[pg 178]
We have just heard of an event which has shaken the peace of a highly respectable house in St. Martin’s Court, from the chimney-pots to the coal-cellar. Mrs. Brown, the occupier of the first floor, happened, on last Sunday, to borrow of Mrs. Smith, who lived a pair higher in the world, a German silver teapot, on the occasion of her giving a small twankey party to a few select friends. But though she availed herself of Mrs. Smith’s German-silver, to add respectability to hersoirée, she wholly overlooked Mrs. Smith, who wasnotinvited to partake of the festivities. This was a slight that no woman of spirit could endure; and though Mrs. Smith’s teapot was German-silver, she resolved to let Mrs. Brown see that she had herself some real Britanniamettlein her composition. Accordingly when the teapot was sent up the following morning to Mrs. Smith’s apartments, with Mrs. Brown’s “compliments and thanks,” Mrs. Smith discovered or affected to discover, a serious contusion on the lid of the article, and despatched it by her own servant back to Mrs. Brown, accompanied by the subjoined note:—
“Mrs. Smith’s compliments to Mrs. Brown, begs to return the teapott to the latter—in consequence of the ill-usage it has received in her hands.”
“Mrs. Smith’s compliments to Mrs. Brown, begs to return the teapott to the latter—in consequence of the ill-usage it has received in her hands.”
Mrs. Brown, being a woman who piques herself upon her talent at epistolary writing, immediately replied in the following terms:—
“Mrs. Brown’s compliments to Mrs. Smith, begs to say that her paltry teapot received no ill usage from Mrs. Brown.—Mrs. B. will thank Mrs. S. not to put twot’s at the end ofteapotin future.”
“Mrs. Brown’s compliments to Mrs. Smith, begs to say that her paltry teapot received no ill usage from Mrs. Brown.—Mrs. B. will thank Mrs. S. not to put twot’s at the end ofteapotin future.”
This note and the teapot were forthwith sent upstairs to Mrs. Smith, whose indignation being very naturally roused, she again returned the battered affair, with this spirited missive:—
“Mrs. Smith begs to inform Mrs. Brown, that she despises her insinuations, and to say, that she will put as manyt’s as she pleases in herteapot.“P.S.—Mrs. S. expects to be paid 10s. for the injured article.”
“Mrs. Smith begs to inform Mrs. Brown, that she despises her insinuations, and to say, that she will put as manyt’s as she pleases in herteapot.
“P.S.—Mrs. S. expects to be paid 10s. for the injured article.”
Again the teapot was sent upstairs, with the following reply from Mrs. Brown:—
“Mrs. Brown thinks Mrs. Smith a low creature.“P.S.—Mrs. B. won’t pay a farthing.”
“Mrs. Brown thinks Mrs. Smith a low creature.
“P.S.—Mrs. B. won’t pay a farthing.”
The correspondence terminated here, the German-silver teapot remaining instatu quoon the lobby window, between the territories of the hostile powers; and there it might have remained until the present moment, if Mrs. Brown had not declared, in an audible voice, at the foot of the stairs, that Mrs. Smith was acting under the influence of gin, which reaching the ears of the calumniated lady, she rushed down to the landing-place, and seizing the teapot, discharged it at Mrs. Brown’s head, which it fortunately missed, but totally annihilated a plaster figure of Napoleon, which stood in the hall, and materially damaged its own spout. Mrs. Brown, being wholly unsupported at the time, retired hastily within the defences of her own apartments, which Mrs. Smith cannonaded vigorously for upwards of ten minutes with a broom handle; and there is every reason to believe she would shortly have effected a practicable breach, if a reinforcement from the kitchen had not arrived to aid the besieged, and forced the assailant back to her second-floor entrenchments. Mrs. Smith then demanded a truce until evening, which was granted by Mrs. Brown; notwithstanding which the former lady was detected, in defiance of this arrangement, endeavouring toblow upMrs. Brown through the keyhole.
There is no telling how this unhappy difference will terminate; for though at present matters appear tolerably quiet, we know not (as in the case of the Canadas) at what moment we may have to inform our readers that
A grumpy woman sits near a smoky candle.THE BORDERS ARE IN A FLAME.
THE BORDERS ARE IN A FLAME.
