The extraordinary being, conjured up in the minds of most foreigners
under the generic term Englishman, seems to be something more uncommon
than the veracious Gulliver ever encountered, and more heterogeneous
than John Bulwer in his _Artificiall Changeling_ pourtrayed. As
a Spanish _olla podrida_ and a Devonshire squab-pie are said to
be made up of all the contradictory edibles that can be conceivably
assembled in one dish; so is the hash, cooked up by the French or
German novelist and dramatist to represent a true born Briton, an
incarnation of every unlikely extravagance it is possible to assemble
in one character.
The true expression of what is popularly believed of us abroad is
not to be found so distinctly set forth in novels, as in plays. The
novelist is restricted in a measure within the not narrow bounds of
probability; but the dramatist may first revel at will in the rankest
breadths of impossible absurdity; and then the actor may intensify
the enormity by dress, gait, and unmeasured foolery. The amount of
instruction on the manners, habits, feelings, modes of expression,
gesture, dress, and general demeanour of his compatriots which
an Englishman may glean in some of the foreign Theatres, when an
Englishman is being represented on the stage, is perfectly astounding.
We have in this way become acquainted with English characteristics of
which the most comically inclined maniac could never dream after the
most dyspeptic of suppers.
It is not long since the mirror held up to Nature--that is, English
nature reflected by the French--revealed to us, at the Ambigû Comique
and at the Théâtre des Variétés, in Paris, “that of ourselves which
yet we knew not of”--dreamt not of. One gentleman who supported not
only the character of a Prefect, but an enormous cocked-hat, assured
us that when we were at home, we groaned under the tyranny of a feudal
government, which ground us to the dust; that our Commonality was
overridden and harrowed by tax-exacting aristocrats; that they died of
starvation in heaps; that if they dared to call their souls their own,
the latter were summarily released from their bodies by a perambulating
police disguised as members of the Royal Humane Society. In another
scene the same public instructor told us, that all Englishmen (of
course including the starved Commonality) possess enormous wealth,
which they usually employ in the purchase of “_Le titre de
Lord_;”--an unnecessary outlay, as every person not a tradesman
receives the title as a matter of course. Yet this avails them little,
as the different orders of our nobility hold no communication with
persons of higher or lower rank; our national pride preventing the
one, and the best of all reasons--“because they can’t--” the other.
Our patricians ride abroad followed by armed retainers; nor is any
vulgar person allowed to come between the wind and their nobility: the
streets being expressly cleared for them by constables. When at home,
however, seated in a golden chair in company with the Spleen, the
“jeune Miss,” his wife, and a “boulle-dog,” a native of our kingdom
passes his time chiefly in drinking tea with lemon in it, and saying,
“Hoh!--Hah!--Yeeas!--Gottam!--and ver gut!”
Our ladies are a little too much given to fighting, and a little too
lightly won. We sell our wives. This is a very common mercantile
transaction indeed. A “pen” of no mean dimensions is appropriated
in Smithfield for the interesting periodical auction. Our Queen
makes away with many millions a year, and cuts off the heads of
any persons to whom she may take a dislike, or hangs them, without
the intervention of judge, jury, or any other functionary than the
executioner, who--another Tristan the Hermit--is a regular member of
the Royal Household. We are, however, for the most part, a harmless
and ridiculous race, affording excellent sport to innkeepers and
adventurers. We eat prodigiously. Indeed so great is our love for
good cheer, that we name our children after our favourite dishes. If
a person in good society is not called Sir Rosbif, he will probably
answer to the name of Lord Bifstek--in honor of the two great national
dishes, which we have spelt in that manner from time immemorial.
