THE UNIVERSAL SMASHER.
"Smash" is a word peculiarly the property of the "Fast Man." We believe it means to break, demolish, crush, annihilate. Like repudiation, it is of American origin, for we recollect there is the elegant Yankee term, "eternal smash." A "smasher," consequently, is one who smashes; and the Universal Smasher is a young gentleman whose particular vocation and amusement is to smash everything and everybody.
We remember meeting with one, after the first night of a new comedy, at a popular café, where the clever young wits of the day mostly congregate to lay down the law for England upon fashion, literature, cigars, royalty, casinos, metaphysics, ballet-girls, and morality.
He attracted our notice first by speaking very loudly, and calling out, in a voice as voluminous as the late lamented Mr. Toole's, "Waiter, another bottle of ginger-beer!" It was not so much the order, as the martial tone in which it was conveyed, that first awakened our curiosity. We expected, at least, to see a giant. We turned round and only found a pigmy. It was our wonder how so big a voice could find a residence in so small a body. But if the voice was immense, what were the sentiments that we afterwards heard emanate from the same lips!
The poor author, whose piece but two minutes ago had been announced amidst the greatest applause "for every night until further notice," was declared to be "an impudent nobody." Every one of his brilliant jokes was stolen; all his points, only points gained by cribbage. The young gentleman before us traced the pedigree of every epigram, gave the descent of each witticism, proved the birth of the plot, and established beyond a doubt the parentage of each separate scene. "A comedy, sir! It's no more a comedy than Joe Miller's a comedy. Dramatise a Jest Book—give it a proverb for a title, and you will have a better comedy than that. I tell you what it is, sir,—Jones must be smashed!"
He had no sooner come to this decision than there sounded and resounded a tremendous echo of long-repeated "hip-hip-hurrahs!" We inquired whence they came. It was a supper-party upstairs commemorating the glorious triumph of the evening. Poor Jones! he little thought that moment, when probably he was returning thanks for his health, and was full of joy, champagne, and the happy intoxication of success, that the decree had just been irrevocably passed that "he must be smashed!"
The conversation travelled on. Our unknown friend next criticised the actors. One was "a stick," another a "pump;" the gentlemen were "muffs;" the ladies something that may be conceived, but cannot be printed. The unhappy manager even did not escape. "He had never seen a piece worse put upon the stage. It would disgrace a penny theatre. By Heavens! he would show him up—such a humbug must be smashed!"
We looked with awe upon this wholesale "smasher." We trembled lest we should be the next victim, and involuntarily curled ourselves up in the dark corner of the box to avoid his destructive notice.
A stranger who came in happened to lay upon the table a series of engravings, which had just been published, and were selling, it was reported, most extensively. "Excuse me, sir," he said, taking up one of them; "I hope you've not been buying this rubbish? It is nothing but a rank imitation of Hogarth—without any of his talent, execution, or purpose. It is satire diluted to the weakest gin and water. The fellow who has put his name to it deserves to be smashed, and I have a good mind to do it."
"In mercy, I hope, you will change your mind, sir," said the stranger, rising and taking off his hat; "or at all events, that you will stop till I have had my supper. You wouldn't smash a poor 'fellow' with an empty stomach, surely?" and he held out his hand with smiling good-humour to his intended "smasher."
The laugh went against the latter, and seemingly it did not sweeten much the fine cordial spirit through which he viewed men and things.
In the course of the general conversation "Macbeth" was mentioned. "Macbeth!" he exclaimed; "a stupid, vulgar melodrama, only fit for the Britannia Saloon. Why, it wouldn't succeed at the present day unless it was brought out as a pantomime with plenty of blue fire. In my opinion, Shakspeare is a tremendous do—I don't hesitate to say so—and I should like uncommonly to smash him."
Tennyson shortly afterwards was declared to be deserving of the same fate.
Byron also was a great mistake; Walter Scott, too, was no better, and they ought both of them to be smashed.
Shelley was an impudent pretender, and ought properly to have been smashed long ago. By Jove, he'd do it some day!
It was poor Goldsmith's turn next; but he relented, saying, with a mutilated sigh, he was scarcely worth smashing.
But Milton was "a ponderous take-in—a violent mistake." He was very good for old women, no doubt, but as heavy as cold dumpling; and nothing but sheer starvation could force him down his throat. He wished to Heaven some one would smash him!
Present authors were knocked on the head in the same heavy pavior's-hammer style of criticism. Who was Dickens, pray? only an inventory-taker! What was Bulwer? the hero of sixteen novels! James was a drug—a perfect James's powder: Sheridan Knowles a Fitzball in blank verse! And as for the ladies, they were all—poetesses, novelists, political economists, and generous Newgate visitors—the whole Fry of them, smashed indiscriminately of a heap! We wonder how so many of them have survived.
We never witnessed such cruel slaughter. It was a regular battle of great men and noble characters. Everybody, no matter how high or low in the world, was fair game for this Universal Smasher. His mouth was a Perkins' steam-gun, firing a hundred small shot every minute. Papers and periodicals were brought down by the same process of sharp-shooting. The Times ought decidedly to be smashed. It only wanted three good men to do it;—he'd put his name down for one. The Spectator was a block of Wenham ice—not even fit for sherry-cobblers. The Athenæum was an immense but, that butted at everybody. The Examiner bowstringed the Queen's English, and strangled common-sense. And as for Punch, it was a damp squib—that was fizzing, or attempting to fizz, every week; and the sooner it was smashed the better!
We felt uneasy in the presence of such a tremendous man. We longed to possess the faculty of the telescope, and slide into our selves one-sixth of our natural length. We felt confident, if we remained much longer exposed to the blows of one who hit so hard, that we should inevitably be smashed into such very small bits that if we were ever put together again we should always be pointed at afterwards as the most curious specimen of mosaic. A runaway engine in a crockery shop could not create a greater feeling of alarm amongst the cups and saucers than that infernal little smashing machine imparted to our fragile nature. We need not say, therefore, how relieved we felt when a venerable bald head in the room rose, and very quietly said, "Gentlemen, we have heard and seen a deal of smashing to-night. Everybody, great and small, has been smashed in his turn. Not a person, living or dead, has the slightest reason to complain; they have all been smashed fairly and equally together. Now, I only want to know, after our friend has smashed everybody—which he must do if he goes on at the present rapid rate—whatever will he do ultimately with himself?"
"Oh! leave him alone," we could not help exclaiming; "he'll smash himself!"
There was a general laugh, and the Universal Smasher left the room, giving us, as he passed us, such a look that we felt we were doomed. That look clearly said—it pierced us like an arrow with a message tied to it—"To be smashed in our next." We hope all benevolent souls will pray for us!
"Who is he?" we asked, as soon as we breathed again.
"Don't you know?" said our neighbour, with the greatest astonishment. "He's Brown!"
"Who's Brown?" we inquired, in a faltering voice, and a cold shiver.
"It's strange you never heard of Brown! He's the editor of the Penny Whistle."
"Oh, indeed!"
We have inquired everywhere—we have offered any sum of money—we have begged and prayed of newsvendors and friends, and bookstall-hunters, to buy us, at any price, the Penny Whistle; but we have not seen yet that fearful work of extermination. We now offer a reward of 100l., and our blessing, to anybody who will send us a copy of it, no matter how dirty it may be. We shall not be happy till we know positively whether we are smashed or not!