We last week described the different strata of society comprehended in the INFERIOR SERIES, and the lower portion of theClapham Group. We now beg to call the attention of our readers to a most important division in the next great formation—which has been termed the TRANSITION CLASS—because the individuals composing it are in a gradual state of elevation, and have a tendency to mix with the superior strata. By referring to the scale which we gave in our first section, it will be seen that the lowest layer in this class is formed by the people who keep shops and one-horse “shays,” and go to Ramsgate for three weeks in the dog-days. They all exhibit evidences of having been thrown up from a low to a high level. The elevating causes are numerous, but the most remarkable are those which arise from the action of unexpected legacies. Lotteries were formerly the cause of remarkable elevations; and speculation in the funds may be still considered as amongst the elevating causes, though their effect is frequently to cause a sudden sinking. Lying immediately above the “shop and shay” people, we find the old substantial merchant, who every day precisely as the clock strikes ten is in the act of hanging up his hat in his little back counting-house in Fenchurch-street. His private house, however, is at Brixton-hill, where the gentility of the family is supported by his wife, two daughters, a piano, and a servant in livery. The best and finest specimens of this strata are susceptible of a slight polish; they are found very useful in the construction of joint stock banks, railroads, and other speculations where a good foundation is required. We now come to theRussell-square group, which comprehends all those people who “live private,” and aim at being thought fashionable and independent. Many individuals of this group are nevertheless supposed by many to be privately connected with some trading concern in the City. It is a distinguishing characteristic of the second layer in this group to have a tendency to give dinners to the superior series, while the specimens of the upper stratum are always found in close proximity to a carriage. Family descent, which is a marked peculiarity of the SUPERIOR CLASS, is rarely to be met with in theRussell-square group. The fossil animals which exist in this group are not numerous: they are for the most part decayed barristers and superannuated doctors. Of the ST. JAMES’S SERIES it is sufficient to say that it consists of four strata, of which the superior specimens are usually found attached to coronets. Most of the precious stones, as diamonds, rubies, emeralds, are also to be found in this layer. The materials of which it is composed are various, and appear originally to have belonged to the inferior classes; and the only use to which it can be applied is in the construction ofpeers. Throughout all the classes there occur what are calledveins, containing diverse substances. Thelarking veinis extremely abundant in the superior classes—it is rich in brass knockers, bell handles, and policemen’s rattles; this vein descends through all the lower strata, the specimens in each differing according to the situation in which they are found; the middle classes being generally discovered deposited in the Coal-hole Tavern or the Cider-cellars, while the individuals of the very inferior order are usually discovered in gin-shops and low pot-houses, and not unfrequently
A drunk lays on the floor surrounded by pitchers and pours the contents of one on his head.EMBEDDED IN QUARTS(Z).
EMBEDDED IN QUARTS(Z).
Father Thames, not content with his customary course, has been “swelling it” in the course of the week, through some of the streets of the metropolis. As if to inculcate temperance, he walked himself down into public-house cellars, filling all the empty casks with water, and adulterating all the beer and spirits that came in his way; turning also every body’s fixed into floating capital. Half empty butts, whose place was below, came sailing up into the bar through the ceiling of the cellar; saucepans were elevated from beneath the dresser to the dresser itself; while cups were made “to pop off the hooks” with surprising rapidity.
But the greatest consternation that prevailed was among therats, particularly those in the neighbourhood of Downing-street, who were driven out of the sewers they inhabit with astounding violence.
The dairies on the banks of the Thames were obliged to lay aside their customary practice of inundating the milk; for such a “meeting of the waters” as would otherwise have ensued must have proved rather too much, even for the regular customers.
Why is it impossible for a watch that indicates the smaller divisions of time ever to be new?—Because it must always be a second-hand one.
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So decidedly does this animal belong to the Bimana order of beings, that to his two legs he is indebted for existence. Most of his fellow bipeds live by the work of their hands, except indeed the feathered and tailor tribes, who live by their bills; but from his thighs, calves, ancles, and toes, does the opera-dancer derive subsistence for the less important portions of his anatomy.
Physiology.—The body, face, and arms of the opera-dancer present no peculiarities above the rest of his species; and it is to his lower extremities alone that we must look for distinguishing features. As our researches extend downwards from head to foot, the first thing that strikes us is a protuberance of the ante-occipital membranes, so great as to present a back view that describes two sides of a scalene triangle, the apex of which projects posteriorly nearly half way down the figure. That a due equilibrium may be preserved in this difficult position (technically called “the first”), the toes are turned out so as to form a right angle with the lower leg. Thus, in walking, this curious being presents a mass of animated straight lines that have an equal variety of inclination to a bundle of rods carelessly tied up, or to Signor Paganini when afflicted with the lumbago.
