The title, I think, will strike. The fashion, you know, now, is to do away with old prejudices, and to rescue certain characters from the illiberal odium with which custom has marked them. Thus we have a generous Israelite, an amiable cynic, and so on. Now, Sir, I call my play—The Humane Footpad.—SYLVESTER DAGGERWOOD.
The title, I think, will strike. The fashion, you know, now, is to do away with old prejudices, and to rescue certain characters from the illiberal odium with which custom has marked them. Thus we have a generous Israelite, an amiable cynic, and so on. Now, Sir, I call my play—The Humane Footpad.—SYLVESTER DAGGERWOOD.
Some four or five seasons since, the eccentric Buckstone produced a three-act farce, which, by dint of its after title—The School for Sympathy—and of much highly comic woe, exhibited in the acting of Farren and Nisbett, was presented to uproariously-affected audiences during some score nights. The hinge of the mirth was made to turn upon the irresistible drollery of one man’s running away with another man’s wife, and the outrageous fun of the consequent suicide of the injured husband; thebons motsbeing most tragically humorous, and the aphorisms of the several characters facetiously concatenative of the nouns contained in the leading name of the piece—“LoveandMurder.”
Now this was a magnificent idea—one of those brilliant efforts which cannot but tend to lift the theatre in the estimation of every man of delicacy and education. A new source of attraction was at once discovered,—a vast fund of available fuel was suddenly found to recruit the cinerulent embers of the drama withal. It became evident that, after Joe Miller, the ordinary of Newgate was the funniest dog in the world. Manslaughter, arson, and the more practical jokes in the Calendar, were already familiar to the stage; it was a refinement of the Haymarket authors to introduce those livelier sallies of wit—crim. con. and felo-de-se. The “immense coalitions” of all manner of crimes and vices in the subsequent “highway school”—the gradual development of every unnatural tendency in the youthful Jack Sheppard (another immor-t-al work by the author of the afore-lauded comedy)—the celebration, by a classic chaunt, of his reaching the pinnacle of depravity; this was thene plus ultraof dramatic invention. Robbers and murderers began to be treated, after the Catholic fashion, with extreme unction; audiences were intoxicated with the new drop; sympathy became epidemic; everybody was bewildered and improved; and nobody went and threw themselves off the Monument with a copy of the baleful drama in his pocket!
But the magnificence of the discovery was too large to be grasped by even the gluttonous eye of the managers, The Adelphi might overflow—the Surrey might quake with reiterated “pitsfull”—still there remained over and above the feast-crumbs sufficient for the battenings of other than theatrical appetites. Immediately the press-gang—we beg pardon, thepress—arose, and with a mighty throe spawned many monsters. Great drama!Greater Press!GREATEST PUBLIC!
Now this was all excellent well as far as it went; but still there was something wanted of more reality than the improvisations of a romancist. Ainsworth might dip his pen in the grossest epithets; Boz might dabble in the mysterious dens of Hebrew iniquity; even Bulwer might hash up to us his recollections of St. Giles’s dialogue; and yet it was evident that they were all the while only “shamming”—only cooking up some dainty dish according to arecipe, or, as it is still frequently pronounced, areceipt,—which last, with such writers, will ever be the guide-post of their track.
But something more was wanted; and here it is—here, in the Memoirs of Marie Cappelle.
This lady, perhaps the most remarkable woman of her age, has published a book—half farce, half novel—in which she treats by turns with the clap-trap agony of a Bulwer, the quaint sneer of a Dickens, and the effrontery of an Ainsworth, that serious charge which employed the careful investigation of the most experienced men in France for many weeks, and which excited a degree of interest in domestic England almost unexampled in the history of foreign trials. This work is published by a gentleman who calls himself “Publisher in ordinary to her Majesty,” and may be procured at any book-seller’s by all such as have a guinea and a day’s leisure at the mercy of the literary charlatan who contrived it.
In the strictest confidence we would suggest, that if a treaty could be ratified with Madame Marie Cappelle Laffarge, we do not doubt that our nursery—yea, our laundry—maids would learn to spell the precious sentences, to their own great edification and that of the children placed under their charge.
Coals are a shade blacker than they were last week, but not quite so heavy; and turnips are much lighter than they have been known for a very considerable period.
Great complaints are made of the ticketing system; and persons going to purchase shawls, as they supposed, at nine-pence three-farthings each, are disgusted at being referred to a very small one pound sixteen marked very lightly in pencil immediately before the 9¾d., which is very large and in very black ink. There were several transactions of this kind during the whole morning.
The depressed state of the Gossamer-market has long been a subject of conversation among the four-and-niners who frequent the cheap coffee-shops in the City; but no one knows the cause of what has taken place, nor can they exactly state what the occurrence is that they are so loudly complaining of.
Bones continue to fetch a penny for two pounds; but great murmurs are heard of the difficulty of making up a pound equal to the very liberal weights which the marine-store keepers use when making theirpurchases; they, however, make up for it by using much lighter weights when they sell, which is so far fair and satisfactory.
The arrivals in baked potatoes have been very numerous; fifty cans were entered outwards on Saturday.
