DOI issue:
April 17, 1858
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16621#0161
April 17, 1858.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 153
THE DOMESTIC OPERA.
Observing, with great satisfaction, that it is intended this season
(as it is al ways intended every season) to " make a struggle for English
Opera," Mr. Punch begs to submit to English composers whether, instead
of causing their poets to ransack foolish or immoral French books for
objectionable plots, and wedding their melodies to disreputable matter,
it would not be better to try to carry their music to the homes and
hearts of the audience. In order to assist in this carrying process,
Mr. Punch has framed the libretto of an English Domestic Opera, and
he proposes that it shall represent An English Morning at Home. The
subject, treated as the exquisite poetry deserves, will ensure the com-
poser's immortality, and any Maestro desirous of illustrating the
manners and customs of English Society, can apply by letter, postpaid,
for the terms on which the following may become his.
The Overture should commence with a series of dissonant sounds,
representing a few of the street noises which make it impossible to
sleep after 7 o'clock; the yell of the water-creeeeeses women, the shriek
of the milkman, and the howl of the pot-boy. Then pleasanter
passages, descriptive of bells ringing for hot-water, children emerging
from their rooms, and jumping about the stairs, the hissing of ham, or
sausages, mewing of kittens, songs of canaries, &c, and then generally
harmonious and agreeable music should indicate the matutinal meal.
Aria d'intrata.
Papa {preparing to go). The hat-brush, pray,
Who takes away ?
Each day I make the same complaint;
To find it took
From off its hook,
And not put back, would vex a Saint.
Louisa. O you story, O you story,
Telling fibs is all your glory,
On your tongue I see a blister.
Mamma. Lor, my love, restrain your passion,
Really that is not the fashion
To address your elder sister.
Susan. O Mamma, she's only joking,
What she means for fun is poking:
There, Mamma, you see I've ki&sen her.
The Cataract of Pearls is resumed, and after a few more brilliancies,
a single knock is heard.
Enter the Servant, Mary.
Preghiera.
Mary. Before the door there stands the man
Who slays the sheep and cow;
Disguise the feeling as I can,
I feel I can't tell how.
The stalwart man who wears the steel
Has stole my heart away ;
But now he Prays you to reveal
What you will have to-day.
Pezzo Concertato.
Susan. Mamma ! we '11 have mutton.
Louisa. Mamma ! we '11 have beef.
Mary. His lamb is exceedingly fine.
Mamma. No, from joints, my dear girls, we'll for once have relief,
As your father don't come home to dine;
(To Mary?) Let him bring home a heart.
Mary. How I wish that the thief
Would bring home that poor heart of mine !
While Papa (a baritone) brushes his hat, Mamma improves the
opportunity. The extreme popularity of songs sung by an invisible minstrel has
Duetto.
Mamma. My dear, there's one thing you forget,
So often, that 'tis really funny.
I would not put you in a pet,
But could you let me have some money ?
Papa. I thought you'd cleared away each debt:
I find the subject no ways funny :
So oft you ask, I'd really bet
A woman thinks one's made of money.
Mamma. A hat for Sue, new boots for Loo,
That nice new hutch for Bobby's bunny—
Papa. Well, there's five pounds, I hope 'twill do :
Throw in a kiss for all that money.
The affectionate father having gone, and the breakfast things being
cleared away, the two elder girls sit down to the pianoforte, and begin
to practise an impossibly brilliant piece, which may be called the
Cataract of Pearls, or anything else likely to attract. Mamma, reading
the Times, has nevertheless an ear for her girls.
Terzetto.
Mamma. Too fast, too fast, Louisa ;
been remarked. In the ugliness of most vocalists, and the hideous
faces they make, this may usually be accounted for; but not always, for
who bnt regrets that the divine Mario should not Comb it Genteelly
before the audience ? With a view to this popular effect, the manly
bass of the Butcher might now be heard through the open window :—
Serenade.
Butcher. A very good butcher am I,
And a jolly young butcher am I;
I cuts from the prime,
And I sends home in time,
And my joints they are never too high.
Yes, an honest young butcher am I,
And the public's delighted to buy;
They lays out their coins
On my legs and my loins,
And they praises their dinner sky-high.
1
s
1
I
iiiiiii'iiiiiiiiii^
m
ffl'l
i
1
In contrast with the bold bellow of the butcher might now be intro-
duced the beautiful bleat of the Baby. It is brought down dressed to
go out, and the music might represent its squeals for a few moments.
Then (in a high, queer voice, supposed to be acceptable to the infant
ear):—
You slurred that passage through* . Aria.
Louisa. Mamma, it's such a teaser, ' Mamma (to Baby). 0 ! there's a face, O what: a fact,
I hate the thing, I do.
Susan. Mamma, the real faci is,
She ought to have a smack;
Louisa will not practise
Unless you're at her back.
O, isn't it a piteous case,
What is urns grievance now;
And don't it want, a tootums sweet.