Habits.—The habits of the opera-dancer vary according as we see him in public or in private life. On the stage he is all spangles and activity; off the stage, seediness and decrepitude are his chief characteristics. It is usual for him to enter upon his public career with a tremendous bound and a hat and feathers. After standing upon one toe, he raises its fellow up to a line with his nose, and turns round until the applause comes, even if that be delayed for several minutes. He then cuts six, and shuffles up to a female of his species, who being his sweetheart (in the ballet), has been looking savage envy at him and spiteful indignation at the audience on account of the applause, which ought to have been reserved for her own capering—to come. When it does, she throws up her arms and steps upon tiptoe about three paces, looking exactly like a crane with a sore heel. Making her legs into a pair of compasses, she describes a circle in the air with one great toe upon a pivot formed with the other; then bending down so that her very short petticoat makes a “cheese” upon the ground, spreads out both arms to therouésin the stalls, who understand the signal, and cry “Brava! brava!!” Rising, she turns her back to display her gauzejupe élastique, which is always exceedinglybouffante: expectorating upon the stage as she retires. She thus makes way for her lover, who, being her professional rival, she invariably detests.
It is singular that in private life the habits of the animal differ most materially according to its sex. The male sometimes keeps an academy and a kit fiddle, but the domestic relations of the female remain a profound mystery; and although Professors Tom Duncombe, Count D’Orsay, Chesterfield, and several other eminent Italian-operatic natural historians, have spent immense fortunes in an ardent pursuit of knowledge in this branch of science, they have as yet afforded the world but a small modicum of information. Perhaps what theyhavelearned is not of a nature to be made public.
Moral Characteristics.—None.
Reproduction.—The offspring of opera-dancers are not, as is sometimes supposed, born with wings; the truth is that these cherubim are frequently attached by their backs to copper wires, and made to represent flying angels in fairy dramas; and those appendages, so far from being natural, are supplied by the property-man, together with the wreaths of artificial flowers which each Liliputian divinity upholds.
Sustenance.—All opera-dancers are decidedly omnivorous. Their appetite is immense; quantity and (for most of them come from France), not quality, is what they chiefly desire. When not dining at their own expense, they eat all they can, and pocket the rest. Indeed, a celebrated sylphide—unsurpassed for the graceful airiness of her evolutions—has been known to make the sunflower in the last scene bend with the additional weight of a roast pig, an apple pie, and sixteenomelettes soufflées—drink, including porter, in proportion. Various philosophers have endeavoured to account for this extraordinary digestive capacity; but some of their arguments are unworthy of the science they otherwise adorn. For example, it has been said that the great exertions to which the dancer is subject demand a corresponding amount of nutriment, and that the copious transudation superinduced thereby requires proportionate supplies of suction; while, in point of fact, if such theorists had studied their subject a little closer, they would have found these unbounded appetites accounted for upon the most simple and conclusive ground: it is clear that, as most opera-dancers’ lives are passed in apirouette, they must naturally have enormous twists!
The geographical distribution of opera-dancersis extremely well defined, as their names implies; for they most do congregate wherever an opera-house exists. Some, however, descend to the non-lyric drama, and condescend to “illustrate” the plays of Shakespeare. It is said that the classical manager of Drury Lane Theatre has secured a company of them to help the singers he has engaged to perform Richard the Third, Coriolanus, and other historical plays.
Why has a clock always a bashful appearance?—Because it always keeps its hands before its face.
TheChroniclehas been making a desperate attempt to come out in Punch’s line; he has absolutely been trying the “Too-too-tooit—tooit;” but has made a most melancholy failure of it. We could forgive him his efforts to be facetious (though we doubt that his readers will) if he had not kidnapped three of our own particular pets—the very men who lived and grew in the world’s estimation on our wits; we mean Peter Borthwick, Ben D’Israeli, and our own immortal Sibthorp. Of poor Sib. the joker of theChroniclesays in last Tuesday’s paper—
“We regret to hear that Col. Sibthorp has suffered severely by cutting himself in the act of shaving. His friends, however, will rejoice to learn that his whiskers have escaped, and that he himself is going on favourably.”
We spent an entire night in endeavouring to discover where the wit lay in thiscuttingparagraph; but were obliged at last to give it up, convinced that we might as well have made
A tailor measures a very tall man.AN ATTEMPT TO DISCOVER THE LONGITUDE.
AN ATTEMPT TO DISCOVER THE LONGITUDE.
What am I? Mary, wherefore seek to know?For mystery’s the very soul of love.Enough, that wedding thee I’m not below,Enough, that wooing thee I’m not above.You smile, dear girl, and look into my faceAs if you’d read my history in my eye.I’m not, sweet maid, a footman out of place,For that position would, I own, be shy.What am I then, you ask? Alas! ’tis clear,You love not me, but what I have a year.What am I, Mary! Well, then, must I tell,And all my stern realities reveal?Come close then to me, dearest, listen well,While what I am no longer I conceal.I serve my fellow-men, a glorious right;Thanks for that smile, dear maid, I know ’tis due.Yes, many have I served by day and night;With me to aid them, none need vainly sue.Nay, do not praise me, love, but nearer come,That I may whisper, I’m abailiff’s bum.Why start thus from me? am I then a thingTo be despised and cast aside by thee?Oh! while to every one I fondly clingAnd follow all, will no one follow me?Oh! if it comes to this, dear girl, no moreShalt thou have cause upon my suit to frown;I’ll serve no writs again; from me secure,John Doe may run at leisure up and down,Come to my arms, but do not weep the less,Thou art the last I’ll e’er take in distress.
