George Cruikshank's Omnibus

by George Cruikshank

This, indeed, may be laid down as a rule; when a Scotchman offends you, abuse all Scotland, and offer to prove that Burns was no poet;—when an Irishman puts you in a heat, be sure to denounce Ireland, and hint that St. Patrick was no gentleman, nor were his ancestors decent people. With an Englishman the case is rather different, because anything you may say against John Bull is pretty sure to please, instead of annoying a member of his family; who won't much mind a back-handed hit at himself, if you direct the principal force of your attack against the national character. It is expedient, therefore, to be less sweeping in your charge, to concentrate your forces, and to content yourself with a small explosion, fatal only to his immediate friends and relations. Point out how remarkable it is that so many persons of the same name should have been hanged for sheep-stealing; question the depth of his breeches-pocket, where he rattles a bunch of keys, as though he had anything to lock up; and pick out some cousin of his who is very badly off, and spitefully ask him to dinner. But you will never vent your rage satisfactorily, by merely abusing Old England in an Englishman's presence.

To get into a passion in the street is sometimes peculiarly awkward. It makes you feel like a bottle of soda-water that wants to go off and can't. Some people ought to have their hats wired down, cork-fashion. Walking with an irascible friend the other day—I am fond of such companions, and can boast a great variety of them—he worked himself into as pretty a specimen of fury as I have lately seen; but what was to be done? There was nothing to cause it, and there was no relief to be had. Apple-stalls upset are but vulgar exploits; me, he could not strangle in the open street; there was no temptation to smash a lamp in the broad daylight, however agreeable and comforting at night; there was no loitering schoolboy in the way, to be kicked "for always tieing that shoe;" yet, "as fires imprisoned fiercest burn," out the blaze must burst, the volcano was not to be smothered up. Accordingly, just as we reached the open window of a butcher's shop, on the board of which a lad in blue sleeves, and black, glossy, curling hair, sat intently reading the "Sorrows of Werter," my passionate friend stopped. Whether he meant to snatch, a weapon, à la Virginius, was doubtful. I thought at least he would have snatched the grease-marked volume out of the hands of the sentimental butcher-boy, and trampled it under-foot; when instead, off he darted across the wide street, I following—rushed up to a house opposite, seized the large knocker, and plied it with the combined force of forty footmen, or a legion of penny-postmen rolled into one! I stood, looking on, amazed, while he knocked and knocked, without one moment's cessation, until the door was torn open, and the knocker dropped from his fingers. The servant-maid looked aghast, yet the accustomed spirit of inquiry, Who was he? What did he want? was uppermost in her face. "Oh!" said my now subdued companion, "Oh! ah!-a-I'm sorry to have troubled you! I-a-I don't want anybody—it's all right—thank you—I'm better now!" Thus saying he quietly took my arm, and we sauntered off. I never saw a fellow in a more charming flow of spirits than his were throughout the rest of that day.

But it is more judicious to choose a spot where you can fall into a rage comfortably. It is a pity for example to get excited at Charing-cross, merely by the sight of a Dover coach, with the name of the town upon it spelt with two o's, "Dovor." "There goes one of those confounded coaches again," said a companion the other day; "how savage they make me! Dovor! Why can't they spell the name properly?" "Oh, what does it signify?"—"Signify! why it's my native town! it puts me in such a passion that I can't walk;" and by the pace at which he went there appeared a probability of his overtaking the coach. As a man intoxicated can run easily, when walking is difficult, so a man in a passion finds similar relief. I have heard of a nervously-excited individual who was so annoyed by the cry of "Bank, Bank" all down the Strand, that he jumped into one of the vehicles, resolved to go to the Bank and draw out his balance; nor did he remember, until he got there, that he had performed that ceremony the day before.

What I should respectfully recommend to any one on whom the fit comes suddenly out-of-doors, whether occasioned by some irritating train of thought, or a casual encounter equally provocative, is to go directly home, and give his family the benefit of it. Surely the best compliment he can pay his wife is to presume that her attachment to him is so great that she will endure any ill-usage—that she would rather see him return home in a tremendous passion than have him stay longer away from her. A man who truly relishes his fit of rage will find a sweet relief in making his family uncomfortable. The children he can immediately order up to bed in the dark; and if anything in the shape of protest falls from the doting mother, he can take an opportunity, slyly, of upsetting a vase of flowers, water and all, into her work-box, or of tilting the inkstand upon the favourite autograph in her album.