Two ladies of St. Giles’s disputing lately on the respectability of each other’s family, concluded the debate in the following way:—“Mrs. Doyle, ma’am, I’d have you know that I’ve an uncle abannisterof the law.” “Much about yourbannister,” retorted Mrs. Doyle; “haven’t I a first cousin acorridorin the navy?”
Jim Bones, a free nigger of New York, has a child so exceedingly dark that he cannot be seen on the lightest day.
[pg 190]
REVENONS A NOS MOUTONS—i.e. (for the benefit of country members) to return to our mutton, or rather the “trimmings.” The ornaments which notify the pecuniary superiority of the wearer include chains, rings, studs, canes, watches, and purses.Chainsshould be of gold, and cannot be too ostentatiously displayed; for a proper disposition of these “braveries” is sure to induce the utmost confidence in the highly useful occupants of Pigot’s and Robson’s Directory. We have seen some waistcoats so elaborately festooned, that we would stake our inkstand that the most unbelieving money-lender would have taken the personal security of the wearer without hesitation. The perfection to which mosaic-work has arrived may possibly hold out a strong temptation to the thoughtless to substitute the shadow for the reality. Do not deceive yourself; an experienced eye will instantly detect the imposition, though your ornaments may be
A bald man in a frilly shirt applies carmine to his cheeks.FRESH EVERY DAY;
FRESH EVERY DAY;
for, we will defy any true gentleman to preserve an equanimity of expression under the hint—either visual or verbal—that (to use the language of the poet) you are “a man of brass.”
We have a faint recollection of a class of gentlemen who used to attach an heterogeneal collection of massive seals and keys to one end of a chain, and a small church-clock to the other. The chain then formed a pendulum in front of their small-clothes, and the dignified oscillation of the appendages was considered to distinguish the gentleman. They were also used as auxiliaries in argument; for whenever an hiatus occurred in the discussion, the speaker, by having resort to his watch-chain, could frequently confound his adversary by commencing a series of rapid gyrations. But the fashion has descended to merchants, lawyers, doctors,et sui generis, who never drive bargains, ruin debtors, kill patients,et cetera, without having recourse to this imposing decoration.
Ringsare the next indicators of superfluous cash. As they aremerely ornamental, they should resemble vipers, tapeworms, snakes, toads, monkey’s, death’s heads, and similar engaging and pleasing subjects. The more liberally the fingers are enriched, the greater the assurance that the hand is never employed in any useful labour, and is consequently only devoted to the minisitration of indulgences, and the exhibition of those elegant productions which distinguish the highly-civilised gentleman from thehighly-tattooedsavage.
Mourning-rings have an air of extreme respectability; for they are always suggestive of a legacy, and of the fact that you have been connected with somebody who was not buried at the expense of the parish.
Studsshould be selected with the greatest possible care, and in our opinion the small gold ones can only be worn by a perfect gentleman; for whilst they perform their required office, they do not distract the attention from the quality and whiteness of your linen. Some that we have seen were evidently intended for cabinet pictures, rifle targets and breast-plates.
Pins.—These necessary adjuncts to the cravat of a gentleman have undergone a singular revolution during late years; but we confess we are admirers of the present fashion, for if it is desirable to indulge in an ornament, it is equally desirable that everybody should be gratified by the exhibition thereof. We presume that it is with this commendable feeling that pins’-heads (whose smallness in former days became a proverb) should now resemble the apex of a beadle’s staff; and, as though to make “assurance doubly sure,” a plurality is absolutely required for the decoration of a gentleman. In these times, when political partisanship is so exceedingly violent, why not make the pins indicative of the opinions of the wearer, as the waistcoat was in the days of Fox. We could suggest some very appropriate designs; for instance, the heads of Peel and Wakley, connected by averyslight link—Sibthorp and Peter Borthwick by a series of long-car rings—Muntz and D’Israeli cut out of very hard wood, and united by a hair-chain; and many others too numerous to mention.
To drink, or not to drink? That is the question.Whether ’tis nobler inwardly to sufferThe pangs and twitchings of uneasy stomach,Or to take brandy-toddy ’gainst the colic,And by imbibing end it? To drink,—to sleep,—To snore;—and, by a snooze, to say we endThe head-ache, and the morning’s parching thirstThat drinking’s heir to;—’tis a consummationDevoutly to be wish’d. To drink,—to pay,—To pay the waiter’s bill?—Ay—there’s the rub;For in that snipe-like bill, a stop may come,When we would shuffle off our mortal score,Must give us pause. There’s the respectThat makes sobriety of so long date;For who could bear to hear the glasses ringIn concert clear—the chairman’s ready toast—The pops of out-drawn corks—the “hip hurrah!”The eloquence of claret—and the songs,Which often through the noisy revel break,When a man—might his quietus makeWith a full bottle? Who would sober be,Or sip weak coffee through the live-long night;But that the dread of being laid uponThat stretcher by policemen borne, on whichThe reveller reclines,—puzzles me much,And makes me rather tipple ginger beer,Than fly to brandy, or to—A man with his foot caught in a trap.—HODGE’S SIN?Thus poverty doth make us Temp’rance men.
