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study previous to inflicting them on their friends a fact that would be good evidence of
malice prepense, were they to be indicted under the Nuisance Act, as they richly
deserve to be.

The party of classical bores having been at length turned almost forcibly out of
possession of the piano, from which they might lawfully have been seized as animals
damage feasant, Leonora was led to the instrument, and, accompanying herself with
great brilliancy, sung or rather wood-larked the following words ; which Hugh de
Holborn, who was a patron of the Manager, had written for the last new opera :

I dreamt I saw a hollow heart

In domino and mask ;
While lips, that look'd too fair to part,

Refus'd what none could ask.
And then there seem'd to come a light,

That gush'd in radiant beam ;
Then all was dark which once was bright

But it was all a dream.

I thought the smile of other days,

Which once you used to wear,
That round thy lip no longer plays,

'Mid griefs too great to bear ;



154 THE LOVER'S SACRIFICE.



And as you gave a deep-drawn sigh,

I gave a recreant scream ;
But do not turn away thine eye,

For it was all a dream.

At the conclusion of this song, Leonora was literally hesieged by fair creatures,
who, struck with the sentiment of the words, were anxious to know where it could be
procured ; and some minutes had elapsed before she could make her way to the side of
Hugh, from whom she expected to receive a thousand fervent compliments. To her
utter astonishment, she found him thoughtful ; and, after a few common-place
remarks, he addressed her gravely as follows :

" That song, Leonora, was, as you are aware, written by myself ; but do not regard
it as the mere outpouring of the poet's idle fancy : no ; it is a gush from the heart,
not a mere spirt from the inkstand."

Leonora looked surprised perhaps hurt but said nothing.

" I fancied," continued Holborn, with peculiar emphasis " I fancied, that perhaps,
after all, my hopes might be all a dream your affection all a dream that, in fact,
all may be all a dream."

" Stuff and nonsense ! " sharply replied Leonora, and passed to the other end of
the room ; nor did she, during the remainder of the night, approach that part of the
suite of salons in which her lover remained.

*****

It was some months after the incident we have just described that a man in very
dark whiskers was seated before a looking-glass, with a letter in one hand, and the
Court Newsman in the other, while before him lay an invitation to Buckingham Palace
for the Queen's Fancy Dress Ball. The stranger in the whiskers was Holborn : the
letter in one hand was an intimation that Leonora would be at the Palace : and the
Court Newsman in the other contained directions as to costume, prescribing powdered
wigs for the gentlemen, in accordance with the fashion that prevailed in the reign of the
second George. The mind of Hugh de Holborn was a good deal like that unhappy
victim spoken of in classical history, who was torn limb from limb by four horses, all
pulling different ways. On one side the hope of seeing Leonora, who had been cool to
him since the little affair at the soiree, on the other side, the instructions in the Court
Newsman, which involved a sacrifice it might be temporary, but it was still a sacrifice
of those whiskers, which, in conjunction with poetry, had been his passion and his
pride. Leonora pulled at his heart, but the Court Newsman tugged at his whiskers,
and he scarcely knew which way to turn. He at length decided on making the sacri-
fice of the latter, and in a moment of desperation he prepared the fatal lather, which he
smeared with frantic energy all over his face. He did not, however, immediately summon
resolution to apply the devastating blade, and it was a question for a moment whether
the whiskers would not have been saved, and Leonora lost, when, as if by a fatal
impulse, he shaved one completely off at a single stroke, and its companion was left, as
Lord Byron says in Werner, " Alone ! alone ! ! alone ! ! !

Our hero thought of the last rose of summer, and dabbed a quantity of fresh lather
on to the remaining whisker, and in a few minutes it was, as the song says, " Off, off,
and away ! ! " and Hugh de Holborn was a wretched, whiskerless man.

** * * * * * * *

The result may be briefly told. Hugh and Leonora met at the ball, and the



DISSOLVING VIEWS. 155



quarrel, or rather the coolness, that had intervened was entirely forgotten. But the
course, <fcc., never did, &c. ; and, on the next morning, when Hugh went to make a
morning call at Lackington House, he was received by Leonora with a shriek of horror.
The cause may he guessed. It was her lover that stood before her, but his whiskersT-

w here where were they ? In vain did Hugh attempt to calm the agitated feelings of

his intended bride ; she could but scream and rally, and rally and scream, till it was
evident that her reason for one morning, at least was gone. Hugh took his
departure in the deepest distress ; but Leonora had so far recovered by the next
morning as to be able to write a long letter renewing her vows of unaltered affection,
but entreating her lover as he valued her peace of mind not to call till his whiskers
had grown again. This condition Hugh gladly accepted, as it would serve as a test to
the constancy of both, and in a few weeks philosophy and Macassar Oil sent him once
more to the arms of his Leonora, a happy and a whiskered man.

