unavoidable, and attends the best directed efforts, you sit down to table
with your stock ill arranged or incomplete, or of an inferior quality. Your
object is to make men laugh. It must be done. I have known a pathetic
passage, quoted timely and with a happy emphasis from a popular novel--say,
"Alice, or the Mysteries"--I have known it, I say, do more execution upon
the congregated amount of midriff, than the best joke of the evening.
(There is one passage in that "thrilling" performance, where Alice,
overjoyed that her lover is restored to her, is represented as frisking
about him like a dog around his long-absent proprietor, which, whenever I
have taken it in hand, has been rewarded with the most vociferous and
gleesome laughter.)
And this reminds me that I should say a word about laughers. I know not
whether it be prudent to come to terms with any man, however stentorian his
lungs, or flexible his facial organs, with a view to engage him as a
cachinnatory machine. A confederate may become a traitor--a rival he is
pretty certain of becoming. Besides, strive as you may, you can never
secure an altogether unexceptionable individual--one who will "go the whole
hyaena," and be at the same time the entire jackal. If he once start "lion"
on his own account, furnished with your original roar, with which you
yourself have supplied him, good-bye to your supremacy. "Farewell, my
trim-built wherry"--he is in the same boat only to capsise you.
"And the first lion thinks the last a bore,"
and rightly so thinks. No; the best and safest plan is to work out your own
ends, independent of aid which at best is foreign, and is likely to be
formidable.
I may perhaps resume this subject more at large at a future time. My space
at present is limited, but I feel I have hardly as yet entered upon the
subject.
* * * * *
LAM(B)ENTATIONS.
Ye banks and braes o' Buckingham,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair,
When I am on my latest legs,
And may not bask amang ye mair!
And you, sweet maids of honour,--come,
Come, darlings, let us jointly mourn,
For your old flame must now depart,
Depart, oh! never to return!
Oft have I roam'd o'er Buckingham,
From room to room, from height to height;
It was such pleasant exercise,
And gave me _such_ an appetite!
Yes! when the _dinner-hour_ arrived,
For me they never had to wait,
I was the first to take my chair,
And spread my ample napkin straight.
And if they did not quickly come,
After the dinner-bell had knoll'd,
I just ran up my _private stairs_,
To say the things were getting cold!
But now, farewell, ye pantry steams,
(The sweets of premiership to me),
Ye gravies, relishes, and creams,
Malmsey and Port, and Burgundy!
Full well I mind the days gone by,--
'Twas nought but sleep, and wake, and dine;
Then _John_ and _Pal_ sang o' _their_ luck,
And fondly sae sang I o' mine!
But now, how sad the scene, and changed!
_Johnny_ and _Pal_ are glad nae mair!
Oh! banks and braes o' Buckingham!
How _can_ you bloom sae fresh and fair!
* * * * *
CHELSEA.
(From our own Correspondent.)
This delightful watering-place is filling rapidly. The steam-boats bring
down hundreds every day, and in the evening take them all back again. Mr.
Jones has engaged a lodging for the week, and other families are spoken of.
A ball is also talked about; but it is not yet settled who is to give it,
nor where it is to be given. The promenading along the wooden pier is very
general at the leaving of the packets, and on their arrival a great number
of persons pass over it. There are whispers of a band being engaged for the
season; but, as there will not be room on the pier for more than one
musician, it has been suggested to negotiate with the talented artist who
plays the drum with his knee, the cymbals with his elbow, the triangle with
his shoulder, the bells with this head, and the Pan's pipes with his
mouth--thus uniting the powers of a full orchestra with the compactness of
an individual. An immense number of Margate slippers and donkeys have been
imported within the last few days, and there is every probability of this
pretty little peninsula becoming a formidable rival to the old-established
watering-places.
* * * * *
THE DRAMA.
FOREIGN AFFAIRS,
OR, THE COURT OF QUEEN ANNE.
Perhaps it was the fashion at the court of Queen Anne, for young gentlemen
who had attained the age of sixteen to marry and be given in marriage. At
all events, some conjecture of the sort is necessary to make the plot of
the piece we are noticing somewhat probable--that being the precise
circumstance upon which it hinges. The _Count St. Louis_, a youthful
_attaché_ of the French embassy, becomes attached, by a marriage contract,
to _Lady Bell_, a maid of honour to Queen Anne. The husband at sixteen, of
a wife quite nineteen, would, according to the natural course of things, be
very considerably hen-pecked; and _St. Louis_, foreseeing this, determines
to begin. Well, he insists upon having "article five" of the marriage
contract cancelled; for, by this stipulation, he is to be separated from
his wife, on the evening of the ceremony (which fast approaches), for five
years. He storms, swears, and is laughed at; somebody sends him a wedding
present of sugar-plums--everybody calls him a boy, and makes merry at his
expense--the wife treats him with contempt, and plays the scornful. The
hobble-de-hoy husband, fired with indignation, determines to prove himself
a man.
At the court of Queen Anne this seems to have been an easy matter. _St.