In the case of a single man, who has neither fond parent nor devoted partner to vent his fury on, a theatre is no bad resource; he can take his seat in some quiet corner and hiss the performance,—he will find it very soothing to his feelings; but he should choose, if possible, the first night of a new drama, and be constantly on his guard, or he will be tricked out of all his pleasure by the actors. I know a man who went in a great passion on purpose to hiss a new comedy, but being off his guard, he sat and laughed all the evening.

Brutus desires Cassius to "go show his slaves how choleric he is, and make his bondmen tremble;" implying that it was still more vulgar and degrading to go into a passion before servants. This notion prevails amongst a certain class of the choleric to this day. It is not at all uncommon in genteel families, where appearances must at all sacrifices be kept up, for John to be desired to shut the door, and perhaps to be despatched to the remotest part of the house, while his master and mistress sit down to fight out a pitched battle with bated breath; whispering their fierce retorts, and dealing out their virulence sotto voce, that it may not reach the kitchen; recrimination, with savage aspect, speaking in the blandest key, and threats of separate maintenance breathing in tones that would have added a delicious tenderness to the fondest sentiment. All of a sudden, perhaps, a violent crash is heard; the lady, who "could bear it no longer," has commenced some sportive sallies with the tea-cups, and the gentleman has promptly followed in some equally lively experiments with the saucers; and John, when in wild alarm he re-enters the apartment, perceives in an instant, as clear as crockery itself, that naughty Dash has not been jumping upon the tea-table, and that it is not that calumniated quadruped by whom the best blue-and-gold service has been devoted to destruction.

All these tamperings with passion are great mistakes; there can be no enjoyment but in speaking out, and letting all the world hear if they like. I always admired the unhesitating frankness of that respectable tradesman (I forget his name, purposely) who about nine one summer morning, after "some words" with his lady respecting the comparative merits of Souchong and Mocha, deliberately opened the first floor window, and dashed out the whole breakfast set, tray and all, into one of the leading streets of the metropolis. People, it is said, put up their umbrellas as they pass, to this day, in constant expectation of a milky shower, with small squares of sugar for hailstones. But all such experiments with cups and saucers, glasses, vases, mirrors, &c., are much better performed, for obvious reasons, at other people's houses than at your own. It is very pleasant, and quite pardonable, to sweep a few glasses off the table in a fit of enthusiasm, now and then—when you are dining out; but it is perfectly ridiculous to proceed to such extremities at home, where the modes of venting rage are infinite. For a somewhat similar reason, I differ from those who systematically tear their own hair when they fall into a paroxysm; there is no occasion for it, because you might happen to be wearing a wig, and the effect would be ludicrous. It is far better to thrust your hand desperately into the loose locks of somebody sitting next to you, tearing them violently for the space of an instant, and then apologizing for the wildness of your excitement, and the extreme susceptibility of your feelings. Your sensibility and the frankness of your disposition will find many admirers; but to pull your own hair has at best but an affected and theatrical look.

The practice common to many of the choleric—that of taking off their hats, flinging them at the first object they see, and then kicking them, regardless of expense—is one that seems to have arisen out of an instinctive feeling, but until lately it was to be condemned as ruinous to those who fall very frequently into a passion; it is less exceptionable now; the cheap hats are immense conveniences to the choleric. It is better however to snatch a friend's off his head, and set your foot upon it, taking care to pick it up immediately, tenderly putting it into shape a little, brushing its injured nap, and returning it with your unfeigned regrets. I should not omit to mention one ingenious expedient, which is sure to produce a speedy relief to over-excited feelings. It is recommended on authority, as infallible. You should first lock the door of your sitting-room, and then lie down on your back upon the rug before the fire—taking at the same time one of the long bell-ropes in either hand. In this position you will find a little violent pulling very pleasant. But don't leave off, merely because everybody in the house comes rattling at the door, desiring to know, not for their own, but for Heaven's sake, what's the matter. Keep on tugging at both bells, until the door is broken open—you will then come-to quite comfortably.

The great have some advantages over the humble, but they lack the luxury of giving a loose to rage at all seasons; they cannot storm and rave at their own sweet will; while the lowest creature committed to prison by the magistrate can always spring from the grasp of the constable and break a window or two. This may seem a poor relief; not so; there is, doubtless, an exquisite satisfaction in knowing that nothing less than a large county must pay the damage. Suppose you only shatter a dozen panes, or effect other wilful injury, is there not something grand in being revenged upon Middlesex, or venting your fury on all Yorkshire?