in the form of the impertinent and not universally apposite query,
"Has your mother sold her mangle?" But its popularity was not of that
boisterous and cordial kind which ensures a long continuance of favour.
What tended to impede its progress was, that it could not be well
applied to the older portions of society. It consequently ran but a
brief career, and then sank into oblivion. Its successor enjoyed a more
extended fame, and laid its foundations so deep, that years and changing
fashions have not sufficed to eradicate it. This phrase was "Flare up!"
and it is, even now, a colloquialism in common use. It took its rise in
the time of the Reform riots, when Bristol was nearly half burned by
the infuriated populace. The flames were said to have flared up in the
devoted city. Whether there was anything peculiarly captivating in the
sound, or in the idea of these words, is hard to say; but whatever was
the reason, it tickled the mob-fancy mightily, and drove all other slang
out of the field before it. Nothing was to be heard all over London but
"flare up!" It answered all questions, settled all disputes, was applied
to all persons, all things, and all circumstances, and became suddenly
the most comprehensive phrase in the English language. The man who had
overstepped the bounds of decorum in his speech was said to have flared
up; he who had paid visits too repeated to the gin-shop, and got damaged
in consequence, had flared up. To put one's-self into a passion; to
stroll out on a nocturnal frolic, and alarm a neighbourhood, or to
create a disturbance in any shape, was to flare up. A lovers' quarrel
was a fare up; so was a boxing-match between two blackguards in the
streets, and the preachers of sedition and revolution recommended the
English nation to flare up, like the French. So great a favourite
was the word, that people loved to repeat it for its very sound. They
delighted apparently in hearing their own organs articulate it; and
labouring men, when none who could respond to the call were within
hearing, would often startle the aristocratic echoes of the West by
the well-known slang phrase of the East. Even in the dead hours of the
night, the ears of those who watched late, or who could not sleep, were
saluted with the same sound. The drunkard reeling home showed that he
was still a man and a citizen, by calling "flare up" in the pauses of
his hiccough. Drink had deprived him of the power of arranging all other
ideas; his intellect was sunk to the level of the brute's; but he clung
to humanity by the one last link of the popular cry. While he could
vociferate that sound, he had rights as an Englishman, and would not
sleep in a gutter, like a dog! Onwards he went, disturbing quiet streets
and comfortable people by his whoop, till exhausted nature could support
him no more, and he rolled powerless into the road. When, in due time
afterwards, the policeman stumbled upon him as he lay, that guardian
of the peace turned the full light of his lantern on his face, and
exclaimed, "Here's a poor devil who's been flaring up!" Then came the
stretcher, on which the victim of deep potations was carried to the
watchhouse, and pitched into a dirty cell, among a score of wretches
about as far gone as himself, who saluted their new comrade by a loud,
long shout of flare up!
So universal was this phrase, and so enduring seemed its popularity,
that a speculator, who knew not the evanescence of slang, established a
weekly newspaper under its name. But he was like the man who built his
house upon the sand; his foundation gave way under him, and the phrase
and the newspaper were washed into the mighty sea of the things that
were. The people grew at last weary of the monotony, and "flare up"
became vulgar even among them. Gradually it was left to little boys
who did not know the world, and in process of time sank altogether into
neglect. It is now heard no more as a piece of popular slang; but the
words are still used to signify any sudden outburst either of fire,
disturbance, or ill-nature.
The next phrase that enjoyed the favour of the million was less concise,
and seems to have been originally aimed against precocious youths who
gave themselves the airs of manhood before their time. "Does your mother
know you're out?" was the provoking query addressed to young men of
more than reasonable swagger, who smoked cigars in the streets, and
wore false whiskers to look irresistible. We have seen many a conceited
fellow who could not suffer a woman to pass him without staring her out
of countenance, reduced at once into his natural insignificance by the
mere utterance of this phrase. Apprentice lads and shopmen in their
Sunday clothes held the words in abhorrence, and looked fierce when they
were applied to them. Altogether the phrase had a very salutary effect,
and in a thousand instances showed young Vanity, that it was not half so
pretty and engaging as it thought itself. What rendered it so provoking
was the doubt it implied as to the capability of self-guidance possessed
by the individual to whom it was addressed. "Does your mother know
you're out?" was a query of mock concern and solicitude, implying regret
and concern that one so young and inexperienced in the ways of a great
city should be allowed to wander abroad without the guidance of a
parent. Hence the great wrath of those who verged on manhood, but had
not reached it, whenever they were made the subject of it. Even older
heads did not like it; and the heir of a ducal house, and inheritor of a
warrior's name, to whom they were applied by a cabriolet driver, who was
ignorant of his rank, was so indignant at the affront, that he summoned
the offender before the magisterial bench. The fellow had wished to
impose upon his Lordship by asking double the fare he was entitled to,
and when his Lordship resisted the demand, he was insultingly asked "if
his mother knew he was out?" All the drivers on the stand joined in the
query, and his Lordship was fain to escape their laughter by walking
away with as much haste as his dignity would allow. The man pleaded
ignorance that his customer was a Lord, but offended justice fined him
for his mistake.