Louis_ writes love-letters to several maids of honour and to a citizen's
wife, finishing the first act by invading the private apartments of the
maiden ladies belonging to the court of the chaste Queen Anne.
The second act discovers him confined to his apartments by order of the
Queen, having amused himself, while the intrigues begun by the love-letters
are hatching, by running into debt, and being surrounded by duns. The
intrigues are not long in coming to a head, for two ladies visit him
separately in secret, and allow themselves to be hid in those never-failing
adjuncts to a piece of dramatic intrigue--a couple of closets, which are
used exactly in the same manner in "Foreign Affairs," as in all the farces
within the memory of man--_ex. gr._:--The hero is alone; one lady enters
cautiously. A tender interchange of sentiment ensues--a noise is heard, and
the lady screams. "Ah! that closet!" Into which exit lady. Then enter lady
No. 2. A second interchange of tender things--another noise behind. "No
escape?" "None! and yet, happy thought, that closet." Exit lady No. 2, into
closet No. 2.
This is exactly as it happens in "Foreign Affairs." The second noise is
made by the husband of one of the concealed ladies, and the lover of the
other. Here, out of the old "closet" materials, the dramatist has worked up
one of the best situations--to use an actor's word--we ever remember to
have witnessed. It cannot be described; but it is really worth all the
money to go and see it. Let our readers do so. The "Affairs" end by the boy
fighting a couple of duels with the injured men; and thus, crowning the
proof of his manhood, gets his wife to tolerate--to love him.
The piece was, as it deserved to be, highly successful; it was admirably
acted by Mr. Webster as one of the injured lovers--Mr. Strickland and Mrs.
Stirling, as a vulgar citizen and citizeness--by Miss P. Horton as _Lady
Bell_--and even by a Mr. Clarke, who played a very small part--that of a
barber--with great skill. Lastly, Madlle. Celeste, as the hero, acquitted
herself to admiration. We suppose the farce is called "Foreign Affairs" out
of compliment to this lady, who is the only "Foreign Affair" we could
discover in the whole piece, if we except that it is translated from the
French, which is, strictly, an affair of the author's.
* * * * *
MARY CLIFFORD.
If, dear readers, you have a taste for refined morality and delicate
sentiment, for chaste acting and spirited dialogue, for scenery painted on
the spot, but like nothing in nature except canvas and colour--go to the
Victoria and see "Mary Clifford." It may, perhaps, startle you to learn
that the incidents are faithfully copied from the "Newgate Calendar," and
that the subject is Mother Brownrigg of apprentice-killing notoriety; but
be not alarmed, there is nothing horrible or revolting in the drama--it is
merely laughable.
"Mary Clifford, or the foundling apprentice girl," is very appropriately
introduced to the auditor, first outside the gates of that "noble
charity-school," taking leave of some of her accidental companions. Here
sympathy is first awakened. Mary is just going out to "place," and instead
of saying "good bye," which we have been led to believe is the usual form
of farewell amongst charity-girls, she sings a song with such heart-rending
expression, that everybody cries except the musicians and the audience. To
assist in this lachrymose operation, the girls on the stage are supplied
with clean white aprons--time out mind a charity-girl's
pocket-handkerchief. In the next scene we are introduced to Mr. and Mrs.
Brownrigg's domestic arrangements, and are made acquainted with their
private characters--a fine stroke of policy on the part of the author; for
one naturally pities a poor girl who can sing so nicely, and can get the
corners of so many white aprons wetted on leaving her last place, when one
sees into whose hands she is going to fall. The fact is, the whole family
are people of taste--peculiar, to be sure, and not refined. Mrs. B. has a
taste for starving apprentices--her son, Mr. Jolin B., for seducing
them--and Mr. B. longs only for a quiet life, a pot of porter, and a pipe.
Into the bosom of this amiable family Mary Clifford enters; and we tremble
for her virtue and her meals! not, alas, in vain, for Mr. John is not slow
in commencing his gallantries, which are exceedingly offensive to Mary,
seeing that she has already formed a liaison with a school-fellow, one
William Clipson, who happily resides at the very next door with a baker.
During the struggles that ensue she calls upon her "heart's master," the
journeyman baker. But there is another and more terrible invocation. In
classic plays they invoke "the gods"--in Catholic I ones, "the saints"--the
stage Arab appeals to "Allah"--the light comedian swears "by the lord
Harry"--but _Mary Clifford_ adds a new and impressive invocative to the
list. When young Brownrigg attempts to kiss, or his mother to flog her, she
casts her eyes upward, kneels, and placing her hands together in an
attitude of prayer, solemnly calls upon--"the governors of the Foundling
Hospital!!" Nothing can exceed the terrific effect this seems to produce
upon her persecutors! They release her instantly--they slink back abashed
and trembling--they hide their diminished heads, and leave their victim a
clear stage for a soliloquy or a song.
We really _must_ stop here, to point out to dramatic authors the importance
of this novel form of conjuration. When the history of Fauntleroy comes to
be dramatised, the lover will, of course, be a banker's clerk: in the
depths of distress and despair into which he will have to be plunged, a
prayer-like appeal to "the Governor and Company of the Bank of England,"
will, most assuredly, draw tears from the most insensible audience. The old
exclamations of "Gracious powers!"--"Great heavens!"--"By heaven, I swear!"
