Chapter 4

Our letters from the East are far from encouraging. The Pasha has had a severe sore-throat, and the disaffected have taken advantage of the circumstance. Ibrahim had spent the two last nights in the mountains, and was unfurling his standard, when our express left, in the very bosom of the desert. Mehemet Ali was still obstinate, and had dismissed his visier for impertinence. The whole of Servia is in a state of revolt, and the authorities have planted troops along the entire line, the whole of whom have gone over to the enemy. It is said there must be further concessions, and a new constitution is being drawn up; but it is not expected that any one will abide by it. Mehemet attempted to throw himself upon the rock of Nungab, with a tremendous force, but those about him wisely prevented him from doing so.

We have received China (tea) papers to the 16th. There is nothing in them.

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FANCIED FAIR.

"The Duke of Wellington," says a correspondent of the _Times_, "left his umbrella behind him at a fancy fair, held for charitable purposes, between Twickenham and Teddington. On discovering it, Lady P. immediately said, 'Who will give twenty guineas for the Duke's umbrella?' A purchaser was soon found; and when the fact was communicated to his Grace, he good-naturedly remarked, 'I'll soon supply you with umbrellas, if you can sell them with so much advantage to the charity.'" We trust his Grace's benevolent disposition will not induce him to carry this offer into execution. We should extremely regret to see the Hero of Waterloo in Leicester-square, of a rainy night, vending second-hand _parapluies_. The same charitable impulse will doubtlessly induce other fashionable hawkers at fancy fairs to pick his Grace's pockets. We are somewhat curious to know what a Wellington bandana would realise, especially were it the produce of some pretty lady P.'s petty larceny. "Charity," it is said, "covereth a multitude of sins." What must it do with an umbrella? We fear that Lady P. will some day figure in the "fashionable departures."

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PUNCH'S THEATRE.

MARTINUZZI AS THE ACT DIRECTS.

The production upon the stage of a tragedy "not intended for an acting play," as a broad travestie, is a novel and dangerous experiment--one, however, which the combined genius of the Dramatic Authors' Council has made, with the utmost success. The "Hungarian Daughter" was, under the title of "Martinuzzi," received, on its first appearance, with bursts of applause and convulsions of laughter!

The plot of this piece our literary reviewer has expressed himself unable to unravel. We are in the same condition; all we can promise is some account of the scenes as they followed each other; of the characters, the sentiments, the poetry, and the rest of the fun.

The play opens with an elderly gentleman, in a spangled dressing-gown, who commences business by telling us the time of day, poetically clapping a wig upon the sun, by saying, he

"Shakes day about, like perfume from his _hair_,"

which statement bears out the after sentence, that "the wisdom he endures is terrible!" An Austrian gentleman--whose dress made us at first mistake him for Richard III. on his travels--arrives to inform the gentleman _en déshabille_--no other than _Cardinal Martinuzzi_ himself--that he has come from King Ferdinand, to ask if he will be so good as to give up some regency; which the Cardinal, however, respectfully declines doing. A gentleman from Warsaw is next announced, and _Castaldo_ retires, having incidentally declared a passion for the reigning queen of Hungary.

Mr. Selby, as _Rupert_ from Warsaw, then appears, in a dress most correctly copied from the costume of the knave of clubs. Being a Pole, he stirs up the Cardinal vigorously enough to provoke some exceedingly intemperate language, chiefly by bringing to his memory a case of child-stealing, to which _Martinuzzi_ was, before he had quite sown his wild oats, _particeps criminis_. This case having got into the papers (which _Rupert_ had preserved), the Cardinal wants to obtain them, but offers a price not long enough for the Pole, who, declaring that _Martinuzzi_ carries it "too high" to be trusted with them, vanishes. Mr. Morley afterwards comes forward to sing a song according to Act of Parliament, and the scene changes for Miss Collect to comply, a second time, with the 25th of George II.

In the following scene, the Queen Dowager of Hungary, _Isabella_, introduces herself to the audience, to inform them that the Austrian gentleman, _Castaldo_, is

"the mild, Pity-fraught object of her fondness."

He appears. She makes several inflammatory speeches, which he seems determined not to understand, for he is in love with the virgin queen; and maidens before dowagers is evidently his sensible motto.