What am I? Mary, wherefore seek to know?For mystery’s the very soul of love.Enough, that wedding thee I’m not below,Enough, that wooing thee I’m not above.You smile, dear girl, and look into my faceAs if you’d read my history in my eye.I’m not, sweet maid, a footman out of place,For that position would, I own, be shy.What am I then, you ask? Alas! ’tis clear,You love not me, but what I have a year.
What am I? Mary, wherefore seek to know?
For mystery’s the very soul of love.
Enough, that wedding thee I’m not below,
Enough, that wooing thee I’m not above.
You smile, dear girl, and look into my face
As if you’d read my history in my eye.
I’m not, sweet maid, a footman out of place,
For that position would, I own, be shy.
What am I then, you ask? Alas! ’tis clear,
You love not me, but what I have a year.
What am I, Mary! Well, then, must I tell,And all my stern realities reveal?Come close then to me, dearest, listen well,While what I am no longer I conceal.I serve my fellow-men, a glorious right;Thanks for that smile, dear maid, I know ’tis due.Yes, many have I served by day and night;With me to aid them, none need vainly sue.Nay, do not praise me, love, but nearer come,That I may whisper, I’m abailiff’s bum.
What am I, Mary! Well, then, must I tell,
And all my stern realities reveal?
Come close then to me, dearest, listen well,
While what I am no longer I conceal.
I serve my fellow-men, a glorious right;
Thanks for that smile, dear maid, I know ’tis due.
Yes, many have I served by day and night;
With me to aid them, none need vainly sue.
Nay, do not praise me, love, but nearer come,
That I may whisper, I’m abailiff’s bum.
Why start thus from me? am I then a thingTo be despised and cast aside by thee?Oh! while to every one I fondly clingAnd follow all, will no one follow me?Oh! if it comes to this, dear girl, no moreShalt thou have cause upon my suit to frown;I’ll serve no writs again; from me secure,John Doe may run at leisure up and down,Come to my arms, but do not weep the less,Thou art the last I’ll e’er take in distress.
Why start thus from me? am I then a thing
To be despised and cast aside by thee?
Oh! while to every one I fondly cling
And follow all, will no one follow me?
Oh! if it comes to this, dear girl, no more
Shalt thou have cause upon my suit to frown;
I’ll serve no writs again; from me secure,
John Doe may run at leisure up and down,
Come to my arms, but do not weep the less,
Thou art the last I’ll e’er take in distress.
“Pray, Sir Peter,” said a brother Alderman to the City Laurie-ate the other day, while discussing the merits of Galloway’s plan for a viaduct from Holborn-hill to Skinner-street, “Pray, Sir Peter, can you inform me what is the difference between a viaduct and an aqueduct?” “Certainly,” replied our “City Correspondent,” with amazing condescension; “avia-duckis a land-duck, and anaqua-duckis a water-duck!” The querist confessed he had no idea before of the immensity of Sir Peter’s scientific knowledge.
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A couple next to a flowery tree form a letter P.
Prodigious! The minor drama has exhausted its stock of major crimes: parricide is out of date; infanticide has become from constant occurrence decidedly low; homicide grows tame and uninteresting; and fratricide is a mere bagatelle, not worthy of attention. The dramatist must therefore awaken new sympathies by contriving new crimes—he must invent. In this the Sadler’s Wells genius has been fortunate. He has brought forward a novelty in assassination, which is harrowing in the extreme: it may be calledFarm-house-icide! Just conceive the pitch of intense sympathy it is possible for one to feel, while beholding “themurderof a lone farm-house!” Arson is nothing to it.
Out of this novel domiciliary catastrophe the author of “Margaret Mayfield” has formed a melodrama, which in every other respect is founded, like a chancellor’s decree, upon precedent; it being a good old-fashioned, cut-throat piece, of the leather-breeches-and-gaiter, plough-and-pitchfork school. A country-inn parlour of course commences the story, where certain characters assemble, who reveal enough of themselves and of the characters assumed by their fellows (at that time amusing themselves in the green-room), to let any person the least acquainted with the literature of melodrama into the secret of the entire plot. There is the villain, who is as usual in love with the heroine, and in league with three ill-looking fellows sitting at a separate table. There too is the old-established farmer, who has about him a considerable sum of money—a fact he mentions for the information of his pot-companions, on purpose to be robbed of it. The low comedian as usual disports himself upon a three-legged stool, dressed in the never-to-be-worn-out shortnon-continuations, skirtless coat, and “eccentric” tile.