In a pretty piece at the Gymnase in Paris, where the Prime Minister of
England unfortunately ruined himself by speculating in Railway shares,
a thorough-going English servant appeared under that thorough-going
English name Tom Bob--the honest fellow having been christened Tom,
and born the lawful son of Mr. and Mrs. Bob. In an Italian adaptation
of Dumas’ preposterous play of “KEAN,” which we once saw at
the great Theatre of Genoa, the curtain rose upon that celebrated
Tragedian, drunk and fast asleep in a chair, attired in a dark blouse
fastened round the waist with a broad belt and a most prodigious
buckle, and wearing a dark red hat of the sugar-loaf shape, nearly
three feet high. He bore in his hand a champagne-bottle, with the label
RHUM, in large capital letters, carefully turned towards the
audience; and two or three dozen of the same popular liquor which we
are nationally accustomed to drink neat as imported by the half-gallon,
ornamented the floor of the apartment. Every frequenter of the Coal
Hole Tavern in the Strand, on that occasion, wore a sword and a beard.
Every English lady presented on the stage in Italy, wears a green veil;
and almost every such specimen of our fair countrywomen carries a
bright red reticule, made in the form of a monstrous heart. We do not
remember to have ever seen an Englishman on the Italian stage, or in
the Italian Circus, without a stomach like Daniel Lambert, an immense
shirt-frill, and a bunch of watch-seals, each several times larger
than his watch, though the watch itself was an impossible engine. And
we have rarely beheld this mimic Englishman, without seeing present,
then and there, a score of real Englishmen, sufficiently characteristic
and unlike the rest of the audience, to whom he bore no shadow of
resemblance.
These edifying pictures of the English are not complete without the
finishing touches of grotesque absurdity vouchsafed by the actors. A
few winters ago we were enticed into the little theatre of Coblentz
by the information paraded in large placards on the doors that it
was “very well warmed;” that Auber’s opera of Fra Diavolo was to
be played; and that the part of Lord Allcash was to be personated
by a distinguished comic actor. Even while we write, his lordship
is before our mind’s eye, blazingly costumed in a green coat, blue
inexpressibles, top-boots, a brace of yellow handkerchiefs sticking out
of either pocket, a couple of watches, and a hat with a feather in it!
Yet, if they do not know something of the ordinary appearance of an
English traveller in Coblentz, where should they? He must be at least
as well known there, as in Devonshire or the Isle of Wight.
So, in Brussels, where the English almost outnumber the native
population, the audiences relish a curious amount of ignorance
respecting England and the English; as the dramatis personæ of a piece
exhibited so recently as last May at the Théâtre St Hubert, will
show. It was called “_La Lectrice, ou une folie de jeune homme.
Comédie Vaudeville en 2 actes_, par M. Bazard.” It must have had
a considerable run; for the play-bill states that M. Ferville had
created a great sensation in the character of “Sir Cobridge,” at
Paris. We have some idea that “Sir Cobridge” must be intended for
the Sleeping Partner in a Porter-Brewery, and that the name is a
dreamy reminiscence of the popular individual Sir Co, made easy of
remembrance by sign-boards. But the first personage we have occasion
to mention is, “Sir Arthur” (jeune officier), who has no other name,
and who has no occasion for one, everybody calling him “my lord,”
according (as he observed) to the usual form of address in England.
Sir Arthur considers it the first duty of a British officer to insult
a respectable blind old gentleman--who is moreover his guest--because
the blind old gentleman ventures to insinuate something against one of
the officers of Sir Arthur’s regiment, through whom he has suffered
severely. This chivalrous young nobleman, disdaining all inquiry into
the circumstances, at once constitutes himself champion of every
individual belonging to the entire British army. The next personage is
a young gentleman possessing (as _he_ observed) a name extremely
common in Britain, to wit, “Clac-Own.” The actor of this part was
fitted up with a wig of violently red hair, like a carriage-rug, and
was dressed in a kind of fusion of an English jockey with a French
Field-Marshal. Expecting to inherit the vast possession of his uncle,
Sir Cobridge, Clac-Own passed his time, according to the custom of
Anglican nephews in such cases, in giving his uncle to understand how
extremely inconvenient he finds his society, and in informing him
that “Shak-es-pair”--who, being Sir Cobridge’s favourite author, is
naturally the avowed bugbear of Clac-Own,--is an insufferable bore.