To drink, or not to drink? That is the question.Whether ’tis nobler inwardly to sufferThe pangs and twitchings of uneasy stomach,Or to take brandy-toddy ’gainst the colic,And by imbibing end it? To drink,—to sleep,—To snore;—and, by a snooze, to say we endThe head-ache, and the morning’s parching thirstThat drinking’s heir to;—’tis a consummationDevoutly to be wish’d. To drink,—to pay,—To pay the waiter’s bill?—Ay—there’s the rub;For in that snipe-like bill, a stop may come,When we would shuffle off our mortal score,Must give us pause. There’s the respectThat makes sobriety of so long date;For who could bear to hear the glasses ringIn concert clear—the chairman’s ready toast—The pops of out-drawn corks—the “hip hurrah!”The eloquence of claret—and the songs,Which often through the noisy revel break,When a man—might his quietus makeWith a full bottle? Who would sober be,Or sip weak coffee through the live-long night;But that the dread of being laid uponThat stretcher by policemen borne, on whichThe reveller reclines,—puzzles me much,And makes me rather tipple ginger beer,Than fly to brandy, or to—A man with his foot caught in a trap.—HODGE’S SIN?Thus poverty doth make us Temp’rance men.
To drink, or not to drink? That is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler inwardly to suffer
The pangs and twitchings of uneasy stomach,
Or to take brandy-toddy ’gainst the colic,
And by imbibing end it? To drink,—to sleep,—
To snore;—and, by a snooze, to say we end
The head-ache, and the morning’s parching thirst
That drinking’s heir to;—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To drink,—to pay,—
To pay the waiter’s bill?—Ay—there’s the rub;
For in that snipe-like bill, a stop may come,
When we would shuffle off our mortal score,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes sobriety of so long date;
For who could bear to hear the glasses ring
In concert clear—the chairman’s ready toast—
The pops of out-drawn corks—the “hip hurrah!”
The eloquence of claret—and the songs,
Which often through the noisy revel break,
When a man—might his quietus make
With a full bottle? Who would sober be,
Or sip weak coffee through the live-long night;
But that the dread of being laid upon
That stretcher by policemen borne, on which
The reveller reclines,—puzzles me much,
And makes me rather tipple ginger beer,
Than fly to brandy, or to—
A man with his foot caught in a trap.—HODGE’S SIN?
—HODGE’S SIN?
Thus poverty doth make us Temp’rance men.
It is a fact, when the deputation of the distressed manufacturers waited upon Sir Robert Peel to represent to him their destitute condition, that the Right Honourable Baronet declared he felt the deepest sympathy for them. This is all very fine—but we fear greatly, if Sir Robert should be inclined to make a commercial speculation of hissympathy, that he would go into the market with
A merchant hands stockings to a little girl.A VERY SMALL STOCK-IN(G) TRADE.
A VERY SMALL STOCK-IN(G) TRADE.
[pg 191]
I meet with men of this character very frequently, and though I believe that the stiff formality of the past age was more congenial than the present to the formation and growth of these peculiar beings, there are still a sufficient number of the species in existence for the philosophical cosmopolite to study and comment upon.
A true specimen of aman of habitshould be an old bachelor,—for matrimony deranges the whole clock-work system upon which he piques himself. He could never endure to have his breakfast delayed for one second to indulge “his soul’s far dearer part” with a prolonged morning dream; and he dislikes children, because the noisy urchins make a point of tormenting him wherever he goes. The Man of Habit has a certain hour for all the occupations of his life; he allows himself twenty minutes for shaving and dressing; fifteen for breakfasting, in which time he eats two slices of toast, drinks two cups of coffee, and swallows two eggs boiled for two and a half minutes by an infallible chronometer. After breakfast he reads the newspaper, but lays it down in the very heart and pith of a clever article on his own side of the question, the moment his time is up. He has even been known to leave the theatre at the very moment of thedénouementof a deeply-interesting play rather than exceed his limited hour by five minutes. He will be out of temper all day, if he does not find his hat on its proper nail and his cane in its allotted corner. He chooses a particular walk, where he may take his prescribed number of turns without interruption, for he would prefer suffering a serious inconvenience rather than be obliged to quicken or slacken his pace to suit the speed of a friend who might join him. My uncle Simon was a character of this cast. I could take it on my conscience to assert that, every night for the forty years preceding his death, he had one foot in the bed on the first stroke of 11 o’clock, and just as the last chime had tolled, that he was enveloped in the blankets to his chin. I have known him discharge a servant because his slippers were placed by his bed-side for contrary feet; and I have won a wager by betting that he would turn the corner of a certain street at precisely three minutes before ten in the morning. My uncle used to frequent a club in the City, of which he had become the oracle. Precisely at eight o’clock he entered the room—took his seat in a leather-backed easy chair in a particular corner—read a certain favourite journal—drank two glasses of rum toddy—smoked four pipes—and was always in the act of putting his right arm into the sleeve of his great-coat, to return home, as the clock struck ten. The cause of my uncle’s death was as singular as his life was whimsical. He went one night to the club, and was surprised to find his seat occupied by a tall dark-browed man, who smoked ameerschaumof prodigious size in solemn silence. Numerous hints were thrown out to the stranger that the seat had by prescriptive right and ancient custom become the property of my uncle; he either did not or would not understand them, and continued to keep his possession of the leather-backed chair with the most imperturbablesang-froid. My uncle in despair took another seat, and endeavoured to appear as if nothing had occurred to disturb him,—but he could not dissimulate. He was pierced to the heart,—and
A man is eating on a bench.“I SAW THE IRON ENTER HIS SOLE.”
