Punch (74.1878)

January 19, 1878.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

17

go off with it—to the office where he'd register it as his own; the
real man appears ten minutes afterwards; Clerk says to him,
" Can't register your idea, Sir; too late; Gent just been here, entered
it, and paid the fee."

However, as this would lead into a lengthy disquisition, and as the
Legislature, even under the leadership of a Distinguished Original
Writer, is not likely to pass an Act "for the Better Protection of
Ideas, &c," I shall drop the subject pro tern., only observing that
the above is My idea of what ought to be done with M. Sardou's
Patrie (perhaps the first syllable suggested tbe notion of the lo-
cality), if it is ever to be popular in England and Ireland.

As to the original work, itself, Patrie is vastly overwritten; the
talk, though good, is long and wearisome. But a Parisian public
will sit at a play from seven till past twelve, coming out between
every Act to refresh itself, and smoke a cigarette. The more the
Parisians get for their money, the better they are pleased, and what
would keep them agog for five hours would send us away yawning,
stretching, and protesting. Fatherland; or, a Nicht' wi' Rysoor, is
played at the Queen's between eight and a little after eleven. Should
Mr. Vizin be compelled by any unforeseen chance to give up The
Duke of Alva, let me recommend the management to engage Mr.
Phelps for the part, and introduce a strong scene for the Duke and
Rysoor. Let these two eminent tragedians, after a fearful quarrel,
and some thundering asides to the audience in the deepest basso-
profondo, arrive at the very point of fighting, when—enter Alva's
daughter (intelligently played at the Queen's by Miss Maud Milton),
and it all comes to nothing, the Duke (Mr. Phelps) observing, with
a forced smile, " Not before the Girl," and Rysoor (Mr. Stirling),
dissembling at the door, saying {aside), " Tyrant! But a day will
come ! " {Exit.) And then a new Act, showing Dolores married to the
English Nobleman (Mr. Billlngton), and the house haunted by the
Ghost of Rysoor,—with a Dutch song. Final tableau—Dolores
stabbed by her second husband in the presence of the Ghost of the
First; Mr. Billlngton kneels to the shade, and says, " You are
avenged ; " then the Ghost of Rysoor has a long speech on things in
general, and Mr. Billlngton faints as the curtain descends for posi-
tively the last time. Rysoor would have one more chance for a speech
if he were summoned in front of the curtain by a delighted audience.
It is many years since I have enjoyed anything so much as Rysoor's
performance in Fatherland—only there really was not enough of him.

But my dear old Puritan Rysoor has put the "Monday Pops" clean
out of my head, and I have only time to say that Mr. Lloyd sung
as Goldsmith wrote—like an angel, and that both his songs were
vociferously encored. The first was by Fred Clay ; the other by
Arthur Sullivan, with such first-rate words by W. S. Gilbert,—
that, I don't know which to admire most, the words or the music,
though I am inclined to show my preference for the words. Mr.
Lloyd must be praised, not for his voice, for which " Let him thank
Heaven and make no fuss," but for his distinct articulation, which
enabled me, who had no programme or book, to hear, and, therefore,
thoroughly enjoy, every syllable. It is not often a first-class tenor
gives the public such a chance.

Mmes. Krebs and Neruda were at the piano and violin, and
Signor Piatti at the violoncello, but with no programme to act as
their interpreter, I could not make out what idea their music was
intended to convey to the audience. To me it suggested nothing
whatever, except a determined attempt on the part of three musi-
cians to burk any fitful sign of life that a poor little tune might try
to show during their performance. Five or six times I noticed, a
melody attempting to make itself heard; but the three musicians
were down on it, all at once, like three cats on a mouse, and in less
than two seconds had scrambled over it, and had scraped and
screwed its small vitality out of it. Poor little tune! I felt for you
under such treatment! I don't know whose works were played, and I
don'tcare. It might have been somebody's "Op. l,"or "Symphony
in G," or " Study in F," or all these compositions played together
topsy-turvy. I knew they were three artistes,—I knew that they
were there to play the very best high-class music, in the very best
highest-class manner, and I took for granted they were doing it.
I hope they were; and, if profitable, I hope they do it very often.

