Punch (93.1887)

100

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHAEIVAEI. [September 3, 1887.

^ „ „ ALL IN PLAY.

Deae Mb. Punch,

This year has been a great one for America in-London. The
Exhibition in "West Kensington, with its Wild West Show, has
attracted its thousands, and at this
moment two dramas (both from the
United States) are very popular in
the Strand and Oxford Street. A
few nights ago, anxious to save you
the trouble of filling a stall with your
customary urbanity and critical
acumen (to say nothing of your
august person and opera-glasses), I
visited the Princess's, to assist at a
performance of The Shadows of a
Great City. It was really a most
amusing piece, written by Jeffebson,
the Bip Van Winkle of our youth,
who you will remember was wont in
years gone by to drink to the health
of ourselves and our wives and our
families at the Adelphi. The City
was New York, and the most sub-
stantial of the Shadows, Mr. J. H.
Barnes, a gentleman who might he
aptly described as one of the

heaviest" of our light comedians. He played a fine-hearted sailor
with an earnestness of purpose that carried all before it. I cannot
conscientiously say that he gave me the idea that he was exactly
fitted to take command of the Channel Fleet, but after seeing him I
retained the impression that he would have felt entirely at home on
the quarter-deck of a Thames Steamboat. Mr. Habby Nicholas,
who has so often assisted to make the fortune (as a jocular scoundrel)
of a Drury Lane melodrama, was also in the cast, and eo was Miss
Cicely Richards, the Belinda of Our Boys. Then there was Miss
Maby Robke, a most sympathetic heroine, and several other excel-
lent performers, whose names, however, were less familiar to me.

The play, admirably mounted with capital scenery, recalled a
number of pleasant memories. Here was a suggestion of The Ticket
of Leave Man, there a notion from The Colleen Bawn, and yonder
ideas from The Long Strike a.uA.Arrah-na-Pogue. There is nothing
new under the sun, and The Shadows of a Great City is no exception
to the rule. However, it is a thoroughly excitingplay, full of murder
and mirth, wrong-doing and waggery, startling incidents, and side-
splitting comicalities. It was certainly greatly enjoyed, when I saw
it, by the audience, who cheered Mr. Babnes and Miss Robke to the
echo, and hissed all their enemies to their heart's content, as a
reward for the most effectively-simulated villany.

Very soon all the Theatres will be busy with the Autumn-cum-
Winter Season. The first on the List is Drury Lane, which, reserv-
ing' Payne for the Pantomime at Christmas, opens in September with
Pleasure, Always yours sincerely,

One who has Gone to Pieces.

SALUBRITIES ABROAD.

Still at Royat. Hotel Continental.—Apropos of PuLLEE " airing
his French" Miss Louisa Mettebbrun said something delighful to
him the other day at dinner. Puller had been instructing us all in
some French idioms until Madame Metterbrun set him right in his
pronunciation. He owned that he had made a slip. "But," says
he, wagging his head and pulling up his wristbands with the air of
a man" thoroughly well satisfied with himself generally, " but I
think you '11 allow that I can speak French better tnan most English-
men, eh?"

Madame Metterbrun doesn't exactly know what to say, but Miss
Louisa comes to the rescue. "0 Mr. Puller"—he is frequently
at their house in London, and they know him intimately—" I always
say to Mamma, when we 're abroad, that I do like to hear you talk
French "—Puller smirks and thinks to himself that this is a girl of
sense and rare appreciation—" because," Bhe goes on quietly, and all
at table are listening, "because your speaking French reminds me
so of home." Her home is London. I think Puller won't ask
Miss Louisa for au opinion on his French accent again in a hurry.
* * • ■ « » *

I have just been reading Victor Hugo's Chases Vues. Admirable!
Fuite de Lows Philippe ! What a pitiful story. Then his account,
marvellously told, and the whole point of the narrative given in two
lin es, of what became of the brain of Talleyrand. Graphically written
is his visit to 1 hikes on behalf of Eochefokt. Says Thiers to him,
" Cent journaux me trmnent tous les matins dans la bone. Mais
savtz-vous mon procede f Je ne les lis pas." To which Hugo
rejoined, " C'estprecisement ce queje fats. Lire les diatribes, c'est
respirer les latrines de sa renommee." Most public men, certainly

most authors, artists, and actors, would do well to remember this

advice, and act upon it.

******

" Choses Vues," written "Shows Vues," would he a good heading

for an all - round - about theatrical and entertainment article in

Mr, Punch's pages. Patent this.

