kept up between the laundry-maid and the mangle, and of which he was the circulating medium—the insolence of the nurse, who had ordered him to carry five soiled—never mind—down stairs: all these annoyances combined, the old servant declared were too much for him.
Collumpsion laid his hand on John’s shoulder, and pointing to some of the little evidences of paternity which had found their way even into his dormitory, said, “John, think what I suffer; do not leave me; I’ll raise your wages, and engage a boy to help you; but you are the only thing that reminds me of my happy bachelorhood—you are the only one that can feel a—feel a—”
“Caudleregard,” interrupted John.
“Caudle be ——.” The “rest is silence,” for at that moment Mrs. Waddledot entered the room, gave a short scream, and went out again.
The month passed, and a hackney-coach, containing a bundle and the respectable Mrs. Pilcher, &c., rumbled from the door of No. 24, to the infinite delight of old John the footman, Betty the housemaid, Esther the nurserymaid, Susan the cook, and Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite the proprietor.
How transitory is earthly happiness! How certain its uncertainty! A little week had passed, and the “Heir of Applebite” gave notice of his intention to come into his property during an early minority, for his once happy progenitor began to entertain serious intentions of employing a coroner’s jury to sit upon himself, owing to the incessant and “ear-piercing pipe” of his little cherub. Vainly did he bury his head beneath the pillow, until he was suffused with perspiration—the cry reached him there and then. Cold air was pumped into the bed by Mrs. Applebite, as she rocked to and fro, in the hope of quieting the “son of the sleepless.” Collumpsion was in constant communication with the dressing-table—now for moist-sugar to stay the hiccough—then for dill-water to allay the stomach-ache. To save his little cherub from convulsions, twice was he converted into a night-patrole, with the thermometer below zero—a bad fire, with a large slate in it, and an empty coal-scuttle.
“Variety,” say our school copy-books, “is charming;” hence this must be the most charming place of amusement in London. The annexed list of entertainments was produced on Tuesday last, when were added to the usualpasse-temps, a flower and fruit show. Wild beasts in cages; flowers of all colours and sizes in pots; enormous cabbages; Brobdignag apples; immense sticks of rhubarb; a view of Rome; a brass band; a grand Roman cavalcade passing over the bridge of St. Angelo; a deafening park of artillery, and an enchanting series of pyrotechnic wonders, such as catherine-wheels, flower-pots, and rockets; an illumination of St. Peter’s; blazes of blue-fire, showers of steel-filings, and a grand blow up of the castle of St. Angelo.
Such are the entertainments provided by the proprietor. The company—which numbered at least from five to six thousand—gave them even greater variety. Numerous pic-nic parties were seated about on the grass; sandwiches, bottled stout, and (with reverence be it spoken) more potent liquors seemed to be highly relished, especially by the ladies. Ices were sold at a pastry-cook’s stall, where a continuedfeu-de-joieof ginger-pop was kept up during the whole afternoon and evening. In short, the scene was one of completeal frescoenjoyment; how could it be otherwise? The flowers delighted the eye; Mr. Godfrey’s well-trained band (to wit, Beethoven’s symphony in C minor, with all the fiddle passages beautifully executed upon clarionets!) charmed the ear; and the edibles and drinkables aforesaid the palate. Under such a press of agreeables, the Surrey Zoological Gardens well deserve the name of an Englishman’s paradise.
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To the progress of science and the rapid march of moral improvement the most effectual spur that has ever been applied was the Reform Bill. Before the introduction of that measure, electioneering was a simple process, hardly deserving the name of an art; it has now arrived at the rank of a science, the great beauty of which is, that, although complicated in practice, it is most easy of acquirement. Under the old system boroughs were bought by wholesale, scot and lot; now the traffic is done by retail. Formerly there was but one seller; at present there must be some thousands at least—all to be bargained with, all to be bought. Thus the “agency” business of electioneering has wonderfully increased, and so have the expenses.