“I SAW THE IRON ENTER HIS SOLE.”
My uncle left the club half-an-hour before his time; he returned home—went to bed without winding his watch—and the next morning he was found lifeless in his bed.
The subject of political economy is becoming so general a portion of education, that it will doubtless soon be introduced at the infant schools among the other eccentric evolutions or playful whirls ofMr. Wilder-spin. At it is the fashion to comprehend nothing, but to have a smattering of everything, we beg leave to smatter our readers with a very thin layer of political economy. In the first place, “political” means “political,” and “economy” signifies “economy,” at least when taken separately; but put them together, and they express all kinds of extravagance. Political economy contemplates the possibility of labouring without work, eating without food, and living without the means of subsistence. Social, or individual economy, teaches to livewithinour means; political economy calls upon us to livewithoutthem. In the debates, when more than usual time has been wasted in talking the mostextravagantstuff, ten to one that there has been a good deal ofpolitical economy. If you bother a poor devil who is dying of want, and speak to him aboutconsumption, it is probably “political economy” that you will have addressed to him. If you talk to a man sinking with hunger aboutfloatingcapital, you will no doubt have given him the benefit of a few hints in “political economy:” while, if to a wretch in tattered rags you broach the theory ofrent, he must be an ungrateful beast indeed if he does not appreciate the blessings of “political economy.” That “labour is wealth” forms one of the most refreshing axioms of this delicious science; and if brought to the notice of a man breaking stones on the road, he would perhaps wonder where his wealth might be while thinking of his labour, but he could not question your proficiency in “political economy.” In fact, it is the most political and most economical science in the world, if it can only be made to achieve its object, which is to persuade the hard-working classes that they are the richest people in the universe, for their labour gives value, and value gives wealth; but who gets the value and the wealth is a consideration that does not fall within the province of “political economy.”
There is another branch of the subject at which we shall merely glance; but one hint will open up a wide field of observation to the student. The branch to which we allude is the tremendous extent to which political economy is carried by those who interfere so much in politics with so very little political knowledge, and who consequently display a most surprising share of “political economy,”
As a very little goes a great way, and particularly as the most diminutive portion of knowledge communicated by ourselves is, like the “one small pill constituting a dose,” much more efficacious than the 40 Number Ones and 50 Number Twos of the mere quacks, we close for the present our observations onPolitical Economy.
There can be no doubt as to theprimâ facieevidence of the hostile intentions of the destroyed American steamer, with respect to the disaffected on Navy Island, as, from the acknowledged inquisitiveness of the gentler sex, there can be no doubt thatCarolinewould have a natural predilection for
A maid listens at a door.PRIVATE (H)EERING.
PRIVATE (H)EERING.
Come, none of your raillery;as the stage-coach indignantly said to the steam-engine.
That “strain” again;as the Poor-law Commissioner generously said to the water-gruel sieve.
I paid very dear for my whistle;as the steam-engine emphatically said to the railroad.
Peel for ever!as the church bells joyously said to Conservative hearts.
There is at present a man in New York whose temper is so exceedingly hot that he invariably reduces all his shirts to tinder.
[pg 192]
The Adelphi “Correspondent from Paris” has favoured that Theatre with an adaptation of Scribe’s “Verre d’Eau,” which he has called “The Maid of Honour.”
Everybody must remember that, last year, the trifling affair of the British Government was settled by the far more momentous consideration of who should be Ladies of the Bed-chamber. The Parisians, seeing the dramatic capabilities of this incident, put it into a farce, resting the whole affair upon the shoulders of a former Queen whose Court was similarly circumstanced. This is the piece which Mr. Yates has had the daring to get done into English, and transplanted into Spain, and interspersed with embroidery, confectionary, and a Spanish sentence; the last judiciously entrusted to that accomplished linguist, Mr. John Saunders.
Soon after the rising of the curtain, we behold the figure of Mr. Yates displayed to great advantage in the dress usually assigned toNoodleandDoodlein the tragedy of “Tom Thumb.” He represents theCount Ollivarez, and the head of a political party—the opposition. The Court faction having for its chief theDuchess of Albafurez, who being Mistress of the Queen’s robes is of course her favourite; for the millinery department of the country which can boast of a Queen Regnant is of far higher importance than foreign or financial affairs, justice, police, or war—consequently, the chief of the wardrobe is far more exalted and better beloved than a mere Premier or Secretary of State. The Count is planning an intrigue, the agents of which are to beHenrico, a Court page, andFelicia, a court milliner. Not being able to make much of the page, he turns over a new leaf, and addresses himself to the dress-maker; so, after a few preliminary hems, he draws out the thread of his purpose to her, and cuts out an excellent pattern for her guidance, which if she implicitly follow will assuredly make her a Maid of Honour.
