Have any of PUNCH'S readers ever met one of the above _genus_--or
rather, have they not? They must; for the race is imbued with the most
persevering _hic et ubique_ powers. Like the old mole, these
Truepennies "work i' th' dark:" at the Theatres, the Opera, the Coal Hole,
the Cider Cellars, and the whole of the Grecian, Roman, British, Cambrian,
Eagle, Lion, Apollo, Domestic, Foreign, Zoological, and Mythological
Saloons, they "most do congregate." Once set your eyes upon them, once
become acquainted with their habits and manners, and then mistake them if
you can. They are themselves, alone: like the London dustmen, the Nemarket
jockeys, the peripatetic venders, or buyers of "old clo'," or the Albert
continuations at _one pound one_, they appear to be _made to
measure for the same_. We must now describe them (to speak
theatrically) with decorations, scenes, and properties! The entirely new
dresses of a theatre are like the habiliments of the professional singer,
i.e. neither one nor the other ever _were entirely new_, and never
will be allowed to grow entirely old. The double-milled Saxony of these
worthies is generally _very_ blue or _very_ brown; the cut
whereof sets a man of a contemplative turn of mind wondering at what
precise date those tails were worn, and vainly speculating on the
probabilities of their being fearfully indigestible, as that alone could
to long have kept them from Time's remorseless maw. The collars are always
velvet, and always greasy. There is a slight ostentation manifested in the
seams, the stitches whereof are so apparent as to induce the beholders to
believe they must have been the handiwork of some cherished friend, whose
labours ought not to be entombed beneath the superstructure. The
buttons!--oh, for a pen of steam to write upon those buttons! They,
indeed, are the aristocracy--the yellow turbans, the sun, moon, and stars
of the woollen system! They have nothing in common with the coat--they are
_on it_, and that's all--they have no further communion--they decline
the button-holes, and eschew all right to labour for their living--they
announce themselves as "the last new fashion"--they sparkle for a week,
retire to their silver paper, make way for the new comers, and, years
after, like the Sleeping Beauty, rush to life in all their pristine
splendour, and find (save in the treble-gilt aodication and their own
accession) the coat, the immortal coat, unchanged! The waistcoat is of a
material known only to themselves--a sort of nightmare illusion of velvet,
covered with a slight tracery of refined mortar, curiously picked out and
guarded with a nondescript collection of the very greenest green pellets
of hyson-bloom gunpowder tea. The buttons (things of use in this garment)
describe the figure and proportions of a large turbot. They consist of two
rows (leaving imagination to fill up a lapse of the absent), commencing,
to all appearance, at the _small of the back_, and reaching down even
to the hem of the garment, which is invariably a double-breasted one, made
upon the good old dining-out principle of leaving plenty of room in the
victualling department. To complete the catalogue of raiment, the
untalkaboutables have so little right to the name of drab, that it would
cause a controversy on the point. Perhaps nothing in life can more
exquisitely illustrate the Desdemona feeling of divided duty, than the
portion of manufactured calf-skin appropriated to the peripatetic purposes
of these gentry; they are, in point of fact, invariably that description
of mud-markers known in the purlieus of Liecester-square, and at
all denominations of "boots"--great, little, red, and yellow--as
eight-and-sixpenny Bluchers. But the afore-mentioned drabs are strapped
down with such pertinacity as to leave the observer in extreme doubt
whether the Prussian hero of that name is their legitimate sponsor, or the
glorious Wellington of our own sea-girt isle. Indeed, it has been rumoured
that (as there never was a _pair_ of either of the illustrious
heroes) these gentlemen, for the sake of consistency, invariably
perambulate in _one of each_. We scarcely know whether it be so or
not--we merely relate what we have heard; but we incline to the _two
Bluchers_, _because_ of the _eight-and-six_. The only
additional expense likely to add any emolument to the _tanner's_
interest (we mean no pun) is the immense extent of sixpenny straps
generally worn. These are described by a friend of ours as belonging to
the great class of _coaxers_; and their exertions in bringing (as a
nautical man would say) the trowsers _to bear_ at all, is worthy of
notice. There is a legend extant (a veritable legend, which emanated from
one of the fraternity who had been engaged three weeks at her Majesty's
theatre, as one of twenty in an unknown chorus, the chief peculiarity of
the affair being the close approximation of some of his principal foreign
words to "Tol de rol," and "Fal the ral ra"), in which it was asserted,
that from a violent quarrel with a person in the grass-bleached line, the
body corporate determined to avoid any unnecessary use of that commodity.