Their marriage was celebrated in due course, and Hugh de Holborn, in remembrance
of the little incident, took for his family arms the motto of




CUT AND COME AGAIN.



DISSOLVING VIEWS.

THEIR USE, ABUSE, AND BETTER DEVELOPMENT.

WE cannot help thinking that the Dissolving Views, as represented on the stage,
have been confined hitherto, like one of Dr. Arnott's stoves, to a very narrow range.
They have always been restricted to the misty representation of churches, ruins,
Napoleon's tomb, the Thames Tunnel, and dark interiors taken from Annuals and tea-
trays : one object generally fades into another with which it has no more connection than
the novel of Jack Sheppard has with the life of the original burglar ; and liberties are
taken with time, geography, and the probabilities, only worthy of a tragedy in the most
rampant days of the Syncretic drama. Thus, Netley Abbey melts, in nine Dissolving
Views out of ten, into the Canal of Venice, and St. Paul's is lost in the Dungeon of



156



DISSOLVING VIEWS.



Chillon, the Prisoner of which is buried the next minute under the Great Pyramid of
Egypt. How unmeaning are these changes to those of real life, where the Dissolving
Views are just as rapid, hut succeed one another so naturally, and with such beautiful
gradation, that we wonder our Dissolving Stanfields, instead of scouring the five quarters
of the globe for subjects, do not take up those of home manufacture !

For instance : Mr. Jeff 's shop for French pieces, in the Burlington Arcade,
might, without any compromise of truth or nature, be changed into the Dramatic
Authors' Society ; this into one of our national theatres ; and this again into the
Insolvent Debtors' Court. This, in fact, would be a perfect epic poem, containing its
three great requisites, a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Another set of Dissolving Views might be made out of the Insurance Swindling system.
Scene the first, a garret ; the second, the West Diddlesex Insurance Office, beautifully
fitted up, with Corinthian pillars, mahogany doors, glass handles, and revolving gas-
lights ; the third scene, a handsome house in Grosvenor Square, with a cab and fashion-
able horse, and a tiger the size of Tom Thumb ; the fourth, the Mansion-House and Sir
Peter Laurie ; the fifth, the Bankruptcy Court ; and the last scene of all, the treadmill,
or the Queen's Bench. The same figure the Montague Tigg of the pictorial parable
would be the hero, of course, of every scene. In the beginning, as a beggar ;
towards the middle, at the height of his jewellery and prosperity ; and at the last, as
the convicted felon in his rags and shame.

What scenes, too, might be taken from jt?sew^o-fashionable life ! The mother and her
daughters to be shown in the kitchen, dredged all over with flour, their whole souls intent
on whipping syllabubs, and hammering out clods of paste to their greatest transparency
for the supper-tarts. This scene of low life below-stairs to change immediately into
one of high life above-stairs a ball-room brilliantly lighted up, with the same mother
and daughters smothered in satin, diamonds, and feathers. The next scene to be the
supper-room, the Camphines just expiring, and the same characters in curl-papers and
flannel dressing-gowns, collecting salvage from the wreck of the supper, and locking it
up in the side-board.




The man about town, also, would furnish a capital subject for a Dissolving View.



THE STAGE PRINCE. . ' 157



The first scene to be his garret, in which he is shown cleaning his hoots, his " dickey "
hanging up to dry, and a herring turning solemnly before the fire ; and the second, to
be the Park, where he is dressed to death, covered with frogs and mustachios, lounging
with an air as if he had the fee-simple of the whole world, and a reversionary interest
in the Solar System.

Successive scenes of the pothouse the pawnbroker's the Old Bailey, and the
convict-ship sailing for Botany Bay, would illustrate a temperance moral, and tell
as forcibly as a poem by Father Mathew, what was the last Dissolving View of
Drunkenness.