In fact, an agent is to an election what the main-spring is to a watch; he is, in point of fact, the real returning-officer. His importance is not less than the talents and tact he is obliged to exert. He must take a variety of shapes, must tell a variety of lies, and perform the part of an animated contradiction. He must benevolently pay the taxes of one man who can’t vote while in arrear; and cruelly serve notices of ejectment upon another, though he can show his last quarter’s receipt—he must attend temperance meetings, and make opposition electors too drunk to vote. He must shake hands with his greatest enemy, andpalmoff upon him lasting proofs of friendship, and silver-paper hints which way to vote. He must make flaming speeches about principle, puns about “interest,” and promises concerning everything, to everybody. He must never give less than five pounds for being shorn by an honest and independent voter, who never shaves for less than two-pence—nor under ten, for a four-and-ninepenny goss to an uncompromising hatter. He must present ear-rings to wives, bracelets to daughters, and be continually broaching a hogshead for fathers, husbands, and brothers. He must get up fancy balls, and give away fancy dresses to ladies whom he fancies—especially if they fancy his candidate, and their husbands fancy them. He must plan charities, organise mobs, causing free-schools to be knocked up, and opponents to be knocked down. Finally, he must do all these acts, and spend all these sums purely for the good of his country; for, although a select committee of the house tries the validity of the election—though they prove bribery, intimidation, and treating to everybody’s satisfaction, yet they always find out that the candidate has had nothing to do with it—that the agent is nothisagent, but has acted solely on patriotic grounds; by which he is often so completely a martyr, that he is, after all, actually prosecuted for bribery, by order of the very house which he has helped to fill, and by the very man (as a part of the parliament) he has himself returned.
That this great character might not be lost to posterity, we furnish our readers with the portrait of
A man made of a whisky barrel (Best British), 'Cheap Bread', etc., standing on a banner marked 'Independence'.AN ELECTION AGENT.
AN ELECTION AGENT.
This useful society will shortly publish its Report; and, though we have not seen it, we are enabled to guess with tolerable accuracy what will be the contents of it:
In the first place, we shall be told the number of pins picked up in the course of the day, by a person walking over a space of fifteen miles round London, with the number of those not picked up; an estimate of the class of persons that have probably dropped them, with the use they were being put to when they actually fell; and how they have been applied afterwards.
The Report will also put the public in possession of the number of pot-boys employed in London; what is the average number of pots they carry out; and what is the gross weight of metal in the pots brought back again. This interesting head will include a calculation of how much beer is consumed by children who are sent to fetch it in jugs; and what is the whole amount of malt liquor, the value of which reaches the producer’s pocket, while the mouth of the consumer, and not that of the party paying for it, receives the sole benefit.
There are also to be published with the Report elaborate tables, showing how many quarts of milk are spilt in the course of a year in serving customers; what proportion of water it contains; and what are the average ages and breed of the dogs who lap it up; and how much is left unlapped up to be absorbed in the atmosphere.
When this valuable Report is published, we shall make copious extracts.
Novelty is certainly the order of the day. Anything that does not deviate from the old beaten track meets with little encouragement from the present race of amusement-seekers, and, consequently, does not pay theentrepreneur. Nudity in public adds fresh charms to the orchestra, and red-fire and crackers have become absolutely essential to harmony. Acting upon this principle, Signor Venafragave(we admire the term) a fancy dress ball at Drury-lane Theatre on Monday evening last, upon a plan hitherto unknown in England, but possibly, like the majority of deceptive delusions now so popular, of continental origin. The whole of the evening’s entertainment took place in cabs and hackney-coaches, and those vehicles performed several perfectly new and intricate figures in Brydges-street, and the other thoroughfares adjoining the theatres. The music provided for the occasion appeared to be an organ-piano, which performed incessantly at the corner of Bow-street, during the evening. Most of theéliteof Hart-street and St. Giles’s graced the animated pavement as spectators. So perfectly successful was the whole affair—on the word of laughing hundreds who came away saying they had never been so amused in their lives—that we hear it is in agitation never to attempt anything of the kind again.
Dunn, the bailless barrister, complained to his friend Charles Phillips, that upon the last occasion he had the happiness of meeting Miss Burdett Coutts on the Marine Parade, notwithstanding all he has gone through for her, she would not condescend to take the slightest notice of him. So far from offering anything in the shape of consolation, the witty barrister remarked, “Upon my soul, her conduct was in perfect keeping with her situation, for what on earth could be more in unison with a sea-view than
A man carves 'Snooks' into a tree.A CUTTER ON THE BEACH?”