A scene or two afterwards, and we are surprised to find that the farmer is safely housed, and that he has not been robbed upon a bleak moor on a dark stage. But we soon feel a sensation of awe, when we learn that before us is the interior of the very farm-house that is going to be murdered. The farmer and his wife go through the long-standing dialogue of stage-stereotype, about love and virtue, the price of turnips, and their only child; and the husband goes to some fair with a friend, who had just been rejected by his sister-in-law in favour of the villain. The coast being left clear, the villain and his accomplices enter, and we know something dreadful is going to happen, for the farmer’s wife is gone out of the way on purpose not to interrupt. The villain draws a knife and drags his sweetheart into an out-house, and then the wife comes on to describe what is passing; for the audiences of Sadler’s Wells would tear up the benches if they dared to murder out of sight, without being told what is going on. Accordingly, we hear a scream, and the sister of the screamer exclaims,—“Ah, horror! He draws the knife across her throat! (Great applause.) But no; she takes up a broken ploughshare and escapes! (A slight tendency to hiss.) Now he seizes her hair, he throws her down. Ah! see how the blood streams from her——.” (Intense delight as the woman falls flat upon the boards, supposed to be overcome with dread.) A bloody knife, of course, next enters, grasped by the villain; who, as usual, remarks he is sorry for what has happened, but it can’t be helped, and must be made the best of. The woman having suddenly recovered, escapes into an additional private box, or trunk, placed on the stage for that purpose; stating that she will see what is going on from between the cracks. The villain then murders the child, and walks off with his hands in his pocket; leaving, as is always the case, the fatal knife in a most conspicuous part of the stage, which for some seconds it has all to itself. The farmer comes in, takes up the knife, and falls down in a fit, just in time for the constables to come in and to take him up for the murder. The wife jumps out of the box, and by her assistance a tableau is formed for the act-drop to fall to.
Our readers, of course, guess the rest. The farmer is condemned to be hanged; and in the last scene he is one of the never-omitted procession to the gallows. At the cue, “Now then, I am ready to meet my fate like a man,” the screech in that case always made and provided is heard at a distance. “Hold! hold! he is innocent!” are the next words; and enter the wife with a pair of pistols, and a witness. The executioner pardons the condemned on his own responsibility; and the villain comes on, on purpose to be shot, which is done by the farmer, who seems determined not to be accused of murder for nothing.
To these charming series of murders we may add that of the Queen’s English, which was shockingly maltreated, without the least remorse or mitigation.
Mr. Ross has had the last sitting of the Princess Royal for her portrait, and the Tories the last sitting of Mr. Walter for Nottingham.
Colonel Sibthorp presents his compliments to his dear friend and fellow, PUNCH, and seeing in theTimesof Wednesday last a long account of the extraordinary arithmetical powers of a new calculating machine, invented by Mr. Wertheimber, he is desirous of asking the inventor, through the ubiquitous pages of PUNCH, whether his, Mr. W.’s apparatus—which, as his friend George Robins would say, is a lot which seems to be worthy only of the great Bidder—(he thinks he had him there)—whether this automatical American, or steam calculator, could solve for him the following queries:—
If the House of Commons be divided by Colonel Sibthorp on the Corn Laws, how much will it add to his credit?
How many times will a joke of Colonel Sibthorp’s go into the London newspapers?
Extract the root of Mr. Roebuck’s family tree, and say whether it would come out in anything but vulgar fractions.
Required the difference between political and imperial measures, and state whether the former belong to dry or superficial.
If thirty-six be six square, what is St. James’s-square?—and if the first circles be resident there, say whether this may not be considered as an approximation to the quadrature of the circle.
State thecontentsof the House of Commons upon the next motion of Sir Robert Peel, and whether the malcontents will be greater or less.
Required the capacities in feet between a biped, a quadruped, and a centipede, and say whether the foot of Mr. Joseph Hume, being just as broad as it is long, may not be considered as a square foot.
Express, in harmonious numbers, the proportion between the rhyme and the reason of Mr. Benjamin D’Israeli’s revolutionary epic, and say whether this is not a question ofinverseratio.
Whether, in political progression, the two extremes, Duke of Newcastle and Feargus O’Connor, are equal to the mean Joseph Hume.
Is it possible to multiply the difficulties of the Whigs, and, if so, am I the figure for the part?
What is the difference between the squares of Messrs. Tom Spring and John Gully, and whether the one is the fourth, fifth, or what power of the other?
Peter Borthwick lately arrived at the highest possible pressure of indignation, while reading some of the insolent fulminations from the Celestial Empire. But Peter was sorely at a loss to account for their singular names: he was instantly enlightened by the Finsbury interpreter, our Tom Duncombe, who rendered the matter clear by asserting it was because the Emperor was very partial to a
A Chinese soldier looks at another, surprised Chinese man looking at a paper.CHOP WITH CHINESE SAUCE.
