DOI issue:
November 16, 1861
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16868#0206
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [November 16, 1861.
OUR DRAMATIC CORRESPONDENT.
ving to Monsieur
Fechter, dear
Punch, tliere is quite
a shower of blacks
just now upon the
stage, enough really
to remind one of the
shower of Ethiopians
wherewith our thea-
tres were deluged
some few years ago,
and whereof some
sprinklings are seen
still in the streets.
In the week wherein
I write there are in
London three Othel-
los engaged in black-
ing their faces to
appear before the
public; and although
that fact may seem
to savour of mono-
tony, there is no lack
of varietyin the parts
as they are played.
For the benefit of
playgoers of a dozen
centuries hence, to
whom Punch will doubtless be the only journal extant of the pre-
sent period, I may mention that the trio to whom I have referred
are M. Fechter at the Princess’s, Mr. Brooke at Drury Lane,
and Mr. Phelps at Sadler’s Wells. Of these, the first and second
are as opposite in style as two actors well can be; the one full of
intellectual polish and refinement, while the other relies mainly upon
physical exertion, and wins the good will of the gallery by his vehe-
mence of voice. Mr. Phelps’s careful reading is, I take it, pretty
much the juste milieu between the two; and I suspect most English
playgoers, who reverence the text, will on the whole acknowledge his
reading to be the best. I should like in certain scenes to see him
rather more impulsive, as befits the ‘fiery’ Moor; and at times he
somewhat mumbles hi his utterance, through an over-straining of
emotional effect. But his conception on the whole is excellently ren-
dered, and fully shows that he appreciates the poetry of Shakspeare,
and the grandeur of the part. Not being sentimental, his pathos is
most touching in its natural simplicity; instance specially the farewell
to his soldier’s occupation, and the low voice and quivering lip with
which lie sobs the answer ‘ not a jot—not a jot: ’ and in the outbreaks
of his jealousy he gives the fullest utterance to the passion of the text,
without stooping to the vulgar rage and rant and roar, which the ‘ great
actor’ Mr. Brooke now vents in what the playbills call his ‘grand
impersonation.’
“In fine, having last night seen him vastly to his disadvantage, (for
Mr. Phelps, I am bound to say, is wretchedly supported—encum-
bered would indeed be afar more fitting word,) I think that his Othello is
decidedly worth seeing: and they who rail so scornfully at much-
abused ‘ tradition’ may learn from Mr.Phelps that ‘ tradition’ has its
beauties, as well as its defects, and that to violate it needlessly is not
a proof of taste.
“I must just add, however, that the Sadler’s Weils Iago is by no
means to be cited as a sample of tradition, or to be commended for his
boldness of departure from it. The actor rather seems to view it as a
semi-comic character : and in this light pit and gallery most cheerfully
accept it, and give him roars of laughter, and thunders of applause.
Now, though tradition far too much insists on fiendish scowls and
sneers, and such a devilish deportment as no one could assume and yet
be thought an ‘ honest ’ man, still the words Iago speaks, as set down
in the text, could not in any truth to nature proceed from such a person
as the Sadler’s Wells Iago presumes himself to be. I lay stress on this
fact, because in general Mr. Phelps is careful in his cast: and as he
is the only good tragic actor left us (M. Fechter is not British-born,
and therefore does not count) one wishes, for our credit’s sake, to see
him well supported, and so put upon his mettle, and acting quite his
best.
“ M. Fechter still cqntinues to cram the house in Oxford Street •
and whatever be his failings (I shall write about them shortly, and
shall have to write at greater length, I think, of his good points) it
must at any rate be owned, that he has helped to bring down many a
dusty Shakspeare from its shelf, and has revived the taste for some-
thing better than burlesque. Besides the shower of Othellos to which
I have referred, the play of Richard III. has been presented to the
public, and actually the little theatre in the Haymarket has seen the
tragic buskin on its BucKSTONE-trodden boards. I saw King Richard
as Richelieu a night or two ago, and I own that I was not reminded of
Macreadx, who was the last actor I saw playing the part. Mr. Booth
is young, and by study may improve: but folks will scarcely go to see
him merely for the reason that they went to see his father.
