Part 42 (1/2)

1 John Liston, the comedian, is in private life not less conspicuous for finished pleasantry and superior manners than he is on the stage for broad humour; but nothing can offend the actor more than an invitation given merely in the expectation of his displaying at table some of his professional excellences. John had, on one occasion, accepted an invitation to dine with a wealthy citizen en famille; the repast over--the wine had circulated--a snug friend proposed the health of Mr. Liston; and John returned thanks with as much dignity as a minister of state eating white bait at Blackwall with the wors.h.i.+pful company of fishmongers. Then came the amiable civilities of the lady of the mansion, evidently intended to ingratiate herself with the actor, the better to secure his a.s.sent to her request, but not a muscle of the comedian gave the least encouragement. The little citizens, who were huddled round their mamma, and had been staring at the actor in anxious expectation, were growing very impatient. The eldest boy had already recited young Norval's speech to Lady Douglas, by way of prologue; but the actor still continued mute, never for a moment unbending to the smirking encourage-ment of his hostess, or the jolly laugh-exciting reminiscences of his ruby-faced host; as, for instance, ”Lord, Mr. Liston, what a funny figure you looked t'other night in Moll Flaggon!” or, ”How you made thorn laugh in Tony Lumpkin! and then what a fright you was in Mrs. Ches.h.i.+re. Couldn't you give us a touch just now?” ”Ay, do, Mr. Liston, pray do,” vociferated a dozen tongues at once, including mamma, the little misses and mastery. ”The children have been kept up two hours later than usual on purpose,” said the lady mother. ”Ay, come, my good fellow,” reiterated the cit, ”take another gla.s.s, and then give us some-thing funny to amuse the young ones.” This was the finis.h.i.+ng blow to Liston's offended dignity--to be invited to dinner by a fat fleshmonger, merely to amuse his uncultivated cubs, was too much for the nervous system of the comedian to bear; but how to retreat?” I have it,”

thought John, ”by the cut direct;” rising and bowing, therefore, to the company, as if intending to yield to their entreaties, he begged permission to retire to make some little arrangement in his dress, to personate Vanish; when, leaving them in the most anxious expectation for more than half an hour, on ringing the bell, they learned from the servant that Mr. Liston had suddenly Vanished by the street- door, and was, of course, never seen in that direction more.

~59~~of a cracked trumpet in the street arrested my attention. ”I vonder vat that ere hinstrument can mean, my dear!” said Mrs. Alderman Marigold, (advancing to the window with eager curiosity). ”It's wery likely some fire company's men marching to a bean-feast, or a freemason's funeral obscenities,” replied the alderman. When another blast greeted our ears with a few notes of ”See the Conquering Hero comes,” ”La, mamma,” whined out Miss Biddy Marigold, ”I declare, it's that filthy fellow Punch coming afore our vindow vith his imperence; I prognosticated how it voud be, ven the alderman patronised him last veek by throwing avay a whole s.h.i.+lling upon his fooleries.” ”You've no taste for fun, Biddy,” replied the alderman; at the same time making his daughter and myself a subst.i.tute for crutches, by resting a hand upon each shoulder. ”I never laid out a s.h.i.+lling better in the whole course of my life. A good laugh beats all the French medicine, and drives the gout out at the great toe. I mean to pension Mr. Punch at a s.h.i.+lling a veek to squeak before my vindow of a Sat.u.r.day, in preference to paying six guineas for a ~60~~box to hear all that outlandish squeaking at the hopera.” ”La, pa, how ungenteel!” said Miss Biddy; ”I declare you're bringing quite a new-sense to all the square, vat vith your hurdy-gurdy vonien, French true-baw-dears, and barrel organ-grinders, n.o.body has no peace not at all in the neighbourhood.” During this elegant colloquy, the immortal Mr. Punch had reared his chequered theatre upon the pavement opposite, the confederate showman had concealed himself beneath the woollen drapery, and the Italian comedian had just commenced his merry note of preparation by squeaking some of those little s.n.a.t.c.hes of tunes, which act with talismanic power upon the locomotive faculties of all the peripatetics within hearing, attracting everybody to the travelling stage, young and old, gentle and simple; all the crowd seem as if magic chained them to the spot, and each face exhibits as much anxiety, and the mind, no doubt, antic.i.p.ates as much or more delight, than if they were a.s.sembled to see Charles Kemble, Young, and Macready, all three acting in one fine tragedy. There is something so indescribably odd and ridiculous about the whole paraphernalia of Mr.

