When a new farce begins with duck and green peas, it promises well; the
sympathies of the audience are secured, especially as the curtain rises but
a short time before every sober play-goer is ready for his supper. Mr.
Gabriel Snoxall is seated before the comsstibles above mentioned--he is
just established in a new lodging. It is snug--the furniture is neat--being
his own property, for he is an _un_furnished lodger. A bachelor so situated
must be a happy fellow. Mr. Snoxall is happy--a smile radiates his face--he
takes wine with himself; but has scarcely tapped the decanter for his first
glass, before he hears a tap at his door. The hospitable "Come in!" is
answered by the appearance of Mr. Dunne Brown, a captain by courtesy, and
Snoxall's neighbour by misfortune. Here business begins.
The ancient natural historian has divided the _genus homo_ into the two
grand divisions of victimiser and victim. Behold one of each class before
you--the yeast and sweat-wort, as it were, which brew the plot! Brown
invites himself to dinner, and does the invitation ample justice; for he
finds the peas as green as the host; who he determines shall be done no
less brown than the duck. He possesses two valuable qualifications in a
diner-out--an excellent appetite, and a habit of eating fast, consequently
the meal is soon over. Mr. Brown's own tiger clears away, by the ingenious
method of eating up what is left. Mr. Snoxall is angry, for he is hungry;
but, good easy man, allows himself to be mollified to a degree of softness
that allows Mr. Brown to borrow, not only his tables and chairs, but his
coat, hat, and watch; just, too, in the very nick of time, for the bailiffs
are announced. What is the hunted creditor to do? Exit by the window to be
sure.
A character invented by farce-writers, and retained exclusively for their
use--for such folks are seldom met with out of a farce--lives in the next
street. He has a lovely daughter, and a nephew momentarily expected from
India, and with those persons he has, of course, not the slighest
acquaintance; and a niece, by marriage, of whose relationship he is also
entirely unconscious. His parlours are made with French windows; they are
open, and invite the bailiff-hunted Brown into the house. What so natural
as that he should find out the state of family affairs from a loquacious
Abigail, and should personate the expected nephew? Mr. Tidmarsh (the
property old gentleman of the farce-writers) is in ecstacics. Mrs. T. sees
in the supposed Selbourne a son-in-law for her daughter, whose vision is
directed to the same prospects. Happy, domestic circle! unequalled family
felicity! too soon, alas! to be disturbed by a singular coincidence. Mr.
Snoxall, the victim, is in love with Miss Sophia, the daughter. Ruin
impends over Brown; but he is master of his art: he persuades Snoxall not
to undeceive the family of Tidmarsh, and kindly undertakes to pop the
question to Sophia on behalf of his friend, whose sheepishness quite equals
his softness. Thus emboldened, Brown inquires after a "few loose
sovereigns," and Snoxall, having been already done out of his chairs,
clothes, and watch, of course lends the victimiser his purse, which
contains twenty.
Mr. Brown's career advances prosperously; he makes love in the dark to his
supposed cousin _pro_ Snoxall, in the hearing of the supposed wife (for the
real Selbourne has been married privately) and his supposed friend, both
supposing him false, mightily abuse him, all being still in the dark. At
length the real Selbourne enters, and all supposition ends, as does the
farce, poetical justice being administered upon the captain by courtesy, by
the bailiffs who arrest him. Thus he, at last, becomes really Mr. Dunne
Brown.
The farce was successful, for the actors were perfect, and the audience
good-humoured. We need hardly say who played the hero; and having named
Wrench, as the nephew, who was much as usual, everybody will know how. Mr.
David Rees is well adapted for Snoxall, being a good figure for the part,
especially in the duck-and-green-peas season. The ladies, of whom there
were four, performed as ladies generally do in farces on a first night.
We recommend the readers of PUNCH to cultivate the acquaintance of "My
Friend the Captain." They will find him at home every evening at the
Haymarket. We suspect his paternity may be traced to a certain _corner_,
from whose merit several equally successful broad-pieces have been issued.
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