&c. &c., may now be abandoned; and, after "Mary Clifford," Bob Acres'
tasteful system of swearing may not only be safely introduced into the
tragic drama, but considerably augmented.
But to return. Dreading lest Miss Mary should really "go and tell" the
illustrious governors, she is kept a close prisoner, and finishes the first
act by a conspiracy with a fellow-apprentice, and an attempt to escape.
Mr. Brownrigg, we are informed, carried on business at No. 12, Fetter-lane,
in the oil, paint, pickles, vinegar, plumbing, glazing, and pepper-line;
and, in the next act, a correct view is exhibited of the exterior of his
shop, painted, we are told, from the most indisputable authorities of the
time. Here, in Fetter, lane, the romance of the tale begins:--A lady
enters, who, being of a communicative disposition, begins, unasked,
unquestioned, to tell the audience a story--how that she married in early
life--that her husband was pressed to sea a day or two after the
wedding--that she in due time became a mother, and (affectionate creature!)
left the dear little pledge at the door of the Foundling Hospital. That was
sixteen years ago. Since then fortune has smiled, and she wants her baby
back again; but on going to the hospital, says, that they informed her that
her daughter has been just "put apprentice" in the very house before which
she tells the story--part of it as great a fib as ever was told; for
children once inside the walls of that "noble charity," never know who left
them there; and any attempt to find each other out, by parent or child, is
punished with the instant withdrawal of the omnipotent protection of the
awful "governors." This lady, who bears all the romance of the piece upon
her own shoulders, expects to meet her long-lost husband at the Ship, in
Wapping, and instead of seeking her daughter, repairs thither, having done
all the author required, by emptying her budget of fibs.
The next scene is harrowing in the extreme. The bills describe it as _Mrs.
Brownrigg's_ "wash-house, kitchen, and skylight"--the sky-light forming a
most impressive object. Poor _Mary Clifford_ is chained to the floor, her
face begrimed, her dress in rags, and herself exceedingly hungry. Here the
heroine describes the weakness of her body with energy and stentorian
eloquence, but is interrupted by _Mr. Clipson_, whose face appears framed
and glazed in the broken sky-light. A pathetic dialogue ensues, and the
lover swears he will rescue his mistress, or "perish in the attempt,"
"calling upon Mr. Owen, the parish overseer," to make known her sufferings.
The Ship, in Wapping, is next shown; and _Toby Bensling_, alias _Richard
Clifford_, enters to inform his hearers that he is the missing father of
the injured foundling, and has that moment stepped ashore, after a short
voyage, lasting sixteen years! He is on his way to the "Admiralty," to
receive some pay--the more particularly, we imagine, as they always pay
sailors at Somerset House--and _then_ to look after his wife. But she saves
him the trouble by entering with _Mr. William Clipson_. The usual "Whom do
I see?"--"Can it be?"--"After so long an absence!" &c. &c., having been
duly uttered and begged to, they all go to see after _Mary_, find her in a
cupboard in Mrs. B.'s back-parlour, and--the act-drop falls.
We must confess we approach a description of the third act with diffidence.
Such intense pathos, we feel, demands words of more sombre sound--ink of a
darker hue, than we can command. The third scene is, in particular, too
extravagantly touching for ordinary nerves to witness. _Mary Clifford_ is
in bed--French bedstead (especially selected, perhaps, because such things
were not thought of in the days of Mother Brownrigg) stands exactly in the
middle of the stage--a chest of drawers is placed behind, and a table on
each side, to balance the picture. The lover leans over the head, the
mother sits at the foot, the father stands at the side: _Mary Clifford_ is
insane, with lucid intervals, and is, moreover, dying. The consequence is,
she has all the talk to herself, which consists of a discourse concerning
the great "governors," her cruel mistress, and her naughty young master,
interlarded with insane ejaculations, always considered stage property,
such as, "Ah, she comes!" "Nay, strike me not--I am guiltless!" Again,
"Villain! what do you take me for?--unhand me!" and all that. Then the
dying part comes, and she sees an angel in the flies, and informs it that
she is coming soon (here it is usual for a lady to be removed from the
gallery in strong hysterics), and keeps her word by letting her arm fall
upon the bed-clothes and shutting her eyes, whereupon somebody says that
she is dead, and the prompter whistles for the scene to be changed.
In the last scene, criminal justice takes its course. _Mrs. Brownrigg_,
having been sentenced to the gallows, is seen in the condemned cell; her
son by her side, and the fatal cart in the back-ground. Having been brought
up genteelly, she declines the mode of conveyance provided for her journey
to Tyburn with the utmost volubility. Being about to be hanged merely does
not seem to affect her so poignantly as the disgraceful "drag" she is
doomed to take her last journey in. She swoons at the idea; and the curtain
falls to end her wicked career, and the sufferings of an innocent audience.
* * * * *