When this phrase had numbered its appointed days, it died away, like
its predecessors, and "Who are you?" reigned in its stead. This new
favourite, like a mushroom, seems to have sprung up in a night, or, like
a frog in Cheapside, to have come down in a sudden shower. One day it
was unheard, unknown, uninvented; the next it pervaded London; every
alley resounded with it; every highway was musical with it,
"And street to street, and lane to lane flung back
The one unvarying cry."
The phrase was uttered quickly, and with a sharp sound upon the first
and last words, leaving the middle one little more than an aspiration.
Like all its compeers which had been extensively popular, it was
applicable to almost every variety of circumstance. The lovers of a
plain answer to a plain question did not like it at all. Insolence made
use of it to give offence; ignorance, to avoid exposing itself; and
waggery, to create laughter. Every new comer into an alehouse tap-room
was asked unceremoniously, "Who are you?" and if he looked foolish,
scratched his head, and did not know what to reply, shouts of boisterous
merriment resounded on every side. An authoritative disputant was not
unfrequently put down, and presumption of every kind checked by the same
query. When its popularity was at its height, a gentleman, feeling the
hand of a thief in his pocket, turned suddenly round, and caught him
in the act, exclaiming, "Who are you?" The mob which gathered round
applauded to the very echo, and thought it the most capital joke they
had ever heard--the very acme of wit--the very essence of humour.
Another circumstance, of a similar kind, gave an additional fillip to
the phrase, and infused new life and vigour into it, just as it was
dying away. The scene occurred in the chief criminal court of the
kingdom. A prisoner stood at the bar; the offence with which he had been
charged was clearly proved against him; his counsel had been heard, not
in his defence, but in extenuation, insisting upon his previous good
life and character, as reasons for the lenity of the court. "And where
are your witnesses?" inquired the learned judge who presided. "Please
you, my Lord, I knows the prisoner at the bar, and a more honester
feller never breathed," said a rough voice in the gallery. The
officers of the court looked aghast, and the strangers tittered with
ill-suppressed laughter. "Who are you?" said the Judge, looking suddenly
up, but with imperturbable gravity. The court was convulsed; the titter
broke out into a laugh, and it was several minutes before silence
and decorum could be restored. When the Ushers recovered their
self-possession, they made diligent search for the profane transgressor;
but he was not to be found. Nobody knew him; nobody had seen him. After
a while the business of the court again proceeded. The next prisoner
brought up for trial augured favourably of his prospects when he learned
that the solemn lips of the representative of justice had uttered the
popular phrase as if he felt and appreciated it. There was no fear that
such a judge would use undue severity; his heart was with the people; he
understood their language and their manners, and would make allowances
for the temptations which drove them into crime. So thought many of
the prisoners, if we may infer it from the fact, that the learned judge
suddenly acquired an immense increase of popularity. The praise of
his wit was in every mouth, and "Who are you?" renewed its lease, and
remained in possession of public favour for another term in consequence.