“ It is odd to see what shifts the managers are put to by the dearth
of tragic actors, and the new-born taste for tragedy. At Drury Lane
Mr. Roxby has to do himself a violence ana appear as Roderigo,
while the walking gentlemen who take the other characters are very
little better than a set of walking sticks. At the Haymarket, however,
a whole company of comedians have on a sudden to assume the bearing
of tragedians, and I need not say how ludicrous are the inevitable re-
sults. Merely from the bare association of ideas, the metamorphoses
effected are enough to make one smile: for when little Mr. Clarke stalks
on with tragic strut, one cannot well help tliinking of him as a comic
waiter, so strongly is that image of him stamped on your mind’s eye. It
must surprise your country readers to learn that tragedy is finding a home
here in the Haymarket, where they have often given vent to such bois-
terous guffaws; and I fancy when the Cattle Show attracts them there
next month they will look for Mr. Buckstone to play the part of
Hamlet, while Mr. Compton acts the King, and Mr. Rogers plays the
Ghost—the libretto of the tragedy explaining that this ‘ shadow,’ since
his late retirement from the cares of kingly state, has led a very cosy
comfortable life, and has thereby not unnaturally grown a little stout.
“ One who Pays.”
CLERICAL DESTITUTION.
There are snug things in the Church. Only look at this:—
pHURCH PREFERMENT FOR EXCHANGE.—A RECTORY,
A/ desirably situated within sight of the Sea, in an exceedingly picturesque
County; house, roomy and good; glebe 82 acres of first-rate land. Income, well
paid, over £400 a year. Population 215. No Meeting or Public House in the parish.
Desired in EXCHANGE the NEXT PRESENTATION to a Rural Rectory, subject
to a life of not less than seventy. Income must not be less, nor population greater.
Age of applicant must not be less than forty. South or West of England preferred.
Variety is charming: Adda novitatis est gens humana, as the Eton
Latin grammar classically phrases it. Else one well might wonder that
a parson in possession of so snug a berth as this should feel any wish
to change it for one that might prove less so. For in the “ rural rec-
tory” of which he is in search there might very likely be a pothouse or
a meeting-house, while in his present sea-side paradise it seems that he
has neither of these nuisances to harass him. Considering this, we are
surprised that he will swop for the same income as that which he now
has : for surely the relief to a well-constituted mind of knowing that
no drinking or dissenting folk live near one is worth what in the law is
called “ consideration money,” and should as much enhance the value
of a clerical preferment as the absence of street-organs would the value
of a house. Moreover the advertiser clearly loves an easy life, or he
would not be so careful to guard himself against a larger population.
Over four hundred a year to cure a couple of hundred souls, as things
now go, we think, is pretty decent pay: and with a “ good and roomy
house” in extremely pretty country, one might manage one would
fancy to live tolerably comfortable, even though one had to preach a
sermon once a week, and once a month or so go through the labour of
christening.
STATISTICS FOR THE NURSERY.
{From the Moniteur Vinicole.)
Fair Brussels takes the lead in beer,
Proud Stockholm loves her brandy,
Madrid is great in chocolate,
Dear to each Spanish grandee.
Vile absinthe keeps gay Paris pert.
The Turk for coffee craves,
Strong wines fill up the Britons’ cup.
Who never will be slaves.
But you look here, my little man.
Be wiser than the bunch :
Through all your life pursue one plan.
And always stick to Punch.
Nothing Like Lather.
A Eashionable Soap-monger incessantly exposes and advertises
“Bar Soap.” We dare say that it is very good; but whence the
name ? Has the Bar so many dirty hands that it must have a special
soap invented for it ? Or is it an invention to enable the Bar the better j
to soap over juries? Or is it for washing what Lady Macbeth calls a j
“filthy Witness ”? We request an explanation, accompanied by a few
hundred pounds of the article against Friday next, which happens to
be our washing-day.
OUR DRAMATIC CORRESPONDENT.
ving to Monsieur
Fechter, dear
Punch, tliere is quite
a shower of blacks
just now upon the
stage, enough really
to remind one of the
shower of Ethiopians
wherewith our thea-
tres were deluged
some few years ago,
and whereof some
sprinklings are seen
still in the streets.
In the week wherein
I write there are in
London three Othel-
los engaged in black-
ing their faces to
appear before the
public; and although
that fact may seem
to savour of mono-
tony, there is no lack
of varietyin the parts
as they are played.
For the benefit of
playgoers of a dozen
centuries hence, to
whom Punch will doubtless be the only journal extant of the pre-
sent period, I may mention that the trio to whom I have referred
are M. Fechter at the Princess’s, Mr. Brooke at Drury Lane,
and Mr. Phelps at Sadler’s Wells. Of these, the first and second
are as opposite in style as two actors well can be; the one full of
intellectual polish and refinement, while the other relies mainly upon
physical exertion, and wins the good will of the gallery by his vehe-
mence of voice. Mr. Phelps’s careful reading is, I take it, pretty
much the juste milieu between the two; and I suspect most English
playgoers, who reverence the text, will on the whole acknowledge his
reading to be the best. I should like in certain scenes to see him
rather more impulsive, as befits the ‘fiery’ Moor; and at times he
somewhat mumbles hi his utterance, through an over-straining of
emotional effect. But his conception on the whole is excellently ren-
dered, and fully shows that he appreciates the poetry of Shakspeare,
and the grandeur of the part. Not being sentimental, his pathos is
most touching in its natural simplicity; instance specially the farewell
to his soldier’s occupation, and the low voice and quivering lip with
which lie sobs the answer ‘ not a jot—not a jot: ’ and in the outbreaks
of his jealousy he gives the fullest utterance to the passion of the text,
without stooping to the vulgar rage and rant and roar, which the ‘ great
actor’ Mr. Brooke now vents in what the playbills call his ‘grand
impersonation.’