CHOP WITH CHINESE SAUCE.
Joe Hume has written over to Wakley (postage unpaid) begging of him to take warning by his beating at Leeds; as he much fears, should Mr. Wakley continue his present line of conduct, when he next presents himself to his Finsbury constituents there is great probability of
A wagon followed by slaves and men wielding whips.FOLLOWING IN THE BEATEN TRACK.
FOLLOWING IN THE BEATEN TRACK.
[pg 181]
That “great creature,” like some other “great creatures,” happened, as almanacs say, “about this time” to be somewhat “out at elbows;”—not in the way of costume, for the very plenitude of his wardrobe was the cause which produced this effect, inasmuch as the word “received” in the veritable autograph of Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy could nowhere be discovered annexed to the bills thereof: a slight upon their powers of penmanship which roused their individual, collective, and coparcenary ires to such a pitch, that they, Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy, through the medium of their Attorneys-at-law, Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, of Furnival’s Inn, forwarded a writ to the unfortunate Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam,—the which writ in process of time, being the legal seed, became ripened into a very vigorous execution, and was consigned to the care of a gentleman holding aCivilemployment with aMilitarytitle, viz. that of “Officer” to the Sheriff of Middlesex, with strict injunctions to the said—anything butCivilorMilitary—nondescript “officer,” to secure and keep the person of Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam till such time as the debt due to Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy, and the legal charges of Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, should be discharged, defrayed, and liquidated.
Frequent were the meetings of Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles and their man-trap, and as frequent their disappointments:—Fitzflam always gave them the double! Having procured leave of absence from the Town Managers, and finding the place rather too hot to hold him, he departed for the country, and, as fate would have it, arrived at the inn then occupied by Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk.
In this out-of-the-way place he fondly imagined he had never been heard of. Judge then of his surprise, after his dinner and pint of wine, at the following information.
Fitz.“Waiter.”
“Yes, sar.”
“Who have you in the house?”
“Fust of company, sar;—alwaist, sar.”
“Oh! of course;—any one in particular?”
“Yes, sar, very particular: one gentleman very particular, indeed. Has his bed warmed with brown sugar in the pan, and drinks asses’ milk, sar, for breakfast!”
“Strange fellow! but I mean any one of name?”
“Yes, sar, a German, sar; with a name so long, sar, it take all the indoor servants and a stable-helper to call him up of a morning.”
“You don’t understand me. Have you any public people here?”
“Yes, sar—great man from town, sar—belongs to the Theatre—Mr. Fitzflam, sar—quite the gentleman, sar.”
“Thank you for the compliment” (bowing low).
“No compliment at all, sar; would you like to see him, sar?—sell you a ticket, sar; or buy one of you, sar.”
“What?”
“House expected to be full, sar—sure to sell it again, sar.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“The play, sar—Fitzflam, sar!—there’s the bill, sar, and (bell rings) there’s the bell, sar. Coming.” (Exit Waiter.)
The first thing that suggested itself to the mind of Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam was the absolute necessity of insisting upon that insane waiter’s submitting to the total loss of his well-greased locks, and enveloping his outward man in an extra-strong strait-waistcoat; the next was to look at the bill, and there he saw—“horror of horrors!”—the name, “the bright ancestral name”—the name he bore, bursting forth in all the reckless impudence of the largest type and the reddest vermilion!
Anger, rage, and indignation, like so many candidates for the exalted mutton on a greased pole, rushed tumultuously over each other’s heads, each anxious to gain the “ascendant” in the bosom of Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam. To reduce a six-and-ninepenny gossamer to the fac-simile of a bereaved muffin in mourning by one vigorous blow wherewith he secured it on his head, grasp his ample cane and three half-sucked oranges (in case it should come to pelting), and rush to the theatre, was the work of just twelve minutes and a half. In another brief moment, payment having been tendered and accepted, Fitzflam was in the boxes, ready to expose the swindle and the swindler!
The first act was over, and the audience were discussing the merits of the supposed Roscius.
“Heisa sweet young man,” said a simpering damsel to a red-headed Lothario, with just brains enough to be jealous, and spirit enough to damn the player.
“I don’t see it,” responded he of the Rufusian locks.
“Suchdearlegs!”
“Dearlegs—ducklegs you mean, miss!”
“Andsucha voice!”
“Voice! I’ll holler with him for all he’s worth.”
“Ha’ done, do!”
“I shan’t: Fitzflam’s—an—umbug!”
“Sir!” exclaimed Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitz of “that ilk.”
“And Sir to you!” retorted “the child of earth with the golden hair.”
