Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 8

Falstaff, they were each born at four o'clock of the morning, with
a bald head, and something of a round belly; certain it is, they are
universally thin in the hair, and exhibit strong manifestation of obesity.
The further marks of identity consist in a ring very variously chased,
and the infallible insignia of a tuning-fork: without this no professional
singer does or can exist. The thing has been tried, and found a failure.
Its uses are remarkable and various: like the "death's-head and
cross-bones" of the pirates, or the wand, globe, and beard of the
conjuror, it is their sure and unvarying sign. We have in our mind's eye

one of the species even now--we see him coquetting with the fork,
compressing it with gentle fondness, and then (that all senses may be
called into requisition) resting it against his eye-tooth to catch the
proper tone. Should this be the prelude to his own professional
performance, we see it returned, with a look of profound wisdom, to the
right-hand depository of the nondescript and imaginary velvet
double-breaster--we follow his eyes, till, with peculiar fascination, they
fix upon the far-off cornice of the most distant corner of the
smoke-embued apartment--we perceive the extension of the dexter
hand employed in innocent dalliance with the well-sucked peel of a
quarter of an orange, whilst the left is employed with the links of what
would be a watch-guard, if the professional singer had a watch. We
hear the three distinct hems--oblivion for a moment seizes us--the
glasses jingle--two auctioneers' hammers astonish the
mahogany--several dirty hands are brought in violent and noisy
contact--we are near a friend of the vocalist--our glass of gin-and-water
(literally warm without) empties itself over our lower extremities,
instigated thereto by the gymnastic performances of the said zealous
friend--and with an exclamation that, were Mawworn present, would
cost us a shilling, we find the professional singer has concluded, and is
half stooping to the applause, and half lifting his diligently-stirred grog,
gulping down the "creature comfort" with infinite satisfaction.
* * * * *
--There goes the hammer again! (Rubins has a sinecure compared to
that fat man). "A glee, gents!--a glee!"--Ah! there they are--three
coats--three collars--Heaven knows how many buttons!--three bald
heads, three stout stomachs, three mouths, stuffed with three
tuning-forks, nodding and conferring with a degree of mystery worthy
of three Guy Faux."--What is the subject?
"Hail smilig _b_orn."
That's a good guess! By the way, the vulgar notion of singing ensemble
is totally exploded by these gentry--each professional singer, as a
professional singer, sings his very loudest, in _justice to himself_; if his
brethren want physical power, that's no fault of _his_, _he don't_.
Professional singers indulge in small portions of classic lore: among the
necessary acquirements is, "Non nobis," &c. &c.; that is, they consider
they ought to know the airs. The words are generally delivered as

follows:--_Don--dobis--do--by--de_. A clear enunciation is not much
cultivated among the clever in this line.
In addition to the few particulars above, it may be as well to mention,
they treat all tavern-waiters with great respect, which is more
Christian-like, as the said waiters never return the same--sit anywhere,
just to accommodate--eat everything, to prove they have no squeamish
partialities--know to a toothful what a bottom of brandy _should
be_--the exact quantity they may drink, free gratis, and the most likely
victim to drop upon for any further nourishment they may require.
Their acquirements in the musical world are rendered clear, by the
important information that "Harry Phillips knows what he's
about"--"Weber was up to a thing or two." A baritone ain't the sort of
thing for tenor music: and when they sung with some man (nobody ever
heard of), they showed him the difference, and wouldn't mind--"A
cigar?" "Thank you, sir!--seldom smoke--put it in my pocket--(_aside_)
that makes a dozen! Your good health, sir!--don't dislike cold, though I
generally take it warm--didn't mean that as a hint, but, since you _have
ordered it_, I'll give you a toast--Here's--THE PROFESSIONAL
SINGER!"
FUSBOS.
* * * * *
AN AN-TEA ANACREONTIC.
[Greek: EIS TO LEIN PINEIN.]
Bards of old have sung the vine Such a theme shall ne'er be mine;
Weaker strains to me belong, Pæans sung to thee, Souchong! What
though I may never sip Rubies from my tea-cup's lip; Do not milky
pearls combine In this steaming cup of mine? What though round my
youthful brow I ne'er twine the myrtle's bough? For such wreaths my
soul ne'er grieves. Whilst I own my Twankay's leaves. Though for me
no altar burns, Kettles boil and bubble--urns In each fane, where I
adore-- What should mortal ask for more! I for Pidding, Bacchus fly,
Howqua shall my cup supply; I'll ne'er ask for amphoræ, Whilst my
tea-pot yields me tea. Then, perchance, above