I was struck by the attitude of the audience during the perform-
ance of these stupendous masterpieces,—though, whether Beet-
hoven's or Mozart's, I don't believe they were by any manner of
means chefs d'ceuvre, or there would have been in them that " one
touch of nature," which was somehow wanting on Monday the 7th.
Some wagged their heads and shut their eyes—these were mostly
elderly gentlemen accompaniedlby " belongings " ; others shut their
eyes, and didn't wag their heads ;'some slept surreptitiously, waking
up in an underhand sort of manner, and examining the programme
to see where they were, in a dazed way. Many followed the players
with their hands; some imitating the fingering of the violin, others
that of the piano ; some stared at other people, unconsciously, while
keeping time with their opera-hats, or opera-glasses. The place was
crowded; the applause enthusiastic ; the German element consider-
able. _ On coming out, there was Mr. Arthur Chappell looking
abominably annoyed because the Christy Minstrels were making

such a noise in the lower room at St. James's Hall. A certain
number of frequenters of the Monday Pops would, I have no doubt,
smile pityingly on anyone owning to a fondness for a Christy
Minstrel ditty; indeed, they are, I fancy, the sort of people to
subscribe handsomely for a Special Missionary Society to convert all
Ethiopian serenaders, beginning with Moore and Burgess as the
oldest living offenders.

Mr. Irving is to come out as Louis the Eleventh. The character
will suit him well enough, but why not something new ? Till then
he rings the changes on The Bells and Charles the First. I am
glad to see that H.R.H. the Prince of Wales showed his excellent
dramatic discrimination by visiting the Strand Theatre the other
night.

En attendant, let us all be grateful for Fatherland; or, the
Sorrows of Rysoor, the Double Basso of the Pays-Bas. Here's a
couplet for the dear old boy—

0 tempora ! 0 mores !

0 naughty wife! Dolores!

With which, having made a tremendous hit, he ought to go off to
execution happily, as the audience would be sure to encore him,
when he could return, repeat the lines, and bow while his head was
still on his shoulders. So here's his health and happiness, and may
he have as long a run as Our Boys, and that his speeches may
never grow less is the sincere wish of

Your Representative.

CROWN BRILLIANTS.

The announcement of my Lord B.'s last plaything for Royalty,
the new Order of the Crown of India, has occasioned criticism more
or less acute and rational.

Some persons have observed that instead of the Order of the
Crown, the new Indian Order should have been called the Order of
the Rupee.

But to this it is objected that a rupee is too much beneath a crown
for Imperial dignity, being, in fact, only two shillings, less even than
half-a-crown. The objectors urge that nothing would suffice under
a crown. Many of them, indeed, go farther, suggesting that the
figure should exceed a crown and amount to a sovereign, because a
sovereign is above a crown. Their opponents reply that, when the
Sovereign is crowned, the crown, on the contrary, is above the
Sovereign. But the advocates of the Sovereign conclusively rejoin
that a sovereign being more than a crown, therefore the Order to be
expressed at its due valuation should be the Order of the Sovereign.
It may be a point for jurisconsults to consider, whether subjects
who pass these daring remarks upon Crown and Sovereign ought
not to incur the penalties of high-treason.

What Will Not Those Russians Do ?

The Duke of Sutherland, at the St. James's Turoophil meeting
of Thursday, while arguing that the line must be drawn somewhere
against Russian aggression, declared that " no means would be left
untried by Russia to make India too hot for us."

Many people may say that India is too hot for us at present, and
that there is no occasion for the Muscovite to poke up its fires. At
the same time, this fiendish design of super-heating India is another
added to the long score of Russian offences!

We trust it will be remembered against them when the time comes
for the squaring of accounts so confidently looked forward to by
Mr. Algernon Borthwick and his Turcophil friends.