M. Halévy, weary of compelling his orchestra to imitate the tinkling of Bayadères' armlets, or the solemn tramp of an army of elephants, has, in his opera of the Nabob, now performing at the Opéra Comique, introduced a novel musical effect, upon which Mr. Punch, in anticipation of its speedy transmission to England, feels bound to offer a word of comment. In the third act of the opera, the libretto of which, be it remarked, is from the pen of M. Scribe, a chaise, containing two of the principal characters, is upset at the door of a tobacconist's shop in Wales. Of course, the occupants of the chaise are assisted into the shop, where they sing a duet with, as the French papers say, "A funny accompaniment of coughing and sneezing." At this we are told the whole house "éclata de rire", and that "les brouhahas les plus vives accueillirent ce joli morçeau". If Mr. Punch were not entirely free from all petty national jealousy, he might, perhaps, insinuate that M. Halévy has taken his idea from the brilliant sternutations which the immortal tenor Grimaldi was wont to embroider, as the Morning Post would say, upon his grand scena of "Tippetywitchet." But he contents himself with M. Halévy's indirect tribute of praise to that great artiste, and rejoices in the conviction that the belle fioriture of il povero Guiseppe, now that they have received the stamp of French approval, will come into general acceptation with us.
He expects that during the ensuing winter great pains will be taken to perforate the roofs and walls of our theatres, as managers will feel that no singer can succeed properly in an air unless she stands in a draught.
He expects also that his contemporaries will criticise the début of a new tenor after the following fashion—
"Signor Infreddatura, who made his first appearance last night in the comic opera of Il Catarro, has all the qualifications of a great singer; viz. a fine person, a sweet and powerful voice, expressive and appropriate action, and a bad cold. He took all his sternutations with the greatest ease, and in correct time, and in his grand aria of 'Ah! tu traditrice,' the audience knew not whether to admire most, the great power with which he gave the Ahchew—sustaining the 'Ah' for some seconds, and then suddenly pouring forth the 'Chew' in a volume of sound that Duprez might have envied—or the playful irony which he threw into his new and spirituel reading of the treechay. He was, however, but badly seconded by Madame Testachiara, who was so nervous as to have no control over her organ whatever, so that the two pinches of snuff which the prompter administered to her before she came on exploded at the wrong time, and thus impaired the general effect of an otherwise fine performance."
One advantage Mr. Punch perceives, will certainly result from the vigorous prosecution of M. Halévy's idea. It is that, whereas our climate has hitherto been the bane, it will henceforth prove the antidote of foreign singers. They will flock here in crowds to perfect their education, nor will they be deterred from coming by a fear of overstocking the market, as they will always feel sure that there is plenty of rheum for them in England. And even Mr. Sims Reeves, when afflicted by the recurrence of his apparently hereditary cold, need no longer disappoint the audience by withdrawing from them altogether, and may favour them with "My lodging is on the cold ground" (a song which will naturally afford great scope for a display of the new ornaments), or with "We'll sound the gay Catarrh."
OBSTRUCTING THE PAVEMENT.
A poor applewoman is not allowed to loiter on the pavement. The lithographic artist, who draws the reddest salmon and setting suns on the flagstones, is instantly told by the policeman to "walk his chalks." The broken-down tradesman, with his white neckcloth, and black gloves with the fingers peeping out of the tips, is not allowed to lean against a door-post, and offer, in a melancholy attitude, his lucifer-matches for sale. The same rigour is exercised towards the hundred-bladed Jew boy, the barefooted girl with her bunch of violets, and the grinning Italian with his organ. Not one of them is allowed to monopolise the pavement, but is immediately commanded by the ferocious policeman to "move on." But there is a class of persons who are permitted to remain still, where a child who is crying her apples "three a penny" is not allowed even to loiter. This class of persons is not the most reputable class to come in contact with, nor the pleasantest even to look at. It is the betting class. Pass a betting-shop when you will, you are sure to find an immense crowd collected outside it.
There is no knowing what they talk about—and we have not the slightest wish to increase our knowledge—but there they will stand for hours, running in and out of the shop, in the most feverish state, exchanging memoranda in half-whispers, and dotting down incomprehensible figures in little clasp-books, which they hold up close to their breasts, for fear any one should see what they are inscribing in them. They seem dreadfully afraid lest any one should peep over their shoulders, and discover the wonderful "odds" they are pencilling down. We have no particular love or partiality for this numerous class of Her Majesty's subjects. We do not like them, with their slangy stable coats, their sporting hats knowingly cocked on one side, and their suspicious looks that seem to say of every one on whom their sharp, calculating glances fall, "Well, I wonder how green you are, and I wonder what harvest I shall get out of your greenness." We do not like this betting genus, with its whips and switchy canes, and thick-ruled trowsers, into which a small five-barred gate seems to have been compressed, and its sensual thick-lipped mouths, that are invariably playing with a flower or a piece of straw, or caressing the end of a pencil.
Now, this class of persons blocks up our public pavements. Attempt to pass by the Haymarket, or Jermyn Street, or the purlieus of Leicester Square, about four or five o'clock, and you will find that the arteries of circulation are tied up by those thick coagulated knots of betting men. The thoroughfare is quite impassable, and you are compelled to go into the mud of the road to avoid being soiled by the refuse of the pavement. We wish the police would, until the entire system is abolished, sweep away the offensive nuisance, for we do not see why betting men should be allowed to carry on their trade on the flagstones any more than applewomen, or even your openly-professed beggar. The police might be worse engaged than in making them "move on." In this instance we would have them not pay the slightest respect to their "betters."