A CUTTER ON THE BEACH?”
It is well known that the piers of Westminster Bridge have considerably sunk since their first erection. They are not the only peers, in the same neighbourhood that have become lowered in the position they once occupied.
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He who widely, yet ascensively, expatiates in those in-all-ways-sloping fields of metaphysical investigation which perplex whilst they captivate, and bewilder whilst they allure, cannot evitate the perception of perception’s fallibility, nor avoid the conclusion (if that can be called a conclusion to which, it may be said, there are no premises extant) that the external senses are but deceptivemediaof interior mental communication. It behoves the ardent, youthful explorator, therefore, to ——, &c. &c.
In the Promethean persecutions which assail the insurgent mentalities of the youth and morning vigour of the inexpressible human soul, when, flushed with Æolian light, and, as it were, beaded with those lustrous dews which the eternal Aurora lets fall from her melodious lip; if it escape living from the beak of the vulture (no fable here!), then, indeed, it may aspire to ——, &c. &c.
If, with waxen Icarian wing, we seek to ascend to that skiey elevation whence only can the understretching regions of an impassive mutability be satisfactorily contemplated; and if, in our heterogeneous ambition, aspirant above self-capacity, we approach too near the flammiferous Titan, and so become pinionless, and reduced again to an earthly prostration, what marvel is it, that ——, &c. &c.
When the perennial Faustus, ever-resident in the questioning spirit of immortal man, attempts his first outbreak into the domain of unlimited inquiry, unless he take heed of the needfully-cautious prudentialities of mundane observance, there infallibly attends him a fatal Mephistophelean influence, of which the malign tendency, from every conclusion of eventuality, is to plunge him into perilous vast cloud-waves of the dream-inhabited vague. Let, then, the young student of infinity ——, &c. &c.
Inarched within the boundless empyrean of thought, starry with wonder, and constellate with investigation; at one time obfuscated in the abysm-born vapours of doubt; at another, radiant with the sun-fires of faith made perfect by fruition; it can amaze no considerative fraction of humanity, that the explorer of the indefinite, the searcher into the not-to-be-defined, should, at dreary intervals, invent dim, plastic riddles of his own identity, and hesitate at the awful shrine of that dread interrogatory alternative—reality, or dream? This deeply pondering, let the eager beginner in the at once linear and circumferent course of philosophico-metaphysical contemplativeness, introductively assure himself that ——, &c. &c.
As, “in the silence and overshadowing of that night whose fitful meteoric fires only herald the descent of a superficial fame into lasting oblivion, the imbecile and unavailing resistance which is made against the doom must often excite our pity for the pampered child of market-gilded popularity;” and as “it is not with such feelings that we behold the dark thraldom and long-suffering of true intellectual strength,” of which the “brief, though frequent, soundings beneath the earthly pressure will be heard even amidst the din of flaunting crowds, or the solemn conclaves of common-place minds,” of which the “obscured head will often shed forth ascending beams that can only be lost in eternity;” and of which the “mighty struggles to upheave its own weight, and that of the superincumbent mass of prejudice, envy, ignorance, folly, or uncongenial force, must ever ensure the deepest sympathy of all those who can appreciate the spirit of its qualities;” let the initiative skyward struggles towards the zenith-abysses of the inane impalpable ——, &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c.
Dramatic Authors’ Theatre, Sept. 16, 1841.
MASTER PUNCH,—Mind ye’s, I’ve been to see these hereSecretensat the English Uproar ’Ouse, and thinks, mind ye’s, they aint by no means the werry best Cheshire; but what I want to know is this here—Why don’t they give that wenerable old genelman, Mr. Martinussy, the Hungry Cardinal, something to eat?—he is a continually calling out for some of his Countrys Weal, (which, I dare say, were werry good) and he don’t never git so much as a sandvich dooring the whole of his life and death—I mention dese tings, because, mind ye’s, it aint werry kind of none on ‘em.
I remains, Mr. PUNCH, Sir, yours truly,
DEF BURKE,