Of London in July—“London in July?”—surely there can be no such place! It sounds like a kind of contradiction in terms. But, alas! there is such a place, as yonder thick cloud of dust, and the blare of the horn that issues from it, too surely indicate. And what is worse, we must, in pursuance of our self-imposed duty, proceed thither without delay. We cannot, therefore, do better (or worse) than mount the coming vehicle (the motto of which at this time of the year ought to be “per me si va nella citta, dolente,”) and,
Half in a cloud of stifling road-dust lost,
get there as soon as we can, that we may the sooner get away again.
Of London in July, there is happily little to be said; but let that little be said good humouredly; for London is London, after all—ay, even after having ridden fifty miles on the burning roof of the Gloucester Heavy, to get at it. Now, then, London is entirely empty; so much so that a person well practised in the art of walking its streets might wager that he would make his way from St. Paul’s to Charing Cross (a distance of more than a mile) within forty minutes!
Now, the Winter Theatres having just closed, the Summer ones “make hay while the sun shines.” At that in the Hay-market Mr. Liston acts the part of Atlas,—supporting every thing (the heat included) with inimitable coolness; while, in virtue of his attractions, the Managers can afford annually to put in execution their benevolent and patriotic plan, of permitting the principal Barn-staple actors to practise upon the patience of a London Pit with impunity.
At the English Opera-house the Managers, (Mr. Peake),—for fear the public, amid the refreshing coolness of the Upper Boxes, should forget that it is Summer time,—transfer the country into the confines of their Saloon (having purchased it at and for half-price in Covent Garden Market); and there, from six till eight, flowers of all hues look at each other by lamp-light despondingly, and after that hour turn their attention to the new accession of flowers, the Painted Ladies, which do not till then begin blowing in this singular soil. In the mean time, on the stage, Mr. Wrench (that easiest of actors with the hardest of names) carries all before him, not excepting his arms and hands. I never see Wrench, [who, by the bye, or by any other means that he can, ought by all means to get rid of the roughening letter in his name, and call himself Wench, Tench, Clench, Bench, or any other that may please him and us better. Indeed I cannot in conscience urge him to adopt either of the above, if he can possibly find another guiltless of that greatest of all enormities in a name, the susceptibility of being punned upon; for it is obvious that if he should adopt either of the above, he must not, on his first after appearance in the Green Room, hope to escape from his punegyrical friend Mr. Peake, without being told, in the first case, (Wench) that his place is not there but in the other Green Room (the Saloon);—in the second, (Tench) that he need not have changed his name, for that he was a sufficiently odd fish before;—in the third, (Clench) that he (Mr. P.) is greatly in want of a clever one for the finale of his next farce, and begs to make use of him on the occasion;—and in the fourth, (Bench) that, belonging to a Royal Company, he is neither more nor less than the King’s Bench, and “as such” must not be surprised if his theatrical friends fly to him for shelter and protection in their hour of need, in preference to his name-sake over the water.—I beg the reader to remember, that the punishment due to all these prospective puns belongs exclusively to Mr. Peake; and on him let them be visited accordingly. Though I doubt not he will intimate in extenuation, that they are quite pun-ish-meant enough in themselves.—But where was I?—oh]—I never see Wrench without fearing that, some day or other, a gleam of common sense may by accident miss its way to the brain of our winter managers, and they may bethink them (for if one does, both will) of offering an engagement to this most engaging of actors. But if they should, let me beseech him to turn (if he has one) a deaf ear to their entreaties; for we had need have something to look for at a Summer Theatre that cannot be had elsewhere.
I am not qualified to descend any lower than the Major of the Minor Theatres, in regard to what is doing there at this season; though it appears that Mr. Ducrow is still satisfying those who were not satisfied of it before, that Horsemanship is one of the Fine Arts; and though the Bills of the Coburg append sixteen instead of six notes of admiration to Mr. Nobody’s name. Being somewhat fastidious in the affair of phraseology, the only mode in which I can explain my remissness in regard to the above particular is, that, whereas at this season of the year Steam conveys us to all other places,—from the theatres frequented by throngs of “rude mechanicals” it most effectually keeps us away.
Now, on warm evenings after business hours, citizens of all ages grow romantic; the single, wearing away their souls in sighing to the breezes of Brixton Hill, and their soles in getting there; and the married, sipping syllabub in the arbours of White Conduit House, or cooling themselves with hot rolls and butter at the New River Head.
Now, too, moved by the same spirit of Romance, young patricians, who have not yet been persuaded to banish themselves to the beauty of their paternal groves, fling themselves into funnies, and fatigue their ennui to death, by rowing up the river to Mrs. Grange’s garden, to eat a handful of strawberries in a cup-full of cream.