But it must not be supposed that there were no interregni between the
dominion of one slang phrase and another. They did not arise in one
long line of unbroken succession, but shared with song the possession of
popular favour. Thus, when the people were in the mood for music, slang
advanced its claims to no purpose, and, when they were inclined for
slang, the sweet voice of music wooed them in vain. About twenty years
ago London resounded with one chorus, with the love of which everybody
seemed to be smitten. Girls and boys, young men and old, maidens and
wives, and widows, were all alike musical. There was an absolute mania
for singing, and the worst of it was, that, like good Father Philip,
in the romance of "The Monastery," they seemed utterly unable to change
their tune. "Cherry ripe!" "Cherry ripe!" was the universal cry of all
the idle in the town. Every unmelodious voice gave utterance to it;
every crazy fiddle, every cracked flute, every wheezy pipe, every street
organ was heard in the same strain, until studious and quiet men
stopped their ears in desperation, or fled miles away into the fields or
woodlands, to be at peace. This plague lasted for a twelvemonth, until
the very name of cherries became an abomination in the land. At last
the excitement wore itself away, and the tide of favour set in a new
direction. Whether it was another song or a slang phrase, is difficult
to determine at this distance of time; but certain it is, that very
shortly afterwards, people went mad upon a dramatic subject, and nothing
was to be heard of but "Tom and Jerry." Verbal wit had amused the
multitude long enough, and they became more practical in their
recreation. Every youth on the town was seized with the fierce desire of
distinguishing himself, by knocking down the "charlies," being locked
up all night in a watchhouse, or kicking up a row among loose women and
blackguard men in the low dens of St. Giles's. Imitative boys vied with
their elders in similar exploits, until this unworthy passion, for such
it was, had lasted, like other follies, its appointed time, and the town
became merry after another fashion. It was next thought the height of
vulgar wit to answer all questions by placing the point of the thumb
upon the tip of the nose, and twirling the fingers in the air. If one
man wished to insult or annoy another, he had only to make use of this
cabalistic sign in his face, and his object was accomplished. At every
street corner where a group was assembled, the spectator who was curious
enough to observe their movements, would be sure to see the fingers of
some of them at their noses, either as a mark of incredulity, surprise,
refusal, or mockery, before he had watched two minutes. There is some
remnant of this absurd custom to be seen to this day; but it is thought
low, even among the vulgar.
About six years ago, London became again most preposterously musical.
The vox populi wore itself hoarse by singing the praises of "The Sea,
the Sea!" If a stranger (and a philosopher) had walked through London,
and listened to the universal chorus, he might have constructed a very
pretty theory upon the love of the English for the sea-service, and our
acknowledged superiority over all other nations upon that element. "No
wonder," he might have said, "that this people is invincible upon the
ocean. The love of it mixes with their daily thoughts: they celebrate it
even in the market-place: their street-minstrels excite charity by it;
and high and low, young and old, male and female, chant Io paeans in
its praise. Love is not honoured in the national songs of this warlike
race--Bacchus is no god to them; they are men of sterner mould, and
think only of 'the Sea, the Sea!' and the means of conquering upon it."
Such would, doubtless, have been his impression if he had taken the
evidence only of his ears. Alas! in those days for the refined ears that
were musical! great was their torture when discord, with its thousand
diversities of tone, struck up this appalling anthem--there was no
escape from it. The migratory minstrels of Savoy caught the strain, and
pealed it down the long vistas of quiet streets, till their innermost
and snuggest apartments re-echoed with the sound. Men were obliged to
endure this crying evil for full six months, wearied to desperation, and
made sea-sick on the dry land.
Several other songs sprang up in due succession afterwards, but none of
them, with the exception of one, entitled "All round my Hat," enjoyed
any extraordinary share of favour, until an American actor introduced a
vile song called "Jim Crow." The singer sang his verses in appropriate
costume, with grotesque gesticulations, and a sudden whirl of his body
at the close of each verse. It took the taste of the town immediately,
and for months the ears of orderly people were stunned by the senseless
chorus--
"Turn about and wheel about,
And do just so--
Turn about and wheel about,
And jump, Jim Crow!"
Street-minstrels blackened their faces in order to give proper effect to
the verses; and fatherless urchins, who had to choose between thieving
and singing for their livelihood, took the latter course, as likely to
be the more profitable, as long as the public taste remained in that
direction. The uncouth dance, its accompaniment, might be seen in its
full perfection on market nights in any great thoroughfare; and the
words of the song might be heard, piercing above all the din and buzz of
the ever-moving multitude. He, the calm observer, who during the hey-day
popularity of this doggrel,
"Sate beside the public way,
Thick strewn with summer dust, and saw the stream
Of people there was hurrying to and fro,
Numerous as gnats upon the evening gleam,"
might have exclaimed with Shelley, whose fine lines we quote, that
"The million, with fierce song and maniac dance,
Did rage around."