A comedy without mystery is Punch without a joke; Yates without a speech to the audience on a first night; or Bartley’s pathos without a pocket-handkerchief. The Court page soon opens the book ofimbroglio. He is made a Captain of the Queen’s Guard by some unknown hand; he has always been protected by the same unseen benefactor, who, as if to guard him from every ill that flesh is heir to, showers on him his or her favours upon condition that he never marries! “Happy man,” exclaims the Count. “Not at all,” answers the other, “I am in love withFelicia!” Nobody is surprised at this, for it is a rule amongst dramatists never to forbid the banns until the banned, poor devil, is on the steps of the altar.Henrico, now a Captain, goes off to flesh his sword; meets with an insult, and by the greatest good luck kills his antagonist in the precincts of the palace; so that if he be not hanged for murder, his fortune is made. The victim is the Count’s cousin, to whom he is next of kin. “Good Heavens!” ejaculatesOllivarez, “You have made yourself a criminal, and me—a Duke! Horrible!”
By the way, this sameHenrico, as performed by that excellent swimmer (in the water-piece), Mr. Spencer Forde, forms a very entertaining character. His imperturbable calmness while uttering the heart-stirring words, assigned by the author to his own description of the late affair-of-honourable assassination, was highly edifying to the philosophic mind. The pleasing and amiable tones in which he stated how irretrievably he was ruined, the dulcet sweetness of the farewell to his heart’s adored, the mathematical exactitude of his position while embracing her, the cool deliberation which marked his exit—offered a picture of calm stoicism just on the point of tumbling over the precipice of destruction not to be equalled—not, at least, since those halcyon dramatic days when Osbaldiston leased Covent Garden, and playedPierre.
Somehow or other—for one must not be too particular about the wherefores of stage political intrigues—Feliciais promoted from the office of making dresses for the Queen to that of putting them on. Behold her a maid of honour and of all-work; for the Queen takes her into her confidence, and in that case people at Court have an immense variety of duties to perform. The Duchess’s place is fast becoming a sinecure, and she trembles for her influence—perhaps, in case of dismissal, for her next quarter’s salary to boot—so she shakes in her shoes.
It is at this stage of the plot that we perceive why the part ofHenricowas entrusted to the gentleman who plays it,—the mystery we have alluded to being by this arrangement very considerably increased; for we now learn that no fewer than three ladies in the piece are in love with him, namely,Felicia, the Queen, and the Duchess. Now the most penetrating auditor would never, until actually informed of the fact, for a moment suspect a Queen, or even a Duchess, of such bad taste; for, as far as our experience goes, we have generally found that women do not cast their affections to men who are sheepish, insensible, cold, ungainly, with small voices, and not more than five feet high. Surprise artfully excited and cleverly satisfied is the grand aim of the dramatist. How completely is it here fulfilled! for when we discover that the personator of Henrico is meant for an Adonis, weareastonished.
The truth is then, that the secret benefactor of this supposed-to-be irresistible youth has always been theDuchess Albafurez, who, learning fromOllivarezthat her pet has new claims upon her heart for having killed her friend the Duke, determines to assist him to escape, which however is not at all necessary, for Ollivarez is entrusted with the warrant for apprehending the person or persons unknown who did the murder. But could he injure the man who has made him a Duke by a luckycoup-d’épée? No, no. Let him cross the frontier; and, when he is out of reach, what thundering denunciations will not the possessor of the dukedom fulminate against the killer of his cousin! It is shocking to perceive how intimately acquainted old Scribe must be with manners, customs, and feelings, as they exist at Court.
The necessary passports are placed before the Queen for her signature (perhaps her Spanish Majesty can’t afford clerks); but when she perceives whom they threaten to banish from behind her chair, she declines honouring them with her autograph. The Duchess thus learns her secret. “She, too, love Henrico? Well I never!” About this time a tornado of jealousy may be expected; but court etiquette prevents it from bursting; and the Duchess reserves her revenge, the Queen sits down to her embroidery frame, and one is puzzled to know what is coming next.
This puzzle was not on Monday night long in being resolved.Ollivarezentered, and a child in the gallery commenced crying with that persevering quality of tone which threatens long endurance. Mr. Yates could not resist the temptation; and Ollivarez, the newly-created Duke of Medina, promised the baby a free admission for four, any other night, if it would only vacate the gallery just then. These terms having been assented to by a final screech, the infant left the gallery. After an instant’s pause—during which the Manager tapped his forehead, as much as to say, “Where did I leave off?”—the piece went on.
We had no idea till last night how difficult it was for a Queen to indulge in a bit of flirtation! A most elaborate intrigue is, it seems, necessary to procure for her a tender interview with her innamorato. A plan was invented, whose intricacy would have bothered the inventor of spinning-jennies, wherebyHenricowas to be closeted with her most Christian Majesty,—its grand accomplishment to take place when the Queen called for a glass of ice (the originalScribewrote “water,” but the Adelphi adapter thought ice would be more natural, for fear the piece should run till Christmas). The Duchess overhears the entire plot, but fails in frustrating it. Hence we findHenrico, Felicia, and the Queen together, going through a well-contrived and charmingly-conducted scene of equivoque—the Queen questioningHenricotouching the state of his heart, and he answering her in reference toFelicia, who is leaning over the embroidery frame behind the Queen, and out of her sight.
This felicitous situation is interrupted by the spiteful Duchess; the lover escapes behind the window curtains to avoid scandal—is discovered, and his sovereign’s reputation is only saved by the declaration of Felicia, that the Captain is there onheraccount. Ollivarez asserts that they are married, to clench the fib—the Queen sees her folly—the Duchess is disgraced—all the characters stand in the well-defined semicircle which is the stage method of writing the word “finis”—Mrs. Yates speaks a very neat and pointed “tag”—and that’s all.
