"Smash" is a word peculiarly the property of the "Fast Man." We believe
it means to break, demolish, crush, annihilate. Like repudiation, it is
of American origin, for we recollect there is the elegant Yankee term,
"eternal smash." A "smasher," consequently, is one who smashes; and the
Universal Smasher is a young gentleman whose particular vocation and
amusement is to smash everything and everybody.
We remember meeting with one, after the first night of a new comedy, at
a popular _café_, where the clever young wits of the day mostly
congregate to lay down the law for England upon fashion, literature,
cigars, royalty, casinos, metaphysics, ballet-girls, and morality.
[Illustration]
He attracted our notice first by speaking very loudly, and calling out,
in a voice as voluminous as the late lamented Mr. Toole's, "Waiter,
another bottle of ginger-beer!" It was not so much the order, as the
martial tone in which it was conveyed, that first awakened our
curiosity. We expected, at least, to see a giant. We turned round and
only found a pigmy. It was our wonder how so big a voice could find a
residence in so small a body. But if the voice was immense, what were
the sentiments that we afterwards heard emanate from the same lips!
The poor author, whose piece but two minutes ago had been announced
amidst the greatest applause "for every night until further notice," was
declared to be "an impudent nobody." Every one of his brilliant jokes
was stolen; all his points, only points gained by cribbage. The young
gentleman before us traced the pedigree of every epigram, gave the
descent of each witticism, proved the birth of the plot, and established
beyond a doubt the parentage of each separate scene. "A comedy, sir!
It's no more a comedy than Joe Miller's a comedy. Dramatise a Jest Book—
give it a proverb for a title, and you will have a better comedy than
that. I tell you what it is, sir,—Jones must be smashed!"
He had no sooner come to this decision than there sounded and resounded
a tremendous echo of long-repeated "hip-hip-hurrahs!" We inquired whence
they came. It was a supper-party upstairs commemorating the glorious
triumph of the evening. Poor Jones! he little thought that moment, when
probably he was returning thanks for his health, and was full of joy,
champagne, and the happy intoxication of success, that the decree had
just been irrevocably passed that "he must be smashed!"
The conversation travelled on. Our unknown friend next criticised the
actors. One was "a stick," another a "pump;" the gentlemen were "muffs;"
the ladies something that may be conceived, but cannot be printed. The
unhappy manager even did not escape. "He had never seen a piece worse
put upon the stage. It would disgrace a penny theatre. By Heavens! he
would show him up—such a humbug must be smashed!"
We looked with awe upon this wholesale "smasher." We trembled lest we
should be the next victim, and involuntarily curled ourselves up in the
dark corner of the box to avoid his destructive notice.
A stranger who came in happened to lay upon the table a series of
engravings, which had just been published, and were selling, it was
reported, most extensively. "Excuse me, sir," he said, taking up one of
them; "I hope you've not been buying this rubbish? It is nothing but a
rank imitation of Hogarth—without any of his talent, execution, or
purpose. It is satire diluted to the weakest gin and water. The fellow
who has put his name to it deserves to be smashed, and I have a good
mind to do it."
"In mercy, I hope, you will change your mind, sir," said the stranger,
rising and taking off his hat; "or at all events, that you will stop
till I have had my supper. You wouldn't smash a poor '_fellow_' with an
empty stomach, surely?" and he held out his hand with smiling
good-humour to his intended "smasher."
The laugh went against the latter, and seemingly it did not sweeten much
the fine cordial spirit through which he viewed men and things.
In the course of the general conversation "Macbeth" was mentioned.
"Macbeth!" he exclaimed; "a stupid, vulgar melodrama, only fit for the
Britannia Saloon. Why, it wouldn't succeed at the present day unless it
was brought out as a pantomime with plenty of blue fire. In my opinion,
Shakspeare is a tremendous do—I don't hesitate to say so—and I should
like uncommonly to smash him."
