PUNCH’S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE.—No. V.
NATURAL HISTORY (Continued).
THE OPERA-DANCER (H. capernicus—CERITOE).
So decidedly does this animal belong to the Bimana order of beings, that to his two legs he is indebted for existence. Most of his fellow bipeds live by the work of their hands, except indeed the feathered and tailor tribes, who live by their bills; but from his thighs, calves, ancles, and toes, does the opera-dancer derive subsistence for the less important portions of his anatomy.
Physiology.—The body, face, and arms of the opera-dancer present no peculiarities above the rest of his species; and it is to his lower extremities alone that we must look for distinguishing features. As our researches extend downwards from head to foot, the first thing that strikes us is a protuberance of the ante-occipital membranes, so great as to present a back view that describes two sides of a scalene triangle, the apex of which projects posteriorly nearly half way down the figure. That a due equilibrium may be preserved in this difficult position (technically called “the first”), the toes are turned out so as to form a right angle with the lower leg. Thus, in walking, this curious being presents a mass of animated straight lines that have an equal variety of inclination to a bundle of rods carelessly tied up, or to Signor Paganini when afflicted with the lumbago.
Habits.—The habits of the opera-dancer vary according as we see him in public or in private life. On the stage he is all spangles and activity; off the stage, seediness and decrepitude are his chief characteristics. It is usual for him to enter upon his public career with a tremendous bound and a hat and feathers. After standing upon one toe, he raises its fellow up to a line with his nose, and turns round until the applause comes, even if that be delayed for several minutes. He then cuts six, and shuffles up to a female of his species, who being his sweetheart (in the ballet), has been looking savage envy at him and spiteful indignation at the audience on account of the applause, which ought to have been reserved for her own capering—to come. When it does, she throws up her arms and steps upon tiptoe about three paces, looking exactly like a crane with a sore heel. Making her legs into a pair of compasses, she describes a circle in the air with one great toe upon a pivot formed with the other; then bending down so that her very short petticoat makes a “cheese” upon the ground, spreads out both arms to the roués in the stalls, who understand the signal, and cry “Brava! brava!!” Rising, she turns her back to display her gauze jupe élastique, which is always exceedingly bouffante: expectorating upon the stage as she retires. She thus makes way for her lover, who, being her professional rival, she invariably detests.
It is singular that in private life the habits of the animal differ most materially according to its sex. The male sometimes keeps an academy and a kit fiddle, but the domestic relations of the female remain a profound mystery; and although Professors Tom Duncombe, Count D’Orsay, Chesterfield, and several other eminent Italian-operatic natural historians, have spent immense fortunes in an ardent pursuit of knowledge in this branch of science, they have as yet afforded the world but a small modicum of information. Perhaps what they have learned is not of a nature to be made public.
Moral Characteristics.—None.
Reproduction.—The offspring of opera-dancers are not, as is sometimes supposed, born with wings; the truth is that these cherubim are frequently attached by their backs to copper wires, and made to represent flying angels in fairy dramas; and those appendages, so far from being natural, are supplied by the property-man, together with the wreaths of artificial flowers which each Liliputian divinity upholds.
Sustenance.—All opera-dancers are decidedly omnivorous. Their appetite is immense; quantity and (for most of them come from France), not quality, is what they chiefly desire. When not dining at their own expense, they eat all they can, and pocket the rest. Indeed, a celebrated sylphide—unsurpassed for the graceful airiness of her evolutions—has been known to make the sunflower in the last scene bend with the additional weight of a roast pig, an apple pie, and sixteen omelettes soufflées—drink, including porter, in proportion. Various philosophers have endeavoured to account for this extraordinary digestive capacity; but some of their arguments are unworthy of the science they otherwise adorn. For example, it has been said that the great exertions to which the dancer is subject demand a corresponding amount of nutriment, and that the copious transudation superinduced thereby requires proportionate supplies of suction; while, in point of fact, if such theorists had studied their subject a little closer, they would have found these unbounded appetites accounted for upon the most simple and conclusive ground: it is clear that, as most opera-dancers’ lives are passed in a pirouette, they must naturally have enormous twists!
The geographical distribution of opera-dancers is extremely well defined, as their names implies; for they most do congregate wherever an opera-house exists. Some, however, descend to the non-lyric drama, and condescend to “illustrate” the plays of Shakespeare. It is said that the classical manager of Drury Lane Theatre has secured a company of them to help the singers he has engaged to perform Richard the Third, Coriolanus, and other historical plays.
Why has a clock always a bashful appearance?—Because it always keeps its hands before its face.
KIDNAPPING EXTRAORDINARY.
The Chronicle has been making a desperate attempt to come out in Punch’s line; he has absolutely been trying the “Too-too-tooit—tooit;” but has made a most melancholy failure of it. We could forgive him his efforts to be facetious (though we doubt that his readers will) if he had not kidnapped three of our own particular pets—the very men who lived and grew in the world’s estimation on our wits; we mean Peter Borthwick, Ben D’Israeli, and our own immortal Sibthorp. Of poor Sib. the joker of the Chronicle says in last Tuesday’s paper—
“We regret to hear that Col. Sibthorp has suffered severely by cutting himself in the act of shaving. His friends, however, will rejoice to learn that his whiskers have escaped, and that he himself is going on favourably.”
We spent an entire night in endeavouring to discover where the wit lay in this cutting paragraph; but were obliged at last to give it up, convinced that we might as well have made
AN ATTEMPT TO DISCOVER THE LONGITUDE.
SONGS OF THE SEEDY.—No. V.
What am I? Mary, wherefore seek to know?
For mystery’s the very soul of love.
Enough, that wedding thee I’m not below,
Enough, that wooing thee I’m not above.
You smile, dear girl, and look into my face
As if you’d read my history in my eye.
I’m not, sweet maid, a footman out of place,
For that position would, I own, be shy.
What am I then, you ask? Alas! ’tis clear,
You love not me, but what I have a year.
What am I, Mary! Well, then, must I tell,
And all my stern realities reveal?
Come close then to me, dearest, listen well,
While what I am no longer I conceal.
I serve my fellow-men, a glorious right;
Thanks for that smile, dear maid, I know ’tis due.
Yes, many have I served by day and night;
With me to aid them, none need vainly sue.
Nay, do not praise me, love, but nearer come,
That I may whisper, I’m a bailiff’s bum.
Why start thus from me? am I then a thing
To be despised and cast aside by thee?
Oh! while to every one I fondly cling
And follow all, will no one follow me?
Oh! if it comes to this, dear girl, no more
Shalt thou have cause upon my suit to frown;
I’ll serve no writs again; from me secure,
John Doe may run at leisure up and down,
Come to my arms, but do not weep the less,
Thou art the last I’ll e’er take in distress.
A PAIR OF DUCKS.
“Pray, Sir Peter,” said a brother Alderman to the City Laurie-ate the other day, while discussing the merits of Galloway’s plan for a viaduct from Holborn-hill to Skinner-street, “Pray, Sir Peter, can you inform me what is the difference between a viaduct and an aqueduct?” “Certainly,” replied our “City Correspondent,” with amazing condescension; “a via-duck is a land-duck, and an aqua-duck is a water-duck!” The querist confessed he had no idea before of the immensity of Sir Peter’s scientific knowledge.