For this two-act Comidetta, dear Yates, we pronounce absolution and remission of thy sins, so wickedly committed in the washy melo-drama, and cackling vaudeville, thou hast recently affronted common-sense withal! Thine own acting as the courtier was natural, except when thou didst interpolate the dialogue with the baby—a crying sin, believe us. Else, thy bows were graceful; and thy shoulder-shrugs—are they not chronicled in the mind’s eye of thy most distant admirers? The little touches of humour that shone forth in the dialogue assigned to thee, were not exaggerated by the too-oft-indulged-in grimaces—in short, despite thy too monstrouschapeau-bras—which was big enough for a life-boat—thou lookedst like a Duke, a gentleman, and what in truth thou really art—an indefatigableintriguant. Thy favoured help-mate, too, gave a reality to the scene by her captivating union of queenly dignity and feminine tenderness. But most especially fortunate art thou in thy Felicia. Alas for our hunch and our hatchet nose! but O, alas! and alas! that we have a Judy! for never did we regret all three so deeply as while Miss Ellen Chaplin was on the stage. In our favourite scene with the Queen and her lover, how graceful and expressive were her dumb answers to what ought to have been Henrico’s eloquent declarations, spokenthroughthe Queen. We charge thee, dear friend, to “call” her on Monday morning at eleven, and to rehearse unto her what we are going to say. Tell her that as she is young, a bright career is before her if she will not fall into the sin of copying some other favourite actress—say, for instance, Mrs. Yates—instead of our arch-mistress, Nature; say, moreover, that at the same time, she must be unwearying in acquiringart; lastly, inform her, that Punch has his eye upon her, and will scold her if she become a backslider and an imitator of other people’s faults.
As to poor Mr.SpencerForde, he, too, is young; and you do wrong, O Yates! in giving him a part he will be unequal to till he grows big enough for a coat. A smaller part would, we doubt not, suit him excellently.
Lastly, give our best compliments to Mrs. Fosbroke, to the illustrious Mr. Freeborn, to Mr. John Saunders, and our especial commendations to thy scene-painter, thy upholsterer, and the gentleman lamp-lighter thou art so justly proud of; for each did his and her best to add a charm to “The Maid of Honour.”
[pg 193]
The result of a serious conversation between the authors of my being ended in the resolution that it was high time for me to begin the world, and do something for myself. The only difficult problem left for them to solve was, in what way I had better commence. One would have thought the world had nothing in its whole construction but futile beginnings and most unsatisfactory methods of doing for one’s self. Scheme after scheme was discussed and discarded; new plans were hot-beds for new doubts; and impossibilities seemed to overwhelm every succeeding though successless suggestion. At the critical moment when it appeared perfectly clear to me either that I was fit for nothing or nothing was fit for me, the authoritative “rat-tat” of the general postman closed the argument, and for a brief space distracted the intense contemplations of my bewildered parents.
“Good gracious!” “Well, I never!” “Who’d ha’ thought it?” and various other disjointed mutterings escaped my father, forming a sort of running commentary upon the document under his perusal. Having duly devoured the contents, he spread the sheet of paper carefully out, re-wiped his spectacles, and again commenced the former all-engrossing subject.
“Tom, my boy, you are all right, and this will do for you. Here’s a letter from your uncle Ticket.”
I nodded in silence.
“Yes, sir,” continued my father, with increasing emphasis and peculiar dignity, “Ticket—the great Ticket—the greatest”—
“Pawnbroker in London,” said I, finishing the sentence.
“Yes, sir, he is; and what of that?”
“Nothing further; I don’t much like the trade, but”—
“But he’s your uncle, sir. It’s a glorious money-making business. He offers to take you as an apprentice. Nancy, my love, pack up this lad’s things, and start him off by the mail to-morrow. Go to bed, Tom.”
So the die was cast! The mail was punctual; and I was duly delivered to Ticket—the great Ticket—my maternal, and everybody else’s undefinable, uncle. Duly equipped in glazed calico sleeves, and ditto apron, I took my place behind the counter. But as it was discovered that I had a peculiarpenchantfor giving ten shillings in exchange for gilt sixpences, and encouraging all sorts of smashing by receiving counterfeit crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, I received a box on the ear, and a positive command to confine myself to the up-stairs, or “top-of-the-spout department” for the future. Here my chief duties were to deposit such articles as progressed up that wooden shaft in their respective places, and by the same means transmit the “redeemed” to the shop below. This was but dull work, and in the long dreary evenings, when partial darkness (for I was allowed no candle) seemed to invite sleep, I frequently fell into a foggy sort of mystified somnolency—the partial prostration of my corporeal powers being amply compensated by the vague wanderings of indistinct imagination.