“I suppose I’m a right to speak my mind of that or any other chap I pays to laugh at!”
“It’s a tragedy, James.”
“All the funnier when sich as him comes to play in them.”
“Hush! the curtain’s up.”—So it was; and “Bravo! bravo!” shouted the ladies, and “Hurrah!” shouted the gentlemen. Never had Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam seen such wretched acting, or heard such enthusiastic applause. Round followed round, until, worked up to frenzy at the libel upon his name, and, as he thought, his art, he vociferously exclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, that man’s a d—d impostor! (“Turn him out! throw him over! break his neck!” shouted the gods. “Shame shame!” called the boxes. “You’re drunk,” exclaimed the pit to a man.) I repeat that man is—(“Take that!”—an apple in Fitzflam’s eye.) I say he is another (“There it is!”—in his other eye) person altogether—a—(“Boxkeeper!”) Nothing of the sort; a—(“Constable!”) I’ll take—(“Take that fellow out!”) Allow me to be—(“Off! off!”) I am—(“‘Out! out!”) Let me request.—(“Order! order!—hiss! hiss!—oh! oh!—ah! ah!—phit! phit!—Booh!—booh!—wooh!—oh!—ah!”)”
Here Mr. Fitzfunk came forward, and commenced bowing like a mandarin, while the gentleman who had blacked Fitzflam’s eye desisted from forcing him out of the box, to hear the “great creature” speak. Fitzfunk commenced, “Ahem—Ladies and gentlemen, surrounded as I am by all sorts of—(Bravos from all parts of the house.) Friends! Friends in the boxes!—(“Bravo!” from boxes, with violent waving of handkerchiefs.) Friends in the pit!—(“Hurrah!” and sundry excited hats performing extraordinary aerial gyrations.) And last, not least in my dear love, friends in the gallery!—(Raptures of applause; five minutes’ whistling; three chandeliers and two heads broken; and the owners of seventeen cornsstampedup to frenzy!) Need I fear the malice of an individual? (“Never! never!” from all parts of the house.) Could I deceive you, an enlightened public? (“No! no! impossible! all fudge!”) Would I attempt such a thing? (“No! no! by no manner of means!”) I am, ladies and gentlemen—(“Fitzflam! Fitzflam!”) I bow to your judgment. I have witnesses; shall I produce them?” “No,” said two of his most enthusiastic supporters, scrambling out of the pit, and getting on the stage; “Don’t trouble yourself; we know you; (Omnes. “Hurrah!” To Fitzflam in boxes—“Shame! shame!”)wewill swear to you; (Omnes, ” Fitzflam for ever!”) and—we don’t care who knows it—(Omnes. “Noble fellows!”) we arrest you at the suit of Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy, Regent’s-quadrant, tailors. Attorneys, Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, of Furnival’s Inn. Plaintiff claims 54l.debt and 65l.costs; so come along, will you!”
It was an exceedingly fortunate thing for the representatives of the Sheriff of Middlesex that their exit was marked by more expedition than elegance; for as soon as their real purpose was known, Fitzflam (as the audience supposed Fitzfunk to be) would have been rescuedvi et armis. As it was, they hurried him to a back room at the inn, and carefully double-locked the door. It was also rather singular that from the moment of the officer’s appearance, the gentleman in the boxes whose doubts had caused the disturbance immediately owned himself in the wrong, apologised for his mistake, and withdrew. As the tragedy could not proceed without Fitzfunk, the manager proposed a hornpipe-in-fetters and general dance by the characters; instead of the last act which was accepted, and loudly applauded and encored by the audience.
Seated in his melancholy apartment, well guarded by the bailiff, certain of being discovered and perhaps punished as an impostor, or compelled to part with all his earnings to pay for coats and continuations he had never worn, the luckless Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk gave way to deep despondency, and various “ahs!” and “ohs!” A tap at the door was followed by the introduction of a three-cornered note addressed to himself. The following were its contents:—
“Sir,—It appears from this night’s adventuremy namehas heretofore been useful to you, and on the present occasion your impersonation of it has been useful to me. We are thus far quits.I, as the ‘real Simon Pure,’ will tell you what to do. Protest youare not the man. Get witnesses to hear you say so; and when taken to London (as you will be) and the men are undeceived, threaten to bring an action against the Sheriff unless those harpies, Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, give you 20l.for yourself, and a receipt in full for the debt and costs. Keep my secret; I’ll keep yours. Burn this.—H.F.F.”
No sooner read than done; and all came to pass as the note predicted. Gallowsworthy and Pickles grumbled, but were compelled to pay. Fitzflam and Fitzfunk became inseparable. Fitzflam was even heard to say, he thought in time Fitzfunk would make a decent walking gentleman; and Fitzfunk was always impressed with an opinion thathewas the man of talent, and that Fitzflam would never have been able to succeed in “starring it” where he had been “The Great Creature.”
