DOI Heft:
September 4, 1880
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0105
September 4, 1880.]
PUNCH, OB, THE LONDON CHARIVARI,
97
MR. P.’S REPRESENTATIVE.
(On a feio new features, and some older ones, a£ the Alhambra—
Farewell to Favart.)
La Fille clu Tambour
Major is still running at
the Alhambra, and doing
sufficiently good business to
warrant the Management
in calling her The Fill of
the Alhambra. Miss Edith
Brand is the dashing
Vivandiere, Mr. Mervin
the Tambour Major, Mr.
Leslie the amusing Due
della Volta—an exagge-
rated type of the Beau
in School—while Miss
Loseby has been replaced
by Mile. Petrelli as
Stella, and Miss Fanny
Leslie’s part of the Little
Drummer is both well sung
and played by Miss St.
Quinten, who has been
the round of all the Comic
Operas in town, and having
played in Madame Favart
and Les Cloches for I don’t
know how many hundred
life of a young Actress—
seems at last to have found herself quite at home at the Alhambra.
It was no easy matter to come after Miss Fanny Leslie as the Little
Drummer, but Miss St. Quenten in succeeding has succeeded.
Two new features—not that there are any old ones here—“ nobody
is old or ugly in Ba-ath,” as Mr. Pickwick's M.C. said—have been
introduced among all the pretty features for which this house is
j celebrated. The Gavotte in Act II., and the Grand Ballet cl'Action,
which description, though suggestive of a Ballet of Barristers—(what
a beautiful thing would be a Ballet d'Action-at-Law //—why, Messrs.
Gilbert and Sullivan’s Trial by Jury would be nowhere beside
it—but it might be played first)—is explained away by the title,
The Alpine Brigands. The music has been “composed expressly”
by M. G. jACOBr. Why “ expressly ” ? Why put on all the steam ?
Why make it “ hurried music ” ? However, there it is, and excellent
it is from first to last, and throughout characteristically dramatic.
Can I describe the plot ? I will try.
The scene is “ A Wooded Ravine near Milan.” Festivity of happy
| Peasants, who are gluttons at dancing, and should be described in
this respect as Ravine-ous. They don’t converse,—only dance and
j “ keep the tambourine a rollin’.” Count Lelio (that most admirable
of pantomimic artistes, Mile. Th. de Gillert) arrives suddenly
and tells a thrilling story, in which the happy Peasants appear more
or less interested, though perhaps a trifle annoyed at the inter-
ruption.
Angry Brigand Petruccio (Miss Matthews) follows the Count,
apparently demanding his legal fare,—dispute,—and there is just
going to be a serious difficulty, when in bounds an elegant Lady,
who seems to belong to some corps de ballet, probably performing at
the Milan Theatre, with whom the naughty Count Lelio has eloped in
a hurry, without giving her time to change her dress. She is really
'Janetta, the sister of the Brigand Chief, and is played by Mile.
Pertoldi. With great presence of mind she settles the difficulty as
to the cab-fare with her father—an extra sixpence does it, added to
the prospect of a dance with Pipeta (Mile. Rosa), the Innkeeper’s
daughter—and then everybody bursts into dance, until the Count,
with unaffected affability, joins the Brigand Chief’s sister in a
pas de deux, and finally dropping the Count entirely, and going in
to make a day of it and popularise the aristocracy with the ravine-
ous peasants, he indulges in such a dance as even interests the blase
peasantry, and is loudly encored by the audience.
Then Mile. Rosa and the Chief of the Brigands have a turn, much
to the delight of the latter, into whose arms she skips in the most
wonderful manner, bringing down the house—and a bouquet.
Very telling music, M. Jacobi’s; quite story-telling music, as it
ought to be; and that’s a catching tune, polka time, to which Rosa
and the Chief execute their pas. The Innkeeper’s daughter’s Pa
doesn’t dance; he belongs to the Opera, and doesn’t appear till the
ballet d'action is over, when we go from pleasure to business, all the
better for the relaxation. The Gavotte comes on about half-past nine,
and the Ballet at ten. So much for the new features.
Madame Favart appeared for the last time on Saturday. It has
been a genuine, but to me an inexplicable success. The management
; might avail itself of the three weeks’ recess to make those Little-ease
I upper private boxes capable of holding more than one person com-
fortably. The arrangements, too, for entrance and exit—off the stage
I mean—are about the most inconvenient—to say the least of it—in
London. Uncommon report—for oommonreport cannot be trusted—
speaks highly of Olivette, the new Offenbachian Opera, which is to
appear shortly—at least not shortly, but in Three Acts—quite long
enough for any Comic Opera, however sparkling, says
Mr. P.’s Representative.
P.S.—During the hot weather, when so many London Theatres
are closed, it is not astonishing to read of the great success of
“Drink” in the Provinces.
THE TOP OP THE GAY-MARKET.
