Mrs. Keeley played the tamburine, and the part of Snozzle femme. This was more than acting; it was nature enriched with humour—character broadly painted without a tinge of caricature. The solemnity of her countenance, while performing with her feet, was a correct copy from the expression of self-approbation—of the wonder-how-I-do-it-so-well—always observable during the dances of the fair sex; her tones when singing were unerringly brought from the street; her spangled dress was assuredly borrowed from Scowton’s caravan. As a work of dramatic art, this performance is, of its kind, most complete. Keeley’s Snozzle was quiet, rich, and philosophical; and Saunders made a Judy of himself with unparalleled success. Frank Finch got his deserts in the hands of a Mr. Everett; for being a lover, no matter how awkward and ungainly an actor is made to represent him.
* * * * *
“OH! DAY AND NIGHT, BUT THIS IS WONDROUS STRANGE!”
“We believe, from the
first, Day was intended to mount, and
wherefore it was made a mystery we know not.—DOINGS AT
Poor Coronation well may say,
“A mystery I mark;
Though jockey’d by the lightest Day
They tried to keep me dark.”
* * * * *
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
FOR THE WEEK ENDING OCTOBER 2, 1841.
* * * * *
“The Wrongheads have
been a considerable family ever since England
[Illustration: M]Morning and evening, from every village within three or four miles of the metropolis, may be remarked a tide of young men wending diurnal way to and from their respective desks and counters in the city, preceded by a ripple of errand-boys, and light porters, and followed by an ebb of plethoric elderly gentlemen in drab gaiters. Now these individuals compose—for the most part—that particular, yet indefinite class of people, who call themselves “gentlemen,” and are called by everybody else “persons.” They are a body—the advanced guard—of the “Tiptoes;” an army which invaded us some thirty years ago, and which, since that time, has been actively and perseveringly spoiling and desolating our modest, quiet, comfortable English homes, turning our parlours into “boudoirs,” ripping our fragrant patches of roses into fantastic “parterres,” covering our centre tables with albums and wax flowers, and, in short (for these details pain us), stripping our nooks and corners of the welcome warm air of pleasant homeliness, which was wont to be a charm and a privilege, to substitute for it a chilly gloss—an unwholesome straining after effect—a something less definite in its operation than in its result, which is called—gentility.