These hints, we think, are sufficient. Amusement, we maintain, is the only style
of tutoring in which people do not tire of being lectured ; and our plan admits of the
eye being tickled whilst the mind is improved. It can be extended to every abuse,
applied to every shallow scheme, railway, scientific, or philanthropic* of the day, and
levelled against every quackery in the political or social world ; and the beauty of the
plan is, that gorgeous entertainment is given with sound instruction in the exposure of
each. Ha ! the heart-aches we should have been spared the fortunes we should have
saved, if, in our younger days, we could only have looked into a prophetic mirror, like
the one we now propose, and have learnt, before rushing into some new Utopian folly,
or plunging headlong into a railway of half-a-crown shares from El Dorado to the
Exeter Change Arcade, what would have been their Dissolving Views !



THE STAGE PRINCE.

BY THE EDITOR.



ROYALTY on the stage is usually very unfortunate, and the treatment it receives is,
under even the most favourable circumstances, anything but what it ought to be. If
the stage monarch is in the height and plenitude of his power, there is very little respect
shown to him. He has to march about in processions with a pasteboard crown on his
head, while the royal ermine is nothing better than flannel with tufts of worsted fastened
on to it. As to his palace, though the walls are finely painted, there is scarcely one
room that he can comfortably sit down in, for the apartments are usually as barren of
furniture as if a distress for rent had recently cleared them. If he gives a banquet,
there is nothing to eat but a quantity of artificial flowers in vases, and some imitation
fruit, moulded all in one piece on a papier mdche plateau ; so that, if the fruit were
eatable, the plate of which it forms a part would have to be devoured with it. The
stage monarch has generally very little to say, and perches himself quietly on a very
uncomfortable throne raised on a ricketty platform, with scarcely room for his feet ;
while some individuals, turning their backs upon his Majesty, amuse themselves with
dancing. He is frequently sworn at, and imperatively ordered fry the stage-manager,
who is a viceroy over him, to get down from his throne, that it may be dragged off at
the wing by the scene-shifters just before the fete concludes, when the monarch sneaks
in anywhere among the crowd of supernumeraries who constitute his " people."

His snubbed Majesty feels that he shall interfere with some Terpsichorean grouping,
or destroy the final tableau of a pas de deux, if he does not get out of the way ; and he

VOL. i. NO. vii. Y



158 THE STAGE PRINCE.



keeps backing and backing, until some of his court, irritated perhaps by the pressure of
the royal heels on their plebeian corns, check his further retreat with " Now then,
stupid ! where are you coming to ? " But the stage monarch is not always a mere
nonentity, for he sometimes takes a very active part, and developes some very remark-
able traits of character. If he happens to be a king after the pattern of him known
familiarly as the " merry monarch, " though in reality a very sad dog, he gets into
tavern rows, flirts with the barmaid, cheats the landlord, insults the guests, and is on
the point of being subjected to merited chastisement, when some tradesman of the
court perhaps the milkman, or the butcher recognises the King, from which it must
be inferred that his Majesty is in the habit of personally taking in the milk, or ordering
the meat for dinner. If the dramatists can take liberties even with royalty moulded on
the model of an English sovereign, it may be supposed that they will run into consider-
able rampancy when picturing one of the monarchs in miniature that are supposed to
swarm on the Continent.

A foreign princedom standing like a suburban villa in its own grounds, with cavalry
barracks for six horses, a large roomy outhouse for infantry, and the use of a paddock
for an occasional review, may admit of considerable latitude in the way of dramatic
treatment, for no one knows whether it is right or wrong ; and it may be, therefore,
perfectly en regie for the small fry of sovereigns to do the sort of things that on the
stage we find them doing. Thus it may be very natural for an Italian prince to go away
from his dominions, leaving the government in the hands of a younger brother or an
uncle, who spreads a report of the death of the "rightful heir," when the "rightful
heir " might settle the business with the " wrongful heir" by simply coming forward.
He, however, prefers sneaking about the outskirts of a forest, with one " trusty
retainer," and falling in love with the daughter of some dealer in firewood, who comes
home every evening to talk sentiment about his child, after having been employed all
day in felling timber that does not belong to him.