To see the jee-jees in the street,
And pat the nice bow-wow ?
THE DOMESTIC OPERA.
Observing, with great satisfaction, that it is intended this season
(as it is al ways intended every season) to " make a struggle for English
Opera," Mr. Punch begs to submit to English composers whether, instead
of causing their poets to ransack foolish or immoral French books for
objectionable plots, and wedding their melodies to disreputable matter,
it would not be better to try to carry their music to the homes and
hearts of the audience. In order to assist in this carrying process,
Mr. Punch has framed the libretto of an English Domestic Opera, and
he proposes that it shall represent An English Morning at Home. The
subject, treated as the exquisite poetry deserves, will ensure the com-
poser's immortality, and any Maestro desirous of illustrating the
manners and customs of English Society, can apply by letter, postpaid,
for the terms on which the following may become his.
The Overture should commence with a series of dissonant sounds,
representing a few of the street noises which make it impossible to
sleep after 7 o'clock; the yell of the water-creeeeeses women, the shriek
of the milkman, and the howl of the pot-boy. Then pleasanter
passages, descriptive of bells ringing for hot-water, children emerging
from their rooms, and jumping about the stairs, the hissing of ham, or
sausages, mewing of kittens, songs of canaries, &c, and then generally
harmonious and agreeable music should indicate the matutinal meal.
Aria d'intrata.
Papa {preparing to go). The hat-brush, pray,
Who takes away ?
Each day I make the same complaint;
To find it took
From off its hook,
And not put back, would vex a Saint.
Louisa. O you story, O you story,
Telling fibs is all your glory,
On your tongue I see a blister.
Mamma. Lor, my love, restrain your passion,
Really that is not the fashion
To address your elder sister.
Susan. O Mamma, she's only joking,
What she means for fun is poking:
There, Mamma, you see I've ki&sen her.
The Cataract of Pearls is resumed, and after a few more brilliancies,
a single knock is heard.
Enter the Servant, Mary.
Preghiera.
Mary. Before the door there stands the man
Who slays the sheep and cow;
Disguise the feeling as I can,
I feel I can't tell how.
The stalwart man who wears the steel
Has stole my heart away ;
But now he Prays you to reveal
What you will have to-day.
Pezzo Concertato.
Susan. Mamma ! we '11 have mutton.
Louisa. Mamma ! we '11 have beef.
Mary. His lamb is exceedingly fine.
Mamma. No, from joints, my dear girls, we'll for once have relief,
As your father don't come home to dine;
(To Mary?) Let him bring home a heart.
Mary. How I wish that the thief
Would bring home that poor heart of mine !
While Papa (a baritone) brushes his hat, Mamma improves the
opportunity. The extreme popularity of songs sung by an invisible minstrel has
Duetto.
Mamma. My dear, there's one thing you forget,
So often, that 'tis really funny.
I would not put you in a pet,
But could you let me have some money ?
Papa. I thought you'd cleared away each debt:
I find the subject no ways funny :
So oft you ask, I'd really bet
A woman thinks one's made of money.
Mamma. A hat for Sue, new boots for Loo,
That nice new hutch for Bobby's bunny—
Papa. Well, there's five pounds, I hope 'twill do :
Throw in a kiss for all that money.
The affectionate father having gone, and the breakfast things being
cleared away, the two elder girls sit down to the pianoforte, and begin
to practise an impossibly brilliant piece, which may be called the
Cataract of Pearls, or anything else likely to attract. Mamma, reading
the Times, has nevertheless an ear for her girls.
Terzetto.
Mamma. Too fast, too fast, Louisa ;
been remarked. In the ugliness of most vocalists, and the hideous
faces they make, this may usually be accounted for; but not always, for
who bnt regrets that the divine Mario should not Comb it Genteelly
before the audience ? With a view to this popular effect, the manly
bass of the Butcher might now be heard through the open window :—
Serenade.
Butcher. A very good butcher am I,
And a jolly young butcher am I;
I cuts from the prime,
And I sends home in time,
And my joints they are never too high.
Yes, an honest young butcher am I,
And the public's delighted to buy;
They lays out their coins
On my legs and my loins,
And they praises their dinner sky-high.
1
s
1
I
iiiiiii'iiiiiiiiii^
m
ffl'l
i
1
In contrast with the bold bellow of the butcher might now be intro-
duced the beautiful bleat of the Baby. It is brought down dressed to
go out, and the music might represent its squeals for a few moments.
Then (in a high, queer voice, supposed to be acceptable to the infant
ear):—
You slurred that passage through* . Aria.
Louisa. Mamma, it's such a teaser, ' Mamma (to Baby). 0 ! there's a face, O what: a fact,
I hate the thing, I do.
Susan. Mamma, the real faci is,
She ought to have a smack;
Louisa will not practise
Unless you're at her back.
O, isn't it a piteous case,
What is urns grievance now;
And don't it want, a tootums sweet.
To see the jee-jees in the street,
And pat the nice bow-wow ?