This is going too far; and the wealthy old gentleman (who has quietly
submitted to every other species of personal insult from his intended
heir,) is so shocked by this contempt for “Shak-es-pair,” that he
feels himself compelled to sing a song; wherein he demonstrates, in
the most lucid tira-lal-a-la logic, that Clac-Own is very decidedly in
the wrong. The scena concludes by Sir Cobridge ordering Clac-Own off,
in some very deep bass notes, to “Le Lincoln!”--an idiomatic place
of banishment, that would appear to be very popular among us, though
whether it stands for Coventry, Bath, Jericho, Halifax, or any other
such place, we are unable to report. Clac-Own, Sir Arthur, and several
others having assembled at a later stage of the proceedings to go out
hunting, the Belgian public perceive that our usual equipment for that
sport is a white tailed coat, light blue breeches, patent leather
hessian boots with brass spurs, a red neckerchief--such as one may
see whispering to the gale in Field Lane or Wapping,--a turned-down
shirt-collar, a gun, a cutlas, and an enormous game pouch. Thus arrayed
and mounted on the “chevaux fougueux” of our island, we pursue and
capture the crafty fox.--When we add that Monsieur Bazard, who is the
author of this singular production, is of the opinion of Boiardo, that
the English have an especial talent for falling off their horses--and
no wonder, riding across the country in such trim!--we have described
the leading points of this accurate picture.
Most of these distorted views of English life originate with the French
with whom we have had most intercourse, and who ought to know us best;
but our German and Austrian friends, the dramatic caricaturists, have a
very hard hit at us now and then. Only last month we were attracted to
the Carl Theatre, in Vienna, by one little line in a play-bill, which
announced a new piece, the English title of which is, “The Benefit
Night.” Here is the line:--
~=Lord Pudding, ein reisender Englander Hr. Heese.=~
Lord Pudding, a Travelling Englishman Mr. Heese.
In rigid obedience to the law, which has impressed the names of
eatables upon the eaters thereof, the author had christened his
“pock-pudding-Englisher” (to borrow a pleasant periphrasis from
Scotland), out of the pot. Nevertheless “The Benefit Night”--in which
we think we descry some reflection of a very good French vaudeville--is
written with considerable cleverness and wit. The plot was chiefly
evolved from the endeavours of a manager to obtain the assistance of
certain eminent “stars” of the profession for his benefit. He first
presented himself to a great singer, who was, of course, afflicted with
a cold, but who was at length frightened into voice by hearing that a
rival had already agreed to sing his part, and by an assurance from
the manager that the new singer had already taken everybody by storm
at the rehearsal. A great tragedian the manager won by flattery; “the
food of gods” being the only thing worthy the acceptance of so august
a personage; and a dancer he bribed by assuring her that the wealthy
Englishman, “Lord Pudding,” would be in the house, especially to fall
in love with her. He also promised a troop of experienced claqueurs to
applaud her new “pas.”
We were introduced to Lord Pudding, as he appeared while indulging
in the singular fancy of taking a lesson in Elocution from a German
actor! His personal appearance was wonderful to behold. He was much
stuffed out with wadding to increase his natural proportions, and his
dress was such as the tailors--not only of Pall-Mall and St. James’s
Street, but of any English extraction or habitation whatsoever--would
see with amaze. It was composed of a blue dress coat, with white
buttons, a red waistcoat, nankeen tights, shoes of polished leather,
and long brass spurs. His neck-kerchief was a bright blue, carrying
the eye pleasantly up to a very white hat with an imperceptible brim.
The author appeared to have studied the manners of our aristocracy
with exceeding diligence; for, to the usual peculiarities which may
be considered the “stock” of Foreign theatricals, he added some
strikingly original features. Lord Pudding was, of course, a lover,
and of course an unsuccessful one: he was jilted by the French dancer.