The second act opens with the queen junior stating her assurance, that if she lives much longer she will die, and that when she is quite dead, she will hate _Martinuzzi_[3]. As, however, she means to hate when she is deceased, she will make the most of her time while alive, by devoting herself to courtship and _Castaldo_: for a very tender love-scene ensues, at the end of which the lady elopes, to leave the lover a clear stage for some half-dozen minutes' ecstatics, appropriately ended by his arrest, ordered by _Martinuzzi_. Why, it is not stated, the officer not even producing the copy of a writ.

[3] "_Czerina._ When I am dead--which will be soon--I feel, If I much longer on my throne remain, I shall abhor the name of Martinuzzi."

In the next scene, _Isabella_ is visited by _Rupert_, who disinterestedly presents the dowager with the papers for nothing, which he was before offered an odd castle and snug estate for, by _Martinuzzi_. This is accounted for on no other supposition, than the proverbial gallantry of gentlemen from Warsaw.

_Martinuzzi_, possessing a ward whom he is anxious should wed the queen, opens the third act by declaring he will "precipitate the match," and so the author considerately sends _Czerina_ to him, to talk the matter over. But the young lady gets into a passion, and the Cardinal declares he can make nothing of her, in the following passage:--

"Fool! I can make thee nothing but a laugh."

A sentiment to which the audience gave a most vociferous echo. The damsel is angry that she may not have the man she has chosen, and threatens to faint, but defers that operation till her lover's arms are near enough to receive her; which they happen to be just in time, for _Martinuzzi_ retires and _Castaldo_ comes on. _Czerina_, to be quite sure, exclaims, "_Are_ these thy arms?" (_sic_) and finally faints in the lover's embrace, so as to exhibit a picturesque cuddle.

_Queen Isabella_ is discovered, in the second scene of this act, perusing the much vaunted "papers" with intense interest. Unluckily _Castaldo_ chooses that moment to complain, that _Martinuzzi_ will not let him marry her rival. The queen, being by no means a temperate person, and wondering at his impudence in telling _her_ such a tale, raves thus:--

"My soul's on fire I'm choked, and seem to perish; _But will suppress my scream_"

Probably for fear of compromising _Castaldo_, who is alone with her; and she ends the act by requesting the Austrian to murder _Martinuzzi_; to which he is so obliging as to consent, the more so, as an order comes from the Secretary of State for foreign affairs, of his own government, to "cut off" (_sic_) the Regent.

The fourth act is enlivened by a masquerade and a murder. The gentleman from Warsaw having abused the hospitality of his host by getting drunk, is punished by one of _Martinuzzi's_ attendants with a mortal stab; and having, in the agonies of death, made a careful survey of all the sofas in the apartment, suits himself with the softest, and dies in great comfort.

After this, the masquerade proceeds with spirit. _Isabella_ mixes in the festive scene, disguised in a domino, made of black sticking-plaster. _Czerina_ overhears that she is a usurper and a changeling, and expresses her surprise in a line most unblushingly stolen from Fitz-Ball and the other poetico-melo-dramatists:--

"Merciful Heavens! do my ears deceive me?"

The festivities conclude with an altercation between _Martinuzzi_ and _Isabella_, carried on with much vigour on both sides. The lady accuses the gentleman of inebriation, and he owns the soft impeachment, fully bearing it out by several incoherent speeches.

This was one of the most successful scenes in the comedy. The death of _Rupert_, Mr. Morley's song about "The sea," the quarrel (which was about the great pivot of the plot, "the papers," inscribed, says _Martinuzzi_,

"With ink that's _brew'd_ in the infernal Styx,")

were all received with uproarious bursts of laughter.

In the fifth act, we behold _Martinuzzi_ and the usurping young Queen making matters up at a railway pace. She has it all her own way. If she choose, she may marry _Castaldo_, retire into private life, be a "farm-house thrall," and keep a "dairy;" for which estate she has previously expressed a decided predilection[4].

[4] Acting play, published in the theatre, p. 32.

But it is the next scene that the author seems to have reserved for putting forth his strongest powers of burlesque and broad humour. _Isabella_ and _Castaldo_ are together; the latter feels a little afraid to murder _Martinuzzi_, but is impelled to the deed by a thousand imaginary torches, which he fears will hurry his "_moth_-like soul" into their "blinding sun-beams," till it (the soul) is scorched "_into_ cinders."

