“Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS.”--SHAKESPEARE.
HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
A WEEKLY JOURNAL.
CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.
N^o. 26.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1850. [PRICE 2_d._
TABLE OF CONTENTS
FOREIGNERS’ PORTRAITS OF ENGLISHMEN. 2 THE STEAM PLOUGH. 8 A SACRED GROVE. 15 “CAPE” SKETCHES. 15 “BATTLE WITH LIFE!” 22 SPY POLICE. 22 CHIPS. 28 TWO CHAPTERS ON BANK NOTE FORGERIES. 31
FOREIGNERS’ PORTRAITS OF ENGLISHMEN.
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.