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English--it has been remarked a thousand and odd times--is one of the few
languages which is unaccompanied with gesticulation. Your veritable
Englishman, in his discourse, is as chary as your genuine Frenchman is
prodigal, of action. The one speaks like an oracle, the other like a
telegraph.
Mr. Brown narrates the death of a poor widower from starvation, with his
hands fast locked in his breeches' pocket, and his features as calm as a
horse-pond. M. le Brun tells of the _debut_ of the new _danseuse_, with
several kisses on the tips of his fingers, a variety of taps on the left
side of his satin waistcoat, and his head engulfed between his two
shoulders, like a cock-boat in a trough of the sea.
The cause of this natural diversity is not very apparent. The deficiency
of gesture on our parts may be a necessary result of that prudence which
is so marked a feature of the English character. Mr. Brown, perhaps,
objects to using two means to attain his end when one is sufficient, and
consequently looks upon all gesticulation during conversation as a wicked
waste of physical labour, which that most sublime and congenial science of
Pol. Econ. has shown him to be the source of all wealth. To indulge in
pantomime is, therefore, in his eyes, the same as throwing so much money
in the dirt--a crime which he regards as second in depravity only to that
of having none to throw. Napoleon said, many years back, we were a nation
of shopkeepers; and time seems to have increased, rather than diminished,
our devotion to the ledger. Gold has become our sole standard of
excellence. We measure a man's respectability by his banker's account, and
mete out to the pauper the same punishment as the felon. Our very nobility
is a nobility of the breeches' pocket; and the highest personage in the
realm--her most gracious Majesty--the most gracious Majesty of
500,000l. per annum! Nor is this to be wondered at. To a martial
people like the Romans, it was perfectly natural that animal courage
should be thought to constitute heroic virtue: to a commercial people like
ourselves, it is equally natural that a man's worthiness should be
computed by what he is worth. We fear it is this commercial spirit, which,
for the reason before assigned, is opposed to the introduction of
pantomime among us; and it is therefore to this spirit that we would
appeal, in our endeavours to supply a deficiency which we cannot but look
upon as a national misfortune and disgrace. It makes us appear as a
cold-blooded race of people, which we assuredly are not; for, after all
our wants are satisfied, what nation can make such heroic sacrifices for
the benefit of their fellow creatures as our own? A change, however, is
coming over us: a few pantomimic signs have already made their appearance
amongst us. It is true that they are at present chiefly confined to that
class upon whose manners politeness places little or no
restraint--barbarians, who act as nature, rather than as the book of
etiquette dictates, (and among whom, for that very reason, such a change
would naturally first begin to show itself:) yet do we trust, by pointing
out to the more refined portion of the "British public," the advantage
that must necessarily accrue from the general cultivation of the art of
pantomime, by proving to them its vast superiority over the comparatively
tedious operations of speech, and exhibiting its capacity of conveying a
far greater quantity of thought in a considerably less space of time, and
that with a saving of one-half the muscular exertion--a point so perfectly
consonant with the present prevailing desire for cheap and rapid
communication--that we say we hope to be able not only to bring the higher
classes to look upon it no longer as a vulgar and extravagant mode of
expression, but actually to introduce and cherish it among them as the
most polite and useful of all accomplishments.
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But in order to exhibit the capacities of this noble art in all their
comprehensive excellence, it is requisite that we should, in the first
place, say a few words on language in general.
It is commonly supposed that there are but two kinds of language among
men--the written and the spoken: whereas it follows, from the very nature
of language itself, that there must necessarily be as many modes of
conveying our impressions to our fellow-creatures, as there are senses or
modes of receiving impressions in them. Accordingly, there are five senses
and five languages; to wit, the audible, the visible, the olfactory, the
gustatory, and the sensitive. To the two first belong speech and
literature. As illustrations of the third, or olfactory language, may be
cited the presentation of a pinch of Prince's Mixture to a stranger, or a
bottle of "Bouquet du Roi" to a fair acquaintance; both of which are but
forms of expressing to them nasally our respect. The nose, however, is an
organ but little cultivated in man, and the language which appeals to it
is, therefore, in a very imperfect state; not so the gustatory, or that
which addresses itself to the palate. This, indeed, may be said to be
imbibed with our mother's milk. What words can speak affection to the
child like elecampane--what language assures us of the remembrance of an
absent friend like a brace of wood-cocks? Then who does not comprehend the
eloquence of dinners? A rump steak, and bottle of old port, are not these
to all guests the very emblems of esteem--and turtle, venison, and
champagne, the unmistakeable types of respect? If the citizens of a
particular town be desirous of expressing their profound admiration of the
genius of a popular author, how can the sentiment be conveyed so fitly as
in a public dinner? or if a candidate be anxious to convince the "free and
independent electors" of a certain borough of his disinterested regard for
the commonweal, what more persuasive language could he adopt than the
general distribution of unlimited beer? Of the sensitive, or fifth and
last species of language, innumerable instances might be quoted. All
understand the difference in meaning between cuffs and caresses--between
being shaken heartily by the hand and kicked rapidly down stairs. Who,
however ignorant, could look upon the latter as a compliment? or what fair
maiden, however simple, would require a master to teach her how to
construe a gentle compression of her fingers at parting, or a tender
pressure of her toe under the dinner table?
Such is an imperfect sketch of the five languages appertaining to man.
There is, however, one other--that which forms the subject of the present
article--Pantomime, and which may be considered as the natural form of the
visible language--literature being taken as the artificial. This is the
most primitive as well as most comprehensive, of all. It is the earliest,
as it is the most intuitive--the smiles and frowns of the mother being the
first signs understood by the infant. Indeed, if we consider for a moment
that all existence is but a Pantomime, of which Time is the harlequin,
changing to-day into yesterday, summer into winter, youth into old age,
and life into death, and we but the clowns who bear the kicks and buffets
of the scene, we cannot fail to desire the general cultivation of an art
which constitutes the very essence of existence itself. "Speech," says
Talleyrand, that profound political pantomimist, "was given to
_conceal_ our thoughts;" and truly this is the chief use to which it
is applied. We are continually clamouring for acts in lieu of words. Let
but the art of Pantomime become universal, and this grand desideratum must
be obtained. Then we shall find that candidates, instead of being able, as
now, to become legislators by simply professing to be patriots, will be
placed in the awkward predicament of having first to _act_ as such;
and that the clergy, in lieu of taking a tenth part of the produce for the
mere preaching of Christianity, will be obliged to sacrifice at least a
portion to charitable purposes, and _practise_ it.
Indeed, we are thoroughly convinced, that when the manifold advantages of
this beautiful art shall be generally known, it cannot fail of becoming
the principle of universal communication. Nor do we despair of ultimately
finding the elegant Lord A. avowing his love for the beautiful Miss B., by
gently closing one of his eyes, and the fair lady tenderly expressing that
doubt and incredulity which are the invariable concomitants of "Love's
young dream," by a gentle indication with the dexter hand over the
sinister shoulder.
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