The philosophic theorist we have already supposed soliloquising upon the
English character, and forming his opinion of it from their exceeding
love for a sea-song, might, if he had again dropped suddenly into
London, have formed another very plausible theory to account for our
unremitting efforts for the abolition of the Slave Trade. "Benevolent
people!" he might have said, "how unbounded are your sympathies! Your
unhappy brethren of Africa, differing from you only in the colour of
their skins, are so dear to you, and you begrudge so little the twenty
millions you have paid on their behalf, that you love to have a memento
of them continually in your sight. Jim Crow is the representative of
that injured race, and as such is the idol of your populace! See how
they all sing his praises!--how they imitate his peculiarities!--how
they repeat his name in their moments of leisure and relaxation! They
even carve images of him to adorn their hearths, that his cause and
his sufferings may never be forgotten! Oh, philanthropic England!--oh,
vanguard of civilization!"
Such are a few of the peculiarities of the London multitude, when no
riot, no execution, no murder, no balloon, disturbs the even current of
their thoughts. These are the whimseys of the mass--the harmless follies
by which they unconsciously endeavour to lighten the load of care which
presses upon their existence. The wise man, even though he smile at
them, will not altogether withhold his sympathy, and will say, "Let them
enjoy their slang phrases and their choruses if they will; and if they
cannot be happy, at least let them be merry." To the Englishman, as well
as to the Frenchman of whom Beranger sings, there may be some comfort in
so small a thing as a song, and we may, own with him that
"Au peuple attriste
Ce qui rendra la gaite,
C'est la GAUDRIOLE!
O gue!
C'est la GAUDRIOLE!"
THE O.P. MANIA.
And these things bred a great combustion in the town.
Wagstaffe's "Apparition of Mother Haggis."
The acrimonious warfare carried on for a length of time by the playgoers
of London against the proprietors of Covent-Garden Theatre, is one of
the most singular instances upon record of the small folly which will
sometimes pervade a multitude of intelligent men. Carried on at first
from mere obstinacy by a few, and afterwards for mingled obstinacy and
frolic by a greater number, it increased at last to such a height, that
the sober dwellers in the provinces held up their hands in astonishment,
and wondered that the people of London should be such fools. As much
firmness and perseverance displayed in a better cause, might have
achieved important triumphs; and we cannot but feel regret, in recording
this matter, that so much good and wholesome energy should have been
thrown away on so unworthy an object. But we will begin with the
beginning, and trace the O. P. mania from its source.
On the night of the 20th of September, 1808, the old theatre of
Covent-Garden was totally destroyed by fire. Preparations were
immediately made for the erection of a more splendid edifice, and the
managers, Harris and the celebrated John Philip Kemble, announced that
the new theatre should be without a rival in Europe. In less than
three months, the rubbish of the old building was cleared away, and the
foundation-stone of the new one laid with all due ceremony by the Duke
of Sussex. With so much celerity were the works carried on that, in nine
months more, the edifice was completed, both without and within. The
opening night was announced for the 18th of September 1809, within two
days of a twelvemonth since the destruction of the original building.
But the undertaking had proved more expensive than the Committee
anticipated. To render the pit entrance more commodious, it had been
deemed advisable to remove a low public-house that stood in the way.
This turned out a matter of no little difficulty, for the proprietor
was a man well skilled in driving a hard bargain. The more eager the
Committee showed themselves to come to terms with him for his miserable
pot-house, the more grasping he became in his demands for compensation.
They were ultimately obliged to pay him an exorbitant sum. Added to
this, the interior decorations were on the most costly scale; and Mrs.
Siddons, and other members of the Kemble family, together with the
celebrated Italian singer, Madame Catalani, had been engaged at very
high salaries. As the night of opening drew near, the Committee found
that they had gone a little beyond their means; and they issued a
notice, stating that, in consequence of the great expense they had been
at in building the theatre, and the large salaries they had agreed to
pay, to secure the services of the most eminent actors, they were under
the necessity of fixing the prices of admission at seven shillings to
the boxes and four shillings to the pit, instead of six shillings and
three and sixpence, as heretofore.