_Castaldo_ appears, in truth, a very bad barber of murders; for, as he is rushing out to

"Strike the tyrant down--in crimson streams Rend every nerve,"

_Isabella_ has the shrewdness to discover that he is without a weapon. Important omission! The incipient assassin exclaims--

"Oh! that I had my sword!"

but at that moment (clever, dramatic contrivance!)

[_Enter_ CZERINA, _with a drawn sword_.] "CZERINA. There's one! Thine own!"

Far from being grateful for this opportune supply of ways and means for murder. _Castaldo_ calls the bilbo a "fated aspic," upon the edge of which his "eye-balls crack to look," and makes a raving exit from the stage, to a roaring laugh from the audience.

It is quite clear to _Isabella_, from his extreme carelessness about his tools, that _Castaldo_ is not safely to be trusted with a job which requires so much tact and business-like exactitude as the capital offence. She therefore "_shows a phial_," which she intends, "occasion suiting," for "_Martinuzzi's_ bane;" thereby hinting that, if _Castaldo_ fail with his steel medicine, she is ready with a surer potion.

The next scene, being the last, was ushered in with acclamations. The stage, as is always in that case made and provided, was full. There is a young gentleman on a throne, and _Czerina_ beside it, having been somehow ungallantly deposed. _Martinuzzi_ expresses a wish to drink somebody's health, and this being the "fitting opportunity" mentioned by the author in the scene preceeding, _Isabella_ empties the phial of her wrath into the beverage, and the _Cardinal_ quenches his thirst with a most intemperate draught. It is now duly announced, that _Castaldo_ is, "with naked sword, approaching." That gentleman appears, and makes a speech long enough for any man who has had such plain warning of what is to happen--even a cardinal encumbered with a spangled dressing-gown--to get a mile out of his way. The speech quite ended, he goes to work, and with "this from King Ferdinand," thrusts at _Martinuzzi_. _Czerina_, however, throws herself, with great skill, on the point of the sword, and dies. Another long harangue from _Castaldo_--which, as he is evidently broken-winded from exertion, is pronounced in tiny snatches--and he dies with a "ha!" for want--like many greater men--of breath.

Meanwhile, the poison makes _Martinuzzi_ exceedingly uncomfortable in the stomachic regions. He is quite sure

"That hath been done to me which sends me _star_-ward!"

but in his progress thither he evidently loses his way; for he ends the play by inquiring--

"WHERE IS THE WORLD?"

The sublimity of which query is manifestly insisted on by the author, by his having it printed in capitals.

When the curtain fell, there arose an uproarious shout for the author; but instead of "the mantle of the Elizabethan poets," which, it has been said, he commonly wears, the most attractive garment that met the view was an expansive white waistcoat. This latter exhibition concluded the entertainments, strictly so called; for though a farce followed, it turned out a terrible bore.

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CONCERTS D'ETE.

If the advance of musical science is to be effected by indecent _tableaux vivans_--by rattling peas against sieves, and putting out the lights (appropriately enough) when Beethoven is being murdered--by the most contemptible class of compositions that ever was put upon score-paper, and noised forth from an ill-disciplined band--if these be the means towards improving musical taste, Monsieur Jullien is undoubtedly the harmonic regenerator of this country. He is a great man--great in his own estimation--great to the ends of his moustachios and the tips of his gloves--a great composer, and a great charlatan--_ex. gr._:--

The overture to the promenade concerts usually consists of a pantomime entirely new to an English audience. Monsieur Jullien having made his appearance in the orchestra, seats himself in a conspicuous situation, to indulge the ladies with the most favourable view of his elegant person, and the splendid gold-chainery which is spread all over his magnificent waistcoat. A servant in livery then appears, and presents him with a pair of white kid gloves. The illustrious conductor, having taken some time to thrust them upon a very large and red hand, leisurely takes up his baton, rises, grins upon the expectant musicians, lifts his arm, and--the first chord is struck!

Quadrilles are the staple of the evening--those composed by Monsieur Jullien always, of course, claiming precedence and preference. These are usually interspersed with solos on the flageolet, to contrast with _obligati_ for the ophecleido; the drummers--side, long, and double--are seldom inactive; the trombones and trumpets have no sinecure, and there is always a great mortality amongst the fiddle-strings. Eight bars of impossible variation is sure to be succeeded by sixteen of the deafening fanfare of trumpets, combined with smashing cymbalism, and dreadful drumming.

The public have a taste for headaches, and Jullien has imported a capital recipe for creating them; they applaud--he bows; and musical taste goes--in compliment to the ex-waiter's genuine profession of man-cook--to _pot_.