When he danced he was made to tumble; when he saluted a lady he gave
his lips a loud smack. He entered a room like a whirlwind, and between
his paroxysms of “fuss” our usual friendly salutation “_Gottam_”
was repeated many times; to the enthusiastic delight of the audience,
who believed it to be a polished sort of “How-d’ ye-do?” He was
quite the Clown to the Ring; and had the long pockets--in which that
gentleman usually searches for the chalk when it is required for the
tight-rope--well-filled. Nor was Pudding stingy with his money. Despite
his hard usage by the ballet-lady, he was liberal to the manager.
Though wrathful, he was of easy faith; being readily imposed upon,
and peculiarly sensible to flattery, by which means he was induced to
take three boxes for the benefit, viz., one for himself; one for the
policeman who had been in constant attendance on him since his arrival,
to restrain his inveterate propensity for knocking down the lieges
of the city (so intense was his love for “the boaks;”) the third for
the exclusive occupation of ----, his boulle-dog! One or two little
touches, which distinguished his lordship, showed that the actor was,
at least, an observer. Such were, the hat pushed back from the crimson
forehead, the heavy rolling walk, and a strenuous objection to be
kissed--all particularly English.
Other specimens of the genus we had previously seen, however, showed
that Lord Pudding was a very fair example of an English gentleman on
the German stage.
We cannot but believe that though amusing, these caricatures--exhibited
as they are to ignorant and prejudiced minds--tend to confound the just
relations between one people and another. Perhaps friendly Excursions
on both sides of the channel may do much to lessen these absurdities.
Unfortunately--as recent publications too well prove--the mistaken
estimate of the English is by no means corrected by the graver works
now and then put forth by distinguished men. Highly as we esteem M.
Guizot and some Frenchmen of real attainments, who have written upon
England, we have never taken up a book on the subject without painful
disappointment, or without seeing in it errors almost equal to M. Ledru
Rollin’s more recent incongruities.
To the honour of our modern English authors be it spoken, they have
been zealous to avoid such ridiculous mistakes. It is true that
the harmless old legends respecting Foreigners--that nine-tenths
of them are Frenchmen; that all are of very slender proportions in
figure; that their staple diet is frogs; and that, despite Alison’s
and every other History of Europe, they very much prefer to dance
than to fight; together with other popular delusions--still linger
in the minds of some of our bold peasantry and milder cockneys; but
it is to be hoped, after many years of peace and better sense, that
we may now claim for the majority of even an under-educated British
public, a more correct knowledge of the personnel and manners of our
Continental neighbours, than our Continental neighbours manifestly
have of us. The very foible of Lord Pudding himself--that of being a
_travelling_ Englishman--would defend him from such blunders
as the literary Frankenstein who gave life to the monster, has fallen
into. Travelling Englishmen are common abroad, who speak foreign
languages, and understand foreign customs, extremely well. There are
many of our travellers whom we should be very glad to improve: and
thanks to railways, and to our possession of some--though not very
much--of the wealth which the foreign dramatic and fictionist artists
so liberally attribute to us, we are rapidly polishing off the rust
of national prejudice, and ignorance of our brethren abroad. Should
an English author or actor be guilty of such laughable mistakes about
foreigners as those we have pointed out, woe unutterable would alight
on his ignorant head.
Every sort of attraction which brings people of different nations,
and even of different counties, together--whether it be a German wool
fair, a music meeting, or a Swiss shooting-match--smooths away the
acerbities of caste, and strengthens the sympathies of individuals.
Let us, therefore, hope that the myriads of exotics which will be
attracted next year to the Great Industrial Conservatory in Hyde Park,
will receive new vigour and fresh intelligence from their temporary
transplantation; that they will learn that Englishmen and English women
are not quite the monstrosities they at present appear to believe them.
Foreigners will then have the advantage of seeing us at home, and in
a mass; and will thenceforth cease to judge us by those follies which
they observe in a few idle tourists from these islands. They will see
us as we are, reciprocating what we believe to be the general desire
here, in reference to them.