FUSBOS.
N.B.—The author of this paper has commenced adapting it for stage representation.
“May I be married, ma?” said a lovely girl of fifteen to her mother the other morning. “Married!” exclaimed the astonished matron; “what put such an idea into your head?” “Little Emily, here, has never seen a wedding; and I’d like to amuse the child,” replied the obliging sister, with fascinatingnaïveté.
[pg 182]
A street sweeper forms a letter A together with his broom.
Aserious accident to the double-bass was the extraordinary occurrence alluded to in our last chapter. It appeared that, contrary to theusualcustom of the class of musicians that attend evening parties, the operator upon the double-bass had early in the evening shown slight symptoms of inebriety, which were alarmingly increased during supper-time by a liberal consumption of wine, ale, gin, and other compounds. The harp, flageolet, and first violin, had prudently abstained from drinking—at their own expense, and had reserved their thirstiness for the benefit of the bibicals of the “founder of the feast,” and, consequently, had only attained that peculiar state of sapient freshness which invariably characterises quadrille bands after supper, and had, therefore, overlooked the rapid obfuscation of their more imprudent companion in their earnest consideration of themselves.
Bacchus has long been acknowledged to be the cicerone of Cupid; and accordingly the God of Wine introduced the God of Love into the bosom of the double-bass, who, with a commendable feeling of sociality, instantly invited the cook to join the party. Now Susan, though a staid woman, and weighing, moreover, sixteen stone, was fond of a “hinnocent bit of nonsense,” kindly consented to take just a “sip of red port wine” with the performer upon catgut cables; and everything was progressingallegro, when Cupid wickedly stimulated the double-bass to chuck Susan’s double chin, and then, with the frenzy of a Bacchanal, to attempt the impossibility of encircling the ample waist of his Dulcinea. This was carrying the joke aleetletoo far, and Susan, equally alarmed for her reputation and her habit-shirt, struggled to free herself from the embrace of the votary of Apollo; but the fiddler was not to be so easily disposed of, and he clung to the object of his admiration with such pertinacity that Susan was compelled to redouble her exertions, which were ultimately successful in embedding the double-bass in the body of his instrument. The crash was frightful, and Susan, having vainly endeavoured to free herself from the incubus which had fastened upon her, proceeded to scream most lustily as an overture to a faint. These sounds reached the supper-room, and occasioned the diversion in John’s favour; a simultaneous rush was instantly made to the quarter from whence they proceeded, as the whole range of accidents and offences flashed across the imaginations of the affrighted revellers.
Mrs. Waddledot decided that the china tea-service was no more. Mrs. Applebite felt certain that “the heir” had tumbled into the tea-urn, or had cut another tooth very suddenly. The gentlemen were assured that a foray had taken place upon the hats and cloaks below, and that cabs would be at a premium and colds at a discount. The ladies made various applications of the rest of the catalogue; whilst old John wound up the matter by the consolatory announcement that he “know’d the fire hadn’t been put out by theingines in the morning.”
The general alarm was, however, converted into general laughter when the real state of affairs was ascertained; and Susan having been recovered by burning feathers under her nose, and pouring brandy down her throat, preparations were made for the disinterment of the double-bass. To all attempts to effect such a laudable purpose, the said double-bass offered the most violent opposition, declaring he should never be so happy again, and earnestly entreated Susan to share his heart and temporary residence.
Her refusal of both seemed to cause him momentary uneasiness, for hanging his head upon his breast he murmured out—
“Now she has left me her loss to deplore;”
“Now she has left me her loss to deplore;”
“Now she has left me her loss to deplore;”
and then burst into a loud huzza that rendered some suggestions about the police necessary, which Mr. Double-bass treated with a contempt truly royal. He then seemed to be impressed with an idea that he was the index to a “Little Warbler;” for at the request of no one he proceeded to announce the titles of all the popular songs from the time of Shield downwards. How long he would have continued this vocal category is uncertain; but as exertion seemed rather to increase than diminish his boisterous merriment, the suggestions respecting the police were ordered to be adopted, and accordingly two of the force were requested to remove him from the domicile where he was creating so much discord in lieu of harmony.
Double-bass still continued deaf to all entreaties for silence and progression, and when a stretcher was mentioned grew positively furious, and insisted that, as he had a conveyance of his own, he should be taken to whatever destination they chose to select for him on, or rather in, that vehicle. Accordingly a rattle was sprung, and duly answered by two or three more of those alphabetical gentlemen who emanate from Scotland-yard, by whose united efforts the refractory musician was carried out in triumph, firmly and safely seated in his own ponderous instrument, loudly insisting that he should be conveyed