About half a mile westward of Mud-Salad Market, as the crow
flies, is an unlicensed, ill-regulated, open-air, kerb-stone, midnight
kind of cattle-market, called the Gay-Market. We say “as the
crow flies” advisedly, for no crow of respectable habits would pro-
bably fly in that direction. The Gay-Market, as it now exists, is
mainly the creation of Lord Midnight Bruce, the Police, and the
Middlesex Magistrates. The Police may possibly derive some profit
from this market, and Lord Midnight Bruce and the Middlesex
Magistrates may be under the fond impression that by turning a
certain order of Vice into the open highway under the glare of the
gas-lamps, they are forwarding the cause of Virtue.
Does it occur to these theoretical moralists that instead of
regulating the few who are hopelessly bad, they may probably be
corrupting the multitude whose tendency is good P
Ho city in Europe presents such a disgraceful picture as the top of
the Gay-Market between midnight and one or two in the morning.
Here is a Metropolis which has worked for years and spent countless
millions of money to carry off its sewage unobserved, apparently
revelling in a public exhibition of its worst moral impurities.
Here the sort of foreign produce which the powerful pencil of John
Leech, years ago, showed that John Bull would willingly dispense
with—enters into unholy competition wfith Moll Flanders, who some-
times finds a coronet in the mud, but more often goes to the work-
house. Bullies, betting-men, shop-boys, swells—riff-raff of all kinds
—mix with the overdressed females, and block up the pathway with
a crowd whose object is unmistakable. The roadway is half filled
with lingering broughams and cabs driven by knowing cabmen,
while the police look on, like spectators at a show, in speechless
admiration, or hopeless bewilderment.
Which is the best system ?—A licensing body of some six hundred
more or less ignorant and prejudiced gentlemen—chiefly amateurs— j
who leave London, with its four millions of people, without a Casino !
or a Music-garden, and thrust our necessary evils under our noses in
the most public of our public highways, or a public licenser who
knows his business, and provides a few places, under responsible f
management, where even the most degraded have no excuse for f
flaunting rowdyism ?
The Tunis Question.
The Italian snubs the Frank and doth impugn his
Right to stretch eastward. This a piteous lune is.
Discordant Notes! Yet neither out of Tune is !
The Mudford Metropolitan Disgrace.
The ^Esthetic Poet of the Period would find a congenial subject ^
in Mud-Salad Market, where he will be thoroughly able to realise !
the Beauty of Decay. The place is disgustingly delightful to any 1
one who can revel in refuse and be rapturous over rottenness.
An Elastic Band.-—The Mastodon Minstrels.
nights—which sounds like years in the
Vol. 79.
4
PUNCH, OB, THE LONDON CHARIVARI,
97
MR. P.’S REPRESENTATIVE.
(On a feio new features, and some older ones, a£ the Alhambra—
Farewell to Favart.)
La Fille clu Tambour
Major is still running at
the Alhambra, and doing
sufficiently good business to
warrant the Management
in calling her The Fill of
the Alhambra. Miss Edith
Brand is the dashing
Vivandiere, Mr. Mervin
the Tambour Major, Mr.
Leslie the amusing Due
della Volta—an exagge-
rated type of the Beau
in School—while Miss
Loseby has been replaced
by Mile. Petrelli as
Stella, and Miss Fanny
Leslie’s part of the Little
Drummer is both well sung
and played by Miss St.
Quinten, who has been
the round of all the Comic
Operas in town, and having
played in Madame Favart
and Les Cloches for I don’t
know how many hundred
life of a young Actress—
seems at last to have found herself quite at home at the Alhambra.
It was no easy matter to come after Miss Fanny Leslie as the Little
Drummer, but Miss St. Quenten in succeeding has succeeded.
Two new features—not that there are any old ones here—“ nobody
is old or ugly in Ba-ath,” as Mr. Pickwick's M.C. said—have been
introduced among all the pretty features for which this house is
j celebrated. The Gavotte in Act II., and the Grand Ballet cl'Action,
which description, though suggestive of a Ballet of Barristers—(what
a beautiful thing would be a Ballet d'Action-at-Law //—why, Messrs.
Gilbert and Sullivan’s Trial by Jury would be nowhere beside
it—but it might be played first)—is explained away by the title,
The Alpine Brigands. The music has been “composed expressly”
by M. G. jACOBr. Why “ expressly ” ? Why put on all the steam ?
Why make it “ hurried music ” ? However, there it is, and excellent
it is from first to last, and throughout characteristically dramatic.
Can I describe the plot ? I will try.
The scene is “ A Wooded Ravine near Milan.” Festivity of happy
| Peasants, who are gluttons at dancing, and should be described in
this respect as Ravine-ous. They don’t converse,—only dance and
j “ keep the tambourine a rollin’.” Count Lelio (that most admirable
of pantomimic artistes, Mile. Th. de Gillert) arrives suddenly
and tells a thrilling story, in which the happy Peasants appear more
or less interested, though perhaps a trifle annoyed at the inter-
ruption.