Tennyson shortly afterwards was declared to be deserving of the same
fate.
Byron also was a great mistake; Walter Scott, too, was no better, and
they ought both of them to be smashed.
Shelley was an impudent pretender, and ought properly to have been
smashed long ago. By Jove, he'd do it some day!
It was poor Goldsmith's turn next; but he relented, saying, with a
mutilated sigh, he was scarcely worth smashing.
But Milton was "a ponderous take-in—a violent mistake." He was very good
for old women, no doubt, but as heavy as cold dumpling; and nothing but
sheer starvation could force him down his throat. He wished to Heaven
some one would smash him!
Present authors were knocked on the head in the same heavy
pavior's-hammer style of criticism. Who was Dickens, pray? only an
inventory-taker! What was Bulwer? the hero of sixteen novels! James was
a drug—a perfect James's powder: Sheridan Knowles a Fitzball in blank
verse! And as for the ladies, they were all—poetesses, novelists,
political economists, and generous Newgate visitors—the whole Fry of
them, smashed indiscriminately of a heap! We wonder how so many of them
have survived.
We never witnessed such cruel slaughter. It was a regular battle of
great men and noble characters. Everybody, no matter how high or low in
the world, was fair game for this Universal Smasher. His mouth was a
Perkins' steam-gun, firing a hundred small shot every minute. Papers and
periodicals were brought down by the same process of sharp-shooting. The
_Times_ ought decidedly to be smashed. It only wanted three good men to
do it;—he'd put his name down for one. The _Spectator_ was a block of
Wenham ice—not even fit for sherry-cobblers. The _Athenæum_ was an
immense _but_, that butted at everybody. The _Examiner_ bowstringed the
Queen's English, and strangled common-sense. And as for _Punch_, it was
a damp squib—that was fizzing, or attempting to fizz, every week; and
the sooner it was smashed the better!
We felt uneasy in the presence of such a tremendous man. We longed to
possess the faculty of the telescope, and slide into our selves
one-sixth of our natural length. We felt confident, if we remained much
longer exposed to the blows of one who hit so hard, that we should
inevitably be smashed into such very small bits that if we were ever put
together again we should always be pointed at afterwards as the most
curious specimen of mosaic. A runaway engine in a crockery shop could
not create a greater feeling of alarm amongst the cups and saucers than
that infernal little smashing machine imparted to our fragile nature. We
need not say, therefore, how relieved we felt when a venerable bald head
in the room rose, and very quietly said, "Gentlemen, we have heard and
seen a deal of smashing to-night. Everybody, great and small, has been
smashed in his turn. Not a person, living or dead, has the slightest
reason to complain; they have all been smashed fairly and equally
together. Now, I only want to know, after our friend has smashed
everybody—which he must do if he goes on at the present rapid rate—
whatever will he do ultimately with himself?"
"Oh! leave him alone," we could not help exclaiming; "he'll smash
himself!"
There was a general laugh, and the Universal Smasher left the room,
giving us, as he passed us, such a look that we felt we were doomed.
That look clearly said—it pierced us like an arrow with a message tied
to it—"To be smashed in our next." We hope all benevolent souls will
pray for us!
"Who is he?" we asked, as soon as we breathed again.
"Don't you know?" said our neighbour, with the greatest astonishment.
"He's Brown!"
"Who's Brown?" we inquired, in a faltering voice, and a cold shiver.
"It's strange you never heard of Brown! He's the editor of the _Penny
Whistle_."
"Oh, indeed!"
We have inquired everywhere—we have offered any sum of money—we have
begged and prayed of newsvendors and friends, and bookstall-hunters, to
buy us, at any price, the _Penny Whistle_; but we have not seen yet that
fearful work of extermination. We now offer a reward of 100_l._, and our
blessing, to anybody who will send us a copy of it, no matter how dirty
it may be. We shall not be happy till we know positively whether we are
smashed or not!