But the _ci-devant cuisinier_ is not content with comparatively harmless, plain-sailing humbug; he must add some _sauce piquante_ to his musical hashes. He cannot rest with merely stunning English ears, but must shock our morals, At the _bals masqués_, the French dancers, and the hardly mentionable _cancan_, were hooted back to their native stews under the Palais Royal; but he provides substitutes for them in the _tableaux vivans_ now exhibiting. This, because a more insidious, is a safer introduction. The living figures are dressed to imitate plaster-of-Paris, and are so arranged as to form groups, called in the bills "classical;" but for which it would be difficult to find originals. In short, the whole thing is a feeler thrown out to see how far French impudence and French epicureanism in vice may carry themselves. It shall not be our fault if they do not experience an ignominious downfall, and beat a speedy retreat, to the tune of the "Rogue's March," arranged as a quadrille!

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MADAME TUSSAUD'S,

THE REAL TEMPLE OF FAME.

"Some men are born to greatness, some men achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them."--SHAKSPEARE.

Reader, should you doubt the above assertion, in the true showman phraseology, just "Walk up! walk up!" to Madame Tussaud's, the real Temple of Fame, and let such doubts vanish for ever; convince yourselves that the mighty attribute not more survives from good than evil deeds, though, like poverty, it makes its votaries acquainted with the strangest of strange bedfellows! The regal ermine and the murderer's fustian alike obtain their enviable niche.

The likeness of departed majesty, robed in the matchless splendour of a ruler's state, redolent with all the mimic glories of a king's insignia, the modelled puppet from the senseless clay, that wore in life the imperial purple, and moved a breathing thing, chief actor in its childish mummeries, may here be seen shining in tinselled pomp, in glittering contrast to the blood-stained shirt through which the dagger of Ravaillac reached the bosom of the murdered Henry.

The "Real Robes" of the dead George give value to his waxen image! The heart's-blood of the slaughtered Henry immortalises the linen bearing its hideous stain. The daring leader of France's countless hosts--the wholesale slaughterer of unnumbered thousands--ambition's mightiest son--now ruling kingdoms and now ruled by one--once more than king--in death the captive of his hated foes--"the great Napoleon!" shares the small space with the enshrined Fieschi!

The glorious triumphs of the mighty Wellington are here no better passports than the foul murders of the atrocious Burke; the subtle Talleyrand, the deep deviser of political schemes, ruler of rulers, and master mover of the earth's great puppets, is not one jot superior to the Italian mountebank, whose well-skilled hand drew tones from catgut rivalling even the ideal trumpet of great Fame herself!

By some strange anomaly, _success_ and _failure_ alike render the candidates admissible--no matter the littleness of the source from whence they sprung. Lord Melbourne's "premiership" gave shape to the all but Promethean wax. The failure of John Frost, his humble follower, secured his right to Fame's posthumous honours. All partiality is _here_ forgotten. The titled premier, in the haunts of men, may boast his monarch's palace as his home. The suffering felon, though _iron_ binds his limbs, and eats into his heart--though slow approaching, but sure-coming death, makes the broad world for him a living grave, _here_ he stands, as one among the great ones of the _show_! The amiability of Albert, that "excellent Prince," and therefore "_most_ excellent young man," is ingeniously contrasted with the vices of a Greenacre, and the villany of a _Hare_. The stern endurance and unflinching perseverance of the zealous and single-hearted Calvin is deprived of its exclusiveness by the more exciting and equally famous Sir William Courtenay (_alias_ Thom).

The thrilling recollection of the "poet peer," and "peerless poet," the highly-imaginative and unrivalled Byron, whose flood of song, poured out in one continuous stream of varied passion-breathing fancy, is calmed by gazing on "dull life's antipodes," the bandaged remnant of a dried-up mummy!

Poor Mary Stuart! the beautiful, the murdered Queen of Scots, is only parted from the "Maiden Queen," who sealed her doom, by the interposition of the blood-stained ruthless wretch (England's Eighth Harry), to whom "Bess" owed her birth!

Pitt, Fox, and Canning are matched with Courvoisier, Gould, and Collins.

Liston is _vis à vis_ to Joe Hume, while Louis Philippe but shares attention with the rivalling models of the Bastille and Guillotine!

Verily, there is a moral in all this, "an we could but find it out."

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