Angry Brigand Petruccio (Miss Matthews) follows the Count,
apparently demanding his legal fare,—dispute,—and there is just
going to be a serious difficulty, when in bounds an elegant Lady,
who seems to belong to some corps de ballet, probably performing at
the Milan Theatre, with whom the naughty Count Lelio has eloped in
a hurry, without giving her time to change her dress. She is really
'Janetta, the sister of the Brigand Chief, and is played by Mile.
Pertoldi. With great presence of mind she settles the difficulty as
to the cab-fare with her father—an extra sixpence does it, added to
the prospect of a dance with Pipeta (Mile. Rosa), the Innkeeper’s
daughter—and then everybody bursts into dance, until the Count,
with unaffected affability, joins the Brigand Chief’s sister in a
pas de deux, and finally dropping the Count entirely, and going in
to make a day of it and popularise the aristocracy with the ravine-
ous peasants, he indulges in such a dance as even interests the blase
peasantry, and is loudly encored by the audience.
Then Mile. Rosa and the Chief of the Brigands have a turn, much
to the delight of the latter, into whose arms she skips in the most
wonderful manner, bringing down the house—and a bouquet.
Very telling music, M. Jacobi’s; quite story-telling music, as it
ought to be; and that’s a catching tune, polka time, to which Rosa
and the Chief execute their pas. The Innkeeper’s daughter’s Pa
doesn’t dance; he belongs to the Opera, and doesn’t appear till the
ballet d'action is over, when we go from pleasure to business, all the
better for the relaxation. The Gavotte comes on about half-past nine,
and the Ballet at ten. So much for the new features.
Madame Favart appeared for the last time on Saturday. It has
been a genuine, but to me an inexplicable success. The management
; might avail itself of the three weeks’ recess to make those Little-ease
I upper private boxes capable of holding more than one person com-
fortably. The arrangements, too, for entrance and exit—off the stage
I mean—are about the most inconvenient—to say the least of it—in
London. Uncommon report—for oommonreport cannot be trusted—
speaks highly of Olivette, the new Offenbachian Opera, which is to
appear shortly—at least not shortly, but in Three Acts—quite long
enough for any Comic Opera, however sparkling, says
Mr. P.’s Representative.
P.S.—During the hot weather, when so many London Theatres
are closed, it is not astonishing to read of the great success of
“Drink” in the Provinces.
THE TOP OP THE GAY-MARKET.
About half a mile westward of Mud-Salad Market, as the crow
flies, is an unlicensed, ill-regulated, open-air, kerb-stone, midnight
kind of cattle-market, called the Gay-Market. We say “as the
crow flies” advisedly, for no crow of respectable habits would pro-
bably fly in that direction. The Gay-Market, as it now exists, is
mainly the creation of Lord Midnight Bruce, the Police, and the
Middlesex Magistrates. The Police may possibly derive some profit
from this market, and Lord Midnight Bruce and the Middlesex
Magistrates may be under the fond impression that by turning a
certain order of Vice into the open highway under the glare of the
gas-lamps, they are forwarding the cause of Virtue.
Does it occur to these theoretical moralists that instead of
regulating the few who are hopelessly bad, they may probably be
corrupting the multitude whose tendency is good P
Ho city in Europe presents such a disgraceful picture as the top of
the Gay-Market between midnight and one or two in the morning.
Here is a Metropolis which has worked for years and spent countless
millions of money to carry off its sewage unobserved, apparently
revelling in a public exhibition of its worst moral impurities.
Here the sort of foreign produce which the powerful pencil of John
Leech, years ago, showed that John Bull would willingly dispense
with—enters into unholy competition wfith Moll Flanders, who some-
times finds a coronet in the mud, but more often goes to the work-
house. Bullies, betting-men, shop-boys, swells—riff-raff of all kinds
—mix with the overdressed females, and block up the pathway with
a crowd whose object is unmistakable. The roadway is half filled
with lingering broughams and cabs driven by knowing cabmen,
while the police look on, like spectators at a show, in speechless
admiration, or hopeless bewilderment.
Which is the best system ?—A licensing body of some six hundred
more or less ignorant and prejudiced gentlemen—chiefly amateurs— j
who leave London, with its four millions of people, without a Casino !
or a Music-garden, and thrust our necessary evils under our noses in
the most public of our public highways, or a public licenser who
knows his business, and provides a few places, under responsible f
management, where even the most degraded have no excuse for f
flaunting rowdyism ?
The Tunis Question.
The Italian snubs the Frank and doth impugn his
Right to stretch eastward. This a piteous lune is.
Discordant Notes! Yet neither out of Tune is !
The Mudford Metropolitan Disgrace.
The ^Esthetic Poet of the Period would find a congenial subject ^
in Mud-Salad Market, where he will be thoroughly able to realise !
the Beauty of Decay. The place is disgustingly delightful to any 1
one who can revel in refuse and be rapturous over rottenness.
An Elastic Band.-—The Mastodon Minstrels.
nights—which sounds like years in the
Vol. 79.
4