Punch, that we are irresistibly compelled to acknowledge the superiority of the lignum vito Roscius over the histrionic corps of mere flesh and blood. The eccentricity of this immortal personage, his foreign, funny dialogue, the whim and strange conceit exhibited in his wooden drama, the gratuitous display, and the unrestricted laugh he affords--all combine to make Mr. Punch the most popular performer in the world. Of Italian origin, he has been so long domiciled in England, that he may now be considered naturalized by common consent. Indeed, I much question, if a greater misfortune could befall the country, than the removal or suppression of Mr. Punch and his laugh-provoking drolleries:--it would be considered a national calamity; but Mirth protect ~61~~us from such a terrible mishap! Another sound from an old cracked trumpet, something resembling a few notes of ”Arm, Arm, ye Brave,” and an accompaniment by the great actor himself of a few more ”tut, tut, tutura, lura, lu's,” in his own original style, have now raised excitement to the highest pitch of expectation. The half inflated lungs of the alderman expand by antic.i.p.ation, and his full foggy breathings upon the window-gla.s.s have already compelled me more than once to use my handkerchief to clear away the mist. The a.s.sembled group waiting the commencement of his adventures, now demands my notice. What a scene for my friend Transit! I shall endeavour to depict it for him.

The steady looking old gentleman in the fire-shovel clerical castor, how sagaciously he leers round about him to see if he is likely to be recognised! not a countenance to whom he is known; he smiles with self-complacency at the treat he is about to enjoy; plants himself in a respectable doorway, for three reasons; first, the advantage from the rise of the step increasing his alt.i.tude; second, the security of his pockets from attacks behind; and third, the pretence, should any Goth to whom he is known, observe him enjoying the scene, that he is just about to enter the house, and has merely been detained there by accident.

Excellent apologist!--how ridiculous!--Excessive delicacy, avaunt! give me a glorious laugh, and ”throw (affectation) to the dogs; I'll have none of it.” Now the farce begins: up starts the immortal hero himself, and makes his bow; a simultaneous display of ”broad grins” welcomes his felicitous entree; and for a few seconds the scene resembles the appearance of a popular election candidate, Sir Francis Burdett, or his colleague, little Cam Hobhouse, on the hustings in Covent Garden; nothing is heard but one deafening shout of clamorous approbation.

Observe the butcher's boy has stopped his ~62~~horse to witness the fun, spite of the despairing cook who waits the promised joint; and the jolly lamp-lighter, laughing hysterically on the top of his ladder, is pouring the oil from his can down the backs and into the pockets of the pa.s.sengers beneath, instead of recruiting the parish-lamp, while the sufferers are too much interested in the exhibition to feel the trickling of the greasy fluid. The baker, careless of the expectant owner's hot dinner, laughs away the time until the pie is quite cold; and the blus.h.i.+ng little servant-maid is exercising two faculties at once, enjoying the frolics of Signor Punch, and inventing some plausible excuse for her delay upon an expeditious errand. How closely the weather-beaten tar yonder clasps his girl's waist! every amorous joke of Signor Punch tells admirably with him; till, between laughing and pressing, Poll is at last compelled to cry out for breath, when Jack only squeezes her the closer, and with a roaring laugh vociferates, ”My toplights! what the devil will that fellow Punch do next, Poll?” The milkman grins unheedful of the cur who is helping himself from out his pail; and even the heavy-laden porter, sweating under a load of merchandise, heaves up his shoulders with laughter, until the ponderous bale of goods shakes in the air like a rocking-stone. (See Plate.) Inimitable actor! glorious Signor Punch! show me among the whole of the dramatis persona in the patent or provincial theatres, a single performer who can compete with the mighty wooden Roscius.

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The alderman's eulogium on Mr. Punch was superlatively good. ”I love a comedy, Mr. Blackmantle,” said he, ”better than a tragedy, because it makes one laugh; and next to good eating, a hearty laugh is most desirable. Then I love a farce still better than a comedy, because that is more provokingly merry, or broader as the critics have it; then, sir, a pantomime beats both comedy and ~63~~farce hollow; there's such lots of fun and shouts of laughter to be enjoyed in that from the beginning to the end. But, sir, there's one performance that eclipses all these, tragedy, comedy, farce, and pantomime put together, and that is Mister Punch--for a right-down, jolly, split-my-side burst of laughter, he's the fellow; name me any actor or author that can excite the risibilities of the mult.i.tude, or please all ages, orders, and conditions, like the squeaking pipe and mad waggeries of that immortal, merry-faced itinerant. If any man will tell me that he possesses genius, or the mellow affections, and that he can pa.s.s Punch,

'Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind;'

then, I say, that man's made of 'impenetrable stuff;' and, being too wise for whimsicality, is too phlegmatic for genius, and too crabbed for mellowness.” Mark, what a set of merry open-faced rogues surround Punch, who peeps down at them as cunningly as ”a magpie peeping into a marrow bone; ”--how luxuriantly they laugh, or stand with their eyes and mouths equally distended, staring at the minikin effigy of fun and phantasy; thinking, no doubt,

”He bin the greatest wight on earth.”