The stage prince, when he does make up his mind to claim his rights, issues no
proclamation ; but muflles himself up in an enormous cloak that he may not be known,
and arrives in his own territories during some fete that is being given by the "wrongful
heir " to celebrate the feast of the grottos, (qu&re, oyster-day ?) or anything else which
makes a line in the play-bill and admits of an incidental ballet. The "rightful heir"
keeps judiciously in the background during the dancing, and the " wrongful heir " eyes
him without knowing why ; and in the intervals of the festivities comes mysteriously for-
ward to tell the orchestra that " he don't know how it is, but something seems to weigh at
his heart," and he will occasionally inquire politely of Conscience when it will allow peace
to enter the guilty breast, from which it has hitherto been a prohibited article. He will
ever and anon eye the " rightful heir " with a suspicion for which he or any one else
cannot account, and ultimately he will make some observation from which the
stranger in the cloak will dissent ; and high words will ensue, in which the " rightful
heir" will be addressed as " Caitiff ! " and asked by what right he interrupts the festival.
Every one will gather round, but no one will know the " rightful heir ;" until, throwing
off his cloak, he developes a blaze of orders including a terrific freemason's star and a
quantity of ornaments in paste, ticketed up cheap at a pawnbroker's.

The discovery of the orders, accompanied by a sudden throwing off of the hat, will
cause all to go down on their knees, the courtiers exclaiming " Sire ! " the female
peasants murmuring out "the Prince," and turning round to each other, with "My
gracious," " Only think," " Did you ever," <fcc., in a series of facetious asides ; while



A GARLAND.



159



the male peasants shout " Our long-lost lord ! " the supernumeraries, who can only be
entrusted with a single word, cry simply " Sire ! " and the discomfited " wrongful heir,"




covering his face in shame and confusion, mutters out " My liege ! " while the chorus-
singers hurst into a concluding strain of joy, love, and loyalty.



BY EDWARD KENEALY.



A.VTOV fjLo"i ffretpavoi irapa 5iK\lffi raicrSe Kpe/j-currol

MiftvfTc, /j.)] irpoTrercos <pv\\a Tivaffffo/j.evoi t
Ovs Scutpvois /caT6j8pe|o (fcarofjifipa yap ofj./j.

AAA' or avaiyo(J.fvr]S, avrov ^Tjre 0vpr)s
2Ta|o0* irirfp Kf^>a\rjs e/xoi/ verov &s &v a.[j.eu/ov

'H cw077 ye /cJ/iT/ ra/xa Saitpva -iriy. SIR JOHN WILLIAM^.



REST my bright garland here by Psyche's door,
Nor rashly strew around your purple leaves ;



160 A GARLAND.



Retain the tears with which my eyes run o'er,
For reft of her my lonely spirit grieves ;

Until the rosy nymph in beauty drest

Forth from the house like Day's glad Star appears,

Then shed about her golden hair and breast
The silver dews of her sad lover's tears.



SONETTO DI GUISEPPE PARINI.

AL SONNO.

SONNO placido che con liev' orme
Vai per le tenebre movendo 1' ali,
E intorno ai miseri lassi mortal!,

Giri con 1* agili tue varie forme

La dove Fillide secura dorme.
Stesa su candidi molli guanciali
Vanne ; e un imagine care a di mali,

In mente pingile trista e deforme

Tanto a me simili quell ombre inventa
E al color pallido che in me si spande

Ch' ella destandosi, pieta ne senta
Si tu comedimi favor si grande

Con man vo' porgerti tacita e lenta

Due di papaveri freschi ghirlande.

sweet, placid Sleep, who lightly stealest

With wings of silence through the mirk midnight,
Who to the slumberer's gladden'd eyes revealest

Thy phantom-peopled visions of delight ;
Go, where my beauteous Phyllida is sleeping,

Rest on her pillow, and mine image paint,
As one who for her cruel slights lies weeping,

Death-like my features and my footsteps faint ;
So may she pity when in tears she '11 waken,

And love me with a love as true as mine ;
Do this and two fair poppies shall be taken

From yonder field to grace thy silent shrine.



JULIUS C^SAR SCALIGER NOCTUBNUM SUSPICIENS C03LUM.

CETERA quse nostro fulgent vaga sidera mundo

Extulit ex alto nox taciturna mari,
At mihi jam misero silet omni sidere ccelum

Lumina dum Pholose lucida somnus habet ;
Lucifer amati pecoris cordate magister

Coge gregem ; numerum non habet ille suum.



THE PRESERVATION OF LIFE. 161



SCALIGER LOOKING ON THE SKY BY NIGHT.

The other stars are beaming, love,

The night's bright orbs are gleaming, love,
But ah ! two stars of dewy light are absent from the skies ;

Oh ! Phyllis dearest, waken, love,

And gild the skies forsaken, love,
Once more with these two truant stars I mean thy gentle eyes.



THE PRESERVATION OF LIFE.