In these dozing moods some of the parcels round me would appear not only imbued with life, but, like the fabled animals of Æsop, blessed with the gift of tongues. Others, though speechless, would conjure up a vivid train of breathing tableaux, replete with their sad histories. That tiny relic, half the size of the small card it is pinned upon, swells like the imprisoned genie the fisherman released from years of bondage, and the shadowy vapour takes once more a form. From the small circle of that wedding ring, the tear-fraught widow and the pallid orphan, closely dogged by Famine and Disease, spring to my sight. That brilliant tiara opens the vista of the rich saloon, and shows the humbled pride of the titled hostess, lying excuses for her absent gems. The flash contents of that bright yellow handkerchief shade forth the felon’s bar; the daring burglar eyeing with confidence the counsel learned in the law’s defects, fee’d by its produce to defend its quondam owner. The effigies of Pride, Extravagance, honest Distress, and reckless Plunder, all by turns usurp the scene. In my last waking sleep, just as I had composed myself in delicious indolence, a parcel fell with more than ordinary force on one beneath. These were two of my talking friends. I stirred not, but sat silently to listen to their curious conversation, which I now proceed to give verbatim.
Parcel fallen upon.—“What the d—l are you?”
Parcel that fell.—“That’s my business.”
“Is it? I rather think its mine, though. Why don’t you look where you’re going?”
“How can I see through three brown papers and a rusty black silk handkerchief?”
“Ain’t there a hole in any of ‘em?”
“No.”
“That’s a pity; but when you’ve been here as long as I have, the moths will help you a bit.”
“Will they?”
“Certainly.”
“I hope not.”
“Hope if you like; but you’ll find I’m right.”
“I trust I didn’t hurt you much.”
“Not very. Bless you, I’m pretty well used to ill-treatment now. You’ve only rubbed the pile of my collar the wrong way, just as that awkward black rascal would brush me.”
“Bless me! I think I know your voice.”
“Somehow, I think I know yours.”
“You ain’t Colonel Tomkins, are you?”
“No.”
“Nor Count Castor?”
“No.”
“Then I’m in error.”
“No you’re not. I was the Colonel once; then I became the Count by way of loan; and then I came here—as he said by mistake.”
“Why, my dear fellow, I’m delighted to speak to you. How did you wear?”
“So-so.”
“When I first saw you, I thought you the handsomest Petersham in town. Your velvet collar, cuffs, and side-pockets, were superb; and when you were the Colonel, upon my life you were the sweetest cut thing about the waist and tails I ever walked with.”
“You flatter me.”
“Upon my honour, no.”
“Well, I can return the compliment; for a blue, with chased buttons and silk lining, you beat anything I ever had the honour of meeting. But I suppose, as you are here, you are not the Cornet now?”
“Alas! no.”
“May I ask why?”
“Certainly. His scoundrel of a valet disgraced his master’s cloth and me at the same time. The villain went to the Lowther Arcade—took me with him by force. Fancy my agony; literally accessory to handing ices to milliners’ apprentices and staymakers; and when the wretch commenced quadrilling it, he dos-a-dos’d me up against a fat soap-boiler’s wife, in filthy three-turned-and-dyed common satin.”
“Scoundrel!”
“Rascal! But he was discovered—he reeled home drunk.I, that is, as it’s known,wemake the men. The Cornet saw him, and thrashed him soundly with a three-foot Crowther.”
“That must have been delightful to your feelings.”
“Not very.”
“Why not? revenge is sweet.”
“So it is; but as the Cornet forgot to order him to take me off, I got the worst of the drubbing. I was dreadfully cut about. Two buttons fearfully lacerated—nothing but the shanks left.”
“How did it end?”
“The valet mentioned something about wages and assault warrants, so I was given to him to make the matter up. Between you and I, the Cornet was very hard up.”
“Indeed!”
“Certain of it. You remember the French-grey trousers we used to walk out with—those he strapped so tight over the remarkably chatty and pleasant French-polished boots whose broken English we used to admire so much?”
“Of course I do; they were the most charming greys I ever met. They beat the plaids into fits; and the plaids were far from ungentlemanly, only they would always talk with a sham Scotch accent, and quote the ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night.’”
“Certainly that was a drawback. But to return to our friends, and the Cornet’s friends, they must have been bad, for those very greys were seated.”
“Impossible!”
“Fact, I assure you. My tails were pinned over the patch for three weeks.”
“How did they bear it?”
“Shockingly. A general break up of the constitution—went all to pieces. First, decay appeared in the brace buttons; then the straps got out of order. They did say it was owing to the heels of the French-polished boots going down on one side, but the boots would never admit it.”
“How did you get here?”
“I came from the Bench for eggs and bacon for the Cornet and his Valet’s breakfast! What brought you?”
“The Count’s landlady, for a week’s rent.”
“What did you fetch?”
“A guinea!”
“Bless me, you must have worn well.”
“No; hold your tongue—I think I shall die with laughing,—ha! ha!—When they took me in, I returned the compliment. I’ve been—”
“What?”
“Cuffed and collared!”
“Ha! ha! ha! ha!” shouted both coats; and “Ha! ha!” shouted I; “And I’ll teach you to ‘ha! ha!’ and neglect your business” shouted the Governor; and the reality of a stunning box on the ear dispelled the illusion of my “Day-dream at my Uncle’s.”
FUSBOS.
The Reverend HenrySnow, M.A., has been inducted by the Bishop of Gloucester, to the Vicarage of Sherborne cumWindrush.
From Glo’stersee, awindrushcame, and lo!On Sherborne Vicarage it driftedSnow.
From Glo’stersee, awindrushcame, and lo!On Sherborne Vicarage it driftedSnow.