This announcement created the greatest dissatisfaction. The boxes might
have borne the oppression, but the dignity of the pit was wounded. A
war-cry was raised immediately. For some weeks previous to the opening,
a continual clatter was kept up in clubs and coffee-rooms, against
what was considered a most unconstitutional aggression on the rights of
play-going man. The newspapers assiduously kept up the excitement, and
represented, day after day, to the managers the impolicy of the proposed
advance. The bitter politics of the time were disregarded, and Kemble
and Covent-Garden became as great sources of interest as Napoleon and
France. Public attention was the more fixed upon the proceedings at
Covent-Garden, since it was the only patent theatre then in existence,
Drury-Lane theatre having also been destroyed by fire in the month of
February previous. But great as was the indignation of the lovers of
the drama at that time, no one could have anticipated the extraordinary
lengths to which opposition would be carried.
First Night, September 20th.--The performances announced were the
tragedy of "Macbeth" and the afterpiece of "The Quaker." The house was
excessively crowded (the pit especially) with persons who had gone
for no other purpose than to make a disturbance. They soon discovered
another grievance to add to the list. The whole of the lower, and
three-fourths of the upper tier of boxes, were let out for the season;
so that those who had paid at the door for a seat in the boxes, were
obliged to mount to a level with the gallery. Here they were stowed into
boxes which, from their size and shape, received the contemptuous, and
not inappropriate designation of pigeon-holes. This was considered in
the light of a new aggression upon established rights; and long before
the curtain drew up, the managers might have heard in their green-room
the indignant shouts of "Down with the pigeon-holes!"--"Old prices for
ever!" Amid this din the curtain rose, and Mr. Kemble stood forward to
deliver a poetical address in honour of the occasion. The riot now began
in earnest; not a word of the address was audible, from the stamping
and groaning of the people in the pit. This continued, almost without
intermission, through the five acts of the tragedy. Now and then, the
sublime acting of Mrs. Siddons, as "the awful woman," hushed the noisy
multitude into silence, in spite of themselves: but it was only for a
moment; the recollection of their fancied wrongs made them ashamed of
their admiration, and they shouted and hooted again more vigorously
than before. The comedy of Munden in the afterpiece met with no better
reception; not a word was listened to, and the curtain fell amid still
increasing uproar and shouts of "Old prices!" Some magistrates, who
happened to be present, zealously came to the rescue, and appeared on
the stage with copies of the Riot Act. This ill-judged proceeding made
the matter worse. The men of the pit were exasperated by the indignity,
and strained their lungs to express how deeply they felt it. Thus
remained the war till long after midnight, when the belligerents
withdrew from sheer exhaustion.
Second Night.--The crowd was not so great; all those who had gone on the
previous evening to listen to the performances, now stayed away, and the
rioters had it nearly all to themselves. With the latter, "the play was
not the thing," and Macheath and Polly sang in "The Beggar's Opera"
in vain. The actors and the public appeared to have changed sides--the
audience acted, and the actors listened. A new feature of this night's
proceedings was the introduction of placards. Several were displayed
from the pit and boxes, inscribed in large letters with the words, "Old
prices." With a view of striking terror, the constables who had been
plentifully introduced into the house, attacked the placard-bearers, and
succeeded, after several severe battles, in dragging off a few of them
to the neighbouring watch-house, in Bow Street. Confusion now became
worse and worse confounded. The pitites screamed themselves hoarse;
while, to increase the uproar, some mischievous frequenters of the upper
regions squeaked through dozens of cat-calls, till the combined noise
was enough to blister every tympanum in the house.
Third Night.--The appearance of several gentlemen in the morning at
the bar of the Bow Street police office, to answer for their riotous
conduct, had been indignantly commented upon during the day. All augured
ill for the quiet of the night. The performances announced were "Richard
the Third" and "The Poor Soldier," but the popularity of the tragedy
could not obtain it a hearing. The pitites seemed to be drawn into
closer union by the attacks made upon them, and to act more in concert
than on the previous nights. The placards were, also, more numerous; not
only the pit, but the boxes and galleries exhibited them. Among the most
conspicuous, was one inscribed, "John Bull against John Kemble.--Who'll
win?" Another bore "King George for ever! but no King Kemble." A third
was levelled against Madame Catalani, whose large salary was supposed
to be one of the causes of the increased prices, and was inscribed
"No foreigners to tax us--we're taxed enough already." This last was a
double-barrelled one, expressing both dramatic and political discontent,
and was received with loud cheers by the pitites.