In the way of wristbands, the malice of the above void is beautifully
nullified, inasmuch as the most prosperous linen-draper could never wish
to have less linen on hand. As we are describing the _genus_ in
_black_ and _white_, we may as well state at once, _those_
are the colours generally casing the throats from whence their sweet
sounds issue; these _ties_ are garnished with union pins, whose
strong _mosaic tendency_ would, in the Catholic days of Spain (had
they been residents), have consigned them to the lowest dungeons of the
Inquisition, and favoured them with an exit from this breathing world,
amid all the uncomfortable pomp of an _auto-da-fe_.
It is a fact on record, that no one of the body ever had a cold in his
head; and this peculiarity, we presume, exempts them from carrying
pocket-handkerchiefs, a superfluity we never witnessed in their hands,
though they indulge in snuff-boxes which assume the miniture form of
French plum-cases, richly embossed, with something round the edges about
as much in proportion to _the box_ as _eighteen insides_ are to
a small tax-cart. This testimonial is generally (as the engraved
inscription purports) given by "several gentlemen" (who are,
unfortunately, in these instances, always anonymous--which circumstance,
as they are invariably described as "admirers of talent," is much to be
regretted, and, we trust, will soon be rectified). We believe, like the
immortal Jack Falstaff, they were each born at four o'clock of the
morning, with a bald head, and something of a round belly; certain it is,
they are universally thin in the hair, and exhibit strong manifestation of
obesity.
The further marks of identity consist in a ring very variously chased, and
the infallible insignia of a tuning-fork: without this no professional
singer does or can exist. The thing has been tried, and found a failure.
Its uses are remarkable and various: like the "death's-head and
cross-bones" of the pirates, or the wand, globe, and beard of the
conjuror, it is their sure and unvarying sign. We have in our mind's eye
one of the species even now--we see him coquetting with the fork,
compressing it with gentle fondness, and then (that all senses may be
called into requisition) resting it against his eye-tooth to catch the
proper tone. Should this be the prelude to his own professional
performance, we see it returned, with a look of profound wisdom, to the
right-hand depository of the nondescript and imaginary velvet
double-breaster--we follow his eyes, till, with peculiar fascination, they
fix upon the far-off cornice of the most distant corner of the
smoke-embued apartment--we perceive the extension of the dexter hand
employed in innocent dalliance with the well-sucked peel of a quarter of
an orange, whilst the left is employed with the links of what would be a
watch-guard, _if_ the professional singer _had a watch_. We hear
the three distinct hems--oblivion for a moment seizes us--the glasses
jingle--two auctioneers' hammers astonish the mahogany--several dirty
hands are brought in violent and noisy contact--we are near a friend of
the vocalist--our glass of gin-and-water (literally warm without) empties
itself over our lower extremities, instigated thereto by the gymnastic
performances of the said zealous friend--and with an exclamation that,
were Mawworn present, would cost us a shilling, we find the professional
singer has concluded, and is half stooping to the applause, and half
lifting his diligently-stirred grog, gulping down the "creature comfort"
with infinite satisfaction.
* * * * *
--There goes the hammer again! (Rubins has a sinecure compared to that fat
man). "A glee, gents!--a glee!"--Ah! there they are--three coats--three
collars--Heaven knows how many buttons!--three bald heads, three stout
stomachs, three mouths, stuffed with three tuning-forks, nodding and
conferring with a degree of mystery worthy of three Guy Faux."--What is
the subject?
"_Hail_ smi_lig_ _b_orn."
That's a good guess! By the way, the vulgar notion of singing
_ensemble_ is totally exploded by these gentry--each professional
singer, as a professional singer, sings his very loudest, in _justice to
himself_; if his brethren want physical power, that's no fault of
_his_, _he don't_. Professional singers indulge in small
portions of classic lore: among the necessary acquirements is, "Non
nobis," &c. &c.; that is, they consider they ought to know the airs. The
words are generally delivered as follows:--_Don--dobis--do--by--de_.
A clear enunciation is not much cultivated among the clever in this line.
In addition to the few particulars above, it may be as well to mention,
they treat all tavern-waiters with great respect, which is more
Christian-like, as the said waiters never return the same--sit anywhere,
just to accommodate--eat everything, to prove they have no squeamish
partialities--know to a toothful what a bottom of brandy _should
be_--the exact quantity they may drink, free gratis, and the most
likely victim to _drop upon_ for any further nourishment they may
require. Their acquirements in the musical world are rendered clear, by
the important information that "Harry Phillips knows what he's
about"--"Weber was up to a thing or two." A _baritone_ ain't the sort
of thing for tenor music: and when _they_ sung with some man (nobody
ever heard of), they showed him the difference, and wouldn't mind--"A
cigar?" "Thank you, sir!--seldom smoke--put it in my
pocket--(_aside_) that makes a dozen! Your good health, sir!--don't
dislike cold, though I generally take it warm--didn't mean that as a hint,
but, since you _have ordered it_, I'll give you a toast--Here's--THE
PROFESSIONAL SINGER!"