And, certainly, he has not his equal, as a positive, dogmatic, knock-me-down argument-monger; a dare devil; an embodied phantasmagoria, or frisky infatuation. I have often thought that Punch might be converted to profitable use, by being made a speaking Pasquin; and, properly instructed, might hold up his restless quarter staff, in terrorem, over the heads of all public outragers of decency; and by opening the eyes of the million, who flock to his orations, enlighten them, at least, as much as many greater folks, who make more noise than he, and who, ~64~~like him, often get laughed at, without being conscious that they are the subjects of merriment. The very name of our old friend Punch inspires us in our social moments. What other actor has been commemorated by the potential cup? is not the sacred bowl of friends.h.i.+p dedicated to the wooden hero? would you forget the world, its cares, vexations, and anxieties, sip of the mantling, mirth-inspiring cordial, and all within is jollity and gay delight.

”For Punch cures the gout, the cholic, and the phthisic, And it is to every man the very best of physic.”

Honest, kind-hearted Punch! I could write a volume in thy praise, and then, I fear, I should leave half thy merits untold. Thou art worth a hundred of the fas.h.i.+onable kickshaws that are daily palmed upon us to be admired; and thy good-humoured efforts to please at the expense of a broken pate can never be sufficiently praised.

But now the curtain rises, and Mr. Punch steals from behind his two-foot drapery: the very tip of his arched nose is the prologue to a merry play; he makes his bow to the mult.i.tude, and salutes them with all the familiarity of an old acquaintance. What a glorious reception does he meet with from an admiring audience! And now his adventures commence--his ”dear Judy,” the partner of his life, by turns experiences all the capricious effects of love and war. What a true picture of the storms of life!--how admirable an essay on matrimonial felicity! Then his alternate uxoriousness to the lady, and his fondlings of that pretty ”kretur” with the family countenance; his chivalrous exploits on horseback, and mimic capering round the lists of his chequered tilt-yard; his unhappy differences with the partner of his bosom, and her lamentable catastrophe; the fracas with the sheriff's subst.i.tute; and his interview with that incomprehensible personage, ~65~~the knight of the sable countenance, who salutes him with the portentous address of ”schalabala! schalabala! schalabala!” his successive perils and encounters with the ghost of the martyred Judy; and, after his combat with the great enemy of mankind, the devil himself, ”propria Marte” his temporary triumph; and, finally, his defeat by a greater man than old Lucifer, the renowned Mr. John Ketch. Talk of modern dramas, indeed!--show me any of your Dimonds, Reynolds, Dibdins, or Crolys that can compare with Punchiana, in the unities of time, place, costume, and action, intricate and interesting plot, situations provokingly comical and effective, and a catastrophe the most appallingly surprising and agreeable. Then his combats aux batons are superior even to Bradley and Blanchard; but the ne plus ultra of his exploits, the cream of all his comicalities, the grand event, is the ingenious trick by which Mr. Punch, when about to suffer on the scaffold, disposes of the executioner, and frees himself from purgatory, by persuading the unsuspecting hangman, merely for the sake of instruction to an uninitiated culprit, to try his own head in the noose: Punch, of course, seizes the perilous moment--runs him up to the top of the fatal beam--Mr. John Ketch hangs suspended in the air--Punch shouts a glorious triumph--all the world backs him in his conquest--the old cracked trumpet sounds to victory--the showman's hat has made the transit of the circle, and returns half-filled with the voluntary copper contributions of the happy audience. The alderman drops his tributary s.h.i.+lling, while his fat sides shake with laughter; even Mrs. Marigold and the amiable Miss Biddy have become victims to the vulgar inspiration, and are laughing as heartily as if they were enjoying the grimaces of the first of buffos, Signor Ambrogetti. And now the curtain falls, and the busy group disperse their several ways, chuckling with delight over the ~66~~recollections of the mad waggeries of immortal Mr. Punch.

All hail! thou first great mimic chief, Physician to the mind's relief; Thrice hail! most potent Punch.

Not Momus' self, should he appear, Could dim the l.u.s.tre of thy sphere; So hail! all hail! great Punch.

Bernard Blackmantle.

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THE WESTMINSTER SCHOLAR.

Reminiscences of former Times--Lamentations of Old Crony-- Ancient Sports and Sprees--Modern Im-provements--Hints to Builders and Buyers--Some Account of the School and its Worthies--Recollections of old Schoolfellows--Sketches of Character--The Living and the Dead.

”Fast by, an old but n.o.ble fabric stands, No vulgar work, but raised by princely hands; Which, grateful to Eliza's memory, pays, In living monuments, an endless praise.”

From a poem by a Westminster Scholar, written during Dr. Friend's Masters.h.i.+p, in 1699.

~67~~

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”What say you to a stroll through _Thorney Island_,{1} this morning?”

said old Crony, with whom I had been taking a _dejeune a la fourchette_; ”you have indulged your readers with all the whims and eccentricities of Eton and of Oxford, and, in common justice, you must not pa.s.s by the _Westminster blacks_.”{2} Crony had, I learned, been a foundation scholar during the masters.h.i.+p of Dr. Samuel Smith; when the poet Churchill, Robert Lloyd, (the son of the under-master) Bonnel Thornton, George Colman the elder, Richard c.u.mberland, and a host of other highly-gifted names, were a.s.sociated within the precincts of the abbey cloisters. Our way towards