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Page 31
LETTER X.
_The Whittington Club--Louis Blanc--Street Amusements--Tower of
London--Westminster Abbey--National Gallery--Dante--Sir Joshua
Reynolds._
LONDON, _October 10_.
For some days past, Sol has not shown his face, clouds have obscured the
sky, and the rain has fallen in torrents, which has contributed much to
the general gloom. However, I have spent the time in as agreeable a
manner as I well could. Yesterday I fulfilled an engagement to dine with
a gentleman at the Whittington Club. One who is unacquainted with the
Club system as carried on in London, can scarcely imagine the
conveniences they present. Every member appears to be at home, and all
seem to own a share in the Club. There is a free-and-easy way with those
who frequent Clubs, and a licence given there that is unknown in the
drawing-room of the private mansion. I met the gentleman at the Club, at
the appointed hour, and after his writing my name in the visitors'
book, we proceeded to the dining-room, where we partook of a good
dinner.
We had been in the room but a short time, when a small man, dressed in
black, with his coat buttoned up to the chin, entered the saloon, and
took a seat at the table hard by. My friend in a low whisper informed me
that this person was one of the French refugees. He was apparently not
more than thirty years of age, and exceedingly good looking--his person
being slight, his feet and hands very small and well shaped, especially
his hands, which were covered with kid gloves, so tightly drawn on, that
the points of the finger nails were visible through them. His face was
mild and almost womanly in its beauty, his eyes soft and full, his brow
open and ample, his features well defined, and approaching to the ideal
Greek in contour; the lines about his mouth were exquisitely sweet, and
yet resolute in expression; his hair was short--his having no mustaches
gave him nothing of the look of a Frenchman; and I was not a little
surprised when informed that the person before me was Louis Blanc. I
could scarcely be persuaded to believe that one so small, so child-like
in stature, had taken a prominent part in the Revolution of 1848. He
held in his hand a copy of _La Presse_, and as soon as he was seated,
opened it and began to devour its contents. The gentleman with whom I
was dining was not acquainted with him, but at the close of our dinner
he procured me an introduction through another gentleman.
As we were returning to our lodgings, we saw in Exeter Street, Strand,
one of those exhibitions that can be seen in almost any of the streets
in the suburbs of the Metropolis, but which is something of a novelty to
those from the other side of the Atlantic. This was an exhibition of
"Punch and Judy." Everything was in full operation when we reached the
spot. A puppet appeared eight or ten inches from the waist upwards, with
an enormous face, huge nose, mouth widely grinning, projecting chin,
cheeks covered with grog blossoms, a large protuberance on his back,
another on his chest; yet with these deformities he appeared uncommonly
happy. This was Mr. Punch. He held in his right hand a tremendous
bludgeon, with which he amused himself by rapping on the head every one
who came within his reach. This exhibition seems very absurd, yet not
less than one hundred were present--children, boys, old men, and even
gentlemen and ladies, were standing by, and occasionally greeting the
performer with the smile of approbation. Mr. Punch, however, was not to
have it all his own way, for another and better sort of Punch-like
exhibition appeared a few yards off, that took away Mr. Punch's
audience, to the great dissatisfaction of that gentleman. This was an
exhibition called the Fantoccini, and far superior to any of the street
performances which I have yet seen. The curtain rose and displayed a
beautiful theatre in miniature, and most gorgeously painted. The organ
which accompanied it struck up a hornpipe, and a sailor, dressed in his
blue jacket, made his appearance and commenced keeping time with the
utmost correctness. This figure was not so long as Mr. Punch, but much
better looking. At the close of the hornpipe the little sailor made a
bow, and tripped off, apparently conscious of having deserved the
undivided applause of the bystanders. The curtain dropped; but in two
or three minutes it was again up, and a rope was discovered, extended on
two cross pieces, for dancing upon. The tune was changed to an air, in
which the time was marked, a graceful figure appeared, jumped upon the
rope with its balance pole, and displayed all the manoeuvres of an
expert performer on the tight rope. Many who would turn away in disgust
from Mr. Punch, will stand for hours and look at the performances of the
Fantoccini. If people, like the Vicar of Wakefield, will sometimes
"allow themselves to be happy," they can hardly fail to have a hearty
laugh at the drolleries of the Fantoccini. There may be degrees of
absurdity in the manner of wasting our time, but there is an evident
affectation in decrying these humble and innocent exhibitions, by those
who will sit till two or three in the morning to witness a pantomime at
a theatre-royal.
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