WHEN walking the streets of a great city, nothing has struck us so forcibly as the
general neglect of means for the preservation of life from the ravages of fire. There is
scarcely a street in London but has given frightful testimony to the horrors of death by
burning ; and yet there seems to be such universal apathy upon the subject, that nowhere
can you find that any earnest, persevering endeavours have been made to secure the
co-operation of neighbours for mutual preservation. The legislature has interfered for
the protection of property from fire, and made the erection of party- walls compulsory.
It has done nothing for the protection of life from the same fearful destroyer.

The streets have been tunnelled from one end to the other of this great metropolis,
to ensure the comfort of the in-dwellers it was a gigantic thought to drain such a
mighty city !

Water has been brought from distant places, and conveyed through conduits and
pipes to the dwellings of the most humble. Earth had to be delved and rocks blasted
to effect this tremendous work !

Gas, subtle and treacherous as it is, is brought safely to our doors, even into our
houses.

We walk as it were upon a mine ; but such has been the perseverance of man, such
the triumph of knowledge, that the mighty power is made subservient to his will, to
be used as a blessing and a security.* But the subjugation of gas was the labour of
nearly 200 years ! t And the conquest was worth the struggle !

When such vast things have been done by co-operation for the COMFORT of the
community, is it not wonderful that nothing worthy the name of exertion has been tried
for the PRESERVATION OF LIFE FROM FIRE, when the means must be so insignificant in
point of cost and difficulty, although so greatly conducive to the security from that most
horrible of deaths death by fire ?

We feel that in devoting the pages of the Table-Book to the consideration of this
subject, we are discharging a duty we owe to our fellow-creatures, and, therefore, offer
no apology for the plans which we here put forward for the remedy of the evil of which
we complain. Our designs may be imperfect or objectionable, but they may suggest
to others better and more practicable modes of escape from the horrors of conflagration.

* It is calculated that the consumption of gas in London amounts to eight millions and a half cubic
feet every twenty-four hours.

f About 1660, Dr. Clayton first made coal-gas, which he burned as it came from small holes pricked in
a bladder.



162



THE PRESERVATION OF LIFE.



The simplest and surest escape is a continuous balcony erected in front of the upper
windows of every house. This is so obvious, that it is unnecessary to advance one word
in favour of the plan. We shall confine ourselves simply to the objections that may be
urged against it.

1st. The facility that balconies are said to give to robbery.

To us nothing can be more futile than this objection, Stronger fastenings to the
windows would as effectually secure the second or third-floor windows as locks and bolts
do the street-door. Even were this objection tenable, we consider that less is to be
apprehended from the burglar who filches the contents of a jewel-case or a drawer, than
from that fierce assailant, that devours a man's substance, and suffocates him with reekings
of the feast. The destroyer which bursts into the chamber, and curls about the bed
and breathes its smoke into the nostrils, until the head grows dizzy, and the heart
faint, leaving the wretch, thus made conscious of its desolating presence, scarcely time
or thought for flight. Bewildered as he is, he knows not where to seek a refuge ; his
mind, unaccustomed to revert to ANY MEANS for safety in such an emergency, has to
form its plans, and not to will the execution, of those often considered and relied on.
Were the balcony understood by the household to be the escape from fire, impulse and
the instinctive love of life would generally guide the inmates of a burning house
to their place of refuge.

The plan which we annex seems to remedy the objection as originally stated, and
to render fire-ladders unnecessary.

Fig. 1.




The sketch represents a balcony extending in the front of the upper windows of a
house, and having two moveable ends, secured by a latch, and attached to a spring
which communicates with a bell. In the case of fire, the end a, being unfastened, falls
to the edge of the adjoining balcony, and at the same time rings a bell. The end b,
being released, falls inwards (c) and thus opens a communication with the adjoining
house. The bell would prevent any improper use being made of the balcony, and if so
constructed, serve as an alarum.

2nd. The formation of a continuous balcony would be impracticable where houses
were of different altitudes.

In such case we would propose the erection of "Fire Galleries," made in the
form of a balcony, but having iron shutters between each window, in order that
persons seeking refuge might be protected from danger, should any flames issue from
the adjoining windows. Ten or twelve persons might remain uninjured for a length
of time in one of these fire-galleries, or until such time as the fire-ladders could be
brought to their rescue.



THE PRESERVATION OF LIFE.



163




A ladder of iron placed in the front of the house, and so constructed that a person
might descend between it and the wall, would also afford a safe mode of escape. (Fig. 2.)



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