******

Puller has recovered his high spirits. The temperature has
changed : the waters are agreeing with him. So is the dinner hour,
which M. Hall, our landlord, kindly permits us to have at the
exceptional and un-Royat-like hour of T30. At dinner he is con-
vivial. Madame Metteebbun and her two daughters are discussing
music. Cousin Jane is deeply interested in listening to Madame
Metteebrun on "Wagner. The young Ladies are thorough
"Wagnerites. La Contessa is unable to get a word in about Shak-
speare and Salvini, and her daughter, who, in a quiet tone and
with a most deliberate manner, announces herself as belonging to
the " Take-everything-easy Society," i3 not at this particular
moment interested in anything except the menu, which she is lazily
scrutinising through her long-handled pince-nez.

Mrs. Dinderlin, having succumbed to the usual first attack of
Royat depression, is leaning back in her chair, smelling salts and
nodding assent to the Wagnerice theories, with which she entirely
agrees. For my own part, I am nentral; but as the Metterbruns
are thorough musicians,—the mother being a magnificent pianist, and
the eldest daughter a composer,—I am really interested in hearing all
they have to say on the subject. Our bias is, temporarily, decidedly
Wagnerian, for Cousin Jane, who is really in favour of " tune,
and plenty of it,—being specially fond of Bellini and Donizetti,
—in scientific musical society has not the courage of her opinions.

From composers the conversation travels to executants, and we
name the favourite singers. After we have pretty well exhausted
the list, and objected to this one as having a head voice, or to that
as using the vibrato, or to the other as dwelling on an upper note
(" queer sort of existence," says Puller, gradually coming up, as
it were to the surface to open his mouth for breath,—whereat Cousin
Jane smiles, and Miss Casanova lazily nods approbation of the
joke—while the rest of us ignore Puller, putting him aside as not
wanted just now,—when down he goes again), we generally agree
that Gayaeee is about the best tenor we have had in London for some
time; that Santley is still unequalled as a baritone ; that thpre ia no
one now to play and sing Mephistopheles like Faure ; that M. Maueel
is about the finest representative of Don Giovanni; that Miss Abnold-
son shows great promise; that Albani is unrivalled; that Mabie
Roze is difficult to beat as Carmen; and that it is a pity that
Path's demands are so exorbitant; and having exhausted the list
of operatic artists,—Madame and her daughters holding that certain
Germans, with whose names we, unfortunately for us, are not even
acquainted, are far superior to any French or Italian singers that
can he named—there ensues a pause in the conversation, of which
the Countess Casanova takes advantage, and extending her right
hand, which movement sharply jingles her bracelets, and so. as it
were, sounds a bell to call us to attention, cuts in quickly with an
emphatic, " Well, I don't profess to understand music as yon do. I
know what I like"—("Hear! hear!" sotto voce from Pullee,
coming up again to the surface, which draws a languidly approving
inclination of the head from Miss Casanova, and a smile, depre-
cating the interruption, from Cousin Jane).—"and I must say,"
continues the Countess, emphatically, " I would rather have one hour
of Salvini in Othello, than a whole month of the best Operas by the
best composers,—Wagner included," and down comes her hand on
the table, all the bracelets ringing down the curtain on the first act.

We, the non-combatants, feel that the mailed gauntlet has been
thrown down by the Countess as a challenge to the Metterbbuns.

"0 Mother!" faintly remonstrates Miss Casanova, who loves a
stall at the Opera. She fears that her mother's energetic declaration
means war, and fans herself helplessly.

I am preparing to reconcile music and the drama, and am getting
ready a supply of oil for what I foresee will he troubled waters, as
the_ Metterbruns are beginning to rustle their feathers and flap
their wings,—when Puller, leaning well forward, and stretching
out an explanatory hand, with his elbow planted firmly on the table,
("Very bad manners," says Cousin Jane afterwards to me) says
genially, "Well, voyez vous, look here, you may talk of your
Wagners and Shakspeares, and Gayarres, and Pattis, but, for
singing and acting, give me Arthur Roberts. Yes," he repeats
pleasantly but defiantly, and taking up, as it were, the Countess's
gauntlet, " Salvini's not in it with Aethue Robeets."

The Countess's fan spreads out and works furiously. The steam is
getting up. The Metterbruns open their eyes, and regard one
another in consternation. They don't know who Arthur Roberts is.

"Not know!" exclaims Pullee, quite in his element. "Well,
when you oome to London, you send to me, and I '11 take you to
hear him."

" He's a Music-Hail singer," says the Countess, fanning herself
with an air of contemptuous indifference.