From Glo’stersee, awindrushcame, and lo!
On Sherborne Vicarage it driftedSnow.
[pg 194]
A sad man's face encircled by a letter U.
Undoubtedly on the following day 24 Pleasant-terrace was the most uncomfortable place in the universe. Some one has said that wherever Pleasure is, Pain is certain not to be far off; and the truth of the allegory is never better exemplified than on the day after “a most delightful party.” We can only compare it to the morning succeeding a victory by which the conqueror has gained a great deal of glory at a very considerable expenditure ofmatériel. Let us accompany the mistress of the house as she proceeds from room to room, to ascertain the damage done by the enemy upon the furniture and decorations. A light damask curtain is found to have been saturated with port wine; a ditto chair-cushion has been doing duty as a dripping-pan to a cluster of wax-lights; a china shepherdess, having been brought into violent collision with the tail of a raging lion on the mantel-piece, has reduced the noble beast to the short-cut condition of a Scotch colley. A broken candle has perversely fallen the only way in which it could have done any damage, and has thrown the quicksilver on the back of a large looking-glass into an alarming state of eruption. The return of “cracked and broken” presents a fearful list of smashage and fracture:the besttea-set is rendered unfit for active service, being minus two saucers, a cup-handle, and a milk-jug; the green and gold dessert-plates have been frightfully reduced in numbers; two fiddle-handle spoons are completelyhors de combat, having been placed under the legs of the supper-table to keep it steady; seven straw-stemmed wine-glasses awfully shattered during the “three-times-three” discharge in honour of the toast of the Heir of Applebites; four cut tumblers injured past recovery in a fit of “entusymusy” by four young gentlemen who were accidentally left by themselves in the supper-room; eighteen silver-plated dessert-knives reduced to the character of saws, by a similar number of “nice fellows” who were endeavouring to do the agreeable with the champagne, and consequently could distinguish no difference between wire and grape-stalks. The destruction in the kitchen had been equally great: the extra waiter had placed his heel on a ham-sandwich, and, consequently, sat down rather hurriedly on the floor with a large tray of sundries in his lap, the result of which was, according to the following
The day after a party is certain to be a sloppy day; and as the street-door is constantly being opened and shut, a raw, rheumatical wind is ever in active operation. Both these miseries were consequent upon the Applebite festivities, and Agamemnon saw a series of catarrhs enter the house as the rout-stools made their exit. He was quite right; for the next fortnight neck-of-mutton broth was the standard bill of fare, only varied by tea, gruel, and toast-and-water.
There is no evil without its attendant good; and the temporary imprisonment of the Applebite family induced them to consider the propriety of naming the infant heir, for hitherto he had been called “the cherub,” “the sweet one,” “the mother’s duck of the world,” and “daddy’s darling.” Several names had been suggested by the several friends and relatives of the family, but nothing decisive had been agreed to.
Agamemnon wished his heir to be called Isaac, after his grandfather, the member for Puddingbury, “in the hope,” as he expressed himself, “that he might in after years be stimulated to emulate the distinguished talents and virtues of his great ancestor.” (Overruled by Mrs. Waddledot, Mrs. Applebite, and the rest of the ladies. Isaac declared vulgar, except in the case of the member for Puddingbury.)
Mrs. Waddledot was anxious that the boy should be christened Roger de Dickey, after her mother’s great progenitor, who was said to have come over with William the Conqueror, but whether in the capacity of a lacquey or a lord-in-waiting was never, and perhaps never will be, determined. (Opposed by Agamemnon, on the ground that ill-natured people would be sure to dispense with the De, and his heir would be designated as Roger Dickey. In this opinion Mrs. Applebite concurred.)
The lady-mother was still more perplexing; she proposed that he should be called—
ALBERT (we give her own reasons)—because the Queen’s husband was so named.
AGAMEMNON—because of the alliteration and his papa.
DAVIS—because an old maiden lady who was independent had said that she thought it a good name for a boy, as her own was Davis.
MONTAGUE—because it was a nice-sounding name, and the one she intended to address him by in general conversation.
COLLUMPSION—as her papa.
PHIPPS—because she had had a dream in which a number of bags or gold were marked P.H.I.P.P.S.; and
APPLEBITE—as a matter of course.
(Objected to by Mrs. Waddledot, for—nothing in particular, and by Agamemnon on the score of economy. The heir being certain to employ a lawyer, would be certain to pay an enormous interest in that way alone.)
Friends were consulted, but without any satisfactory result; and at length it was agreed that the names should be written upon strips of paper and drawn by the nominees. The necessary arrangements being completed, the three proceeded to the ballot.
As a matter of course everybody was dissatisfied; but with a “stern virtue” everybody kept it to themselves, and the heir was accordingly christened Isaac Roger de Dickey Phipps Applebite.
Old John soon realised Agamemnon’s fears of Mrs. Waddledot’s selection, for, whether the patronym of the Norman invader was more in accordance with his own ideas of propriety, or was more readily suggestive to his mind of the infant heir, he was continually speaking of little master Dicky; and upon being remonstrated with upon the subject promised amendment for the future. All, however, was of no use, for John jumbled the Phipps, the Roger, the Dickey, and the De together, but always contriving most perversely to