“In fine, having last night seen him vastly to his disadvantage, (for
Mr. Phelps, I am bound to say, is wretchedly supported—encum-
bered would indeed be afar more fitting word,) I think that his Othello is
decidedly worth seeing: and they who rail so scornfully at much-
abused ‘ tradition’ may learn from Mr.Phelps that ‘ tradition’ has its
beauties, as well as its defects, and that to violate it needlessly is not
a proof of taste.
“I must just add, however, that the Sadler’s Weils Iago is by no
means to be cited as a sample of tradition, or to be commended for his
boldness of departure from it. The actor rather seems to view it as a
semi-comic character : and in this light pit and gallery most cheerfully
accept it, and give him roars of laughter, and thunders of applause.
Now, though tradition far too much insists on fiendish scowls and
sneers, and such a devilish deportment as no one could assume and yet
be thought an ‘ honest ’ man, still the words Iago speaks, as set down
in the text, could not in any truth to nature proceed from such a person
as the Sadler’s Wells Iago presumes himself to be. I lay stress on this
fact, because in general Mr. Phelps is careful in his cast: and as he
is the only good tragic actor left us (M. Fechter is not British-born,
and therefore does not count) one wishes, for our credit’s sake, to see
him well supported, and so put upon his mettle, and acting quite his
best.
“ M. Fechter still cqntinues to cram the house in Oxford Street •
and whatever be his failings (I shall write about them shortly, and
shall have to write at greater length, I think, of his good points) it
must at any rate be owned, that he has helped to bring down many a
dusty Shakspeare from its shelf, and has revived the taste for some-
thing better than burlesque. Besides the shower of Othellos to which
I have referred, the play of Richard III. has been presented to the
public, and actually the little theatre in the Haymarket has seen the
tragic buskin on its BucKSTONE-trodden boards. I saw King Richard
as Richelieu a night or two ago, and I own that I was not reminded of
Macreadx, who was the last actor I saw playing the part. Mr. Booth
is young, and by study may improve: but folks will scarcely go to see
him merely for the reason that they went to see his father.
“ It is odd to see what shifts the managers are put to by the dearth
of tragic actors, and the new-born taste for tragedy. At Drury Lane
Mr. Roxby has to do himself a violence ana appear as Roderigo,
while the walking gentlemen who take the other characters are very
little better than a set of walking sticks. At the Haymarket, however,
a whole company of comedians have on a sudden to assume the bearing
of tragedians, and I need not say how ludicrous are the inevitable re-
sults. Merely from the bare association of ideas, the metamorphoses
effected are enough to make one smile: for when little Mr. Clarke stalks
on with tragic strut, one cannot well help tliinking of him as a comic
waiter, so strongly is that image of him stamped on your mind’s eye. It
must surprise your country readers to learn that tragedy is finding a home
here in the Haymarket, where they have often given vent to such bois-
terous guffaws; and I fancy when the Cattle Show attracts them there
next month they will look for Mr. Buckstone to play the part of
Hamlet, while Mr. Compton acts the King, and Mr. Rogers plays the
Ghost—the libretto of the tragedy explaining that this ‘ shadow,’ since
his late retirement from the cares of kingly state, has led a very cosy
comfortable life, and has thereby not unnaturally grown a little stout.
“ One who Pays.”
CLERICAL DESTITUTION.
There are snug things in the Church. Only look at this:—
pHURCH PREFERMENT FOR EXCHANGE.—A RECTORY,
A/ desirably situated within sight of the Sea, in an exceedingly picturesque
County; house, roomy and good; glebe 82 acres of first-rate land. Income, well
paid, over £400 a year. Population 215. No Meeting or Public House in the parish.
Desired in EXCHANGE the NEXT PRESENTATION to a Rural Rectory, subject
to a life of not less than seventy. Income must not be less, nor population greater.
Age of applicant must not be less than forty. South or West of England preferred.
Variety is charming: Adda novitatis est gens humana, as the Eton
Latin grammar classically phrases it. Else one well might wonder that
a parson in possession of so snug a berth as this should feel any wish
to change it for one that might prove less so. For in the “ rural rec-
tory” of which he is in search there might very likely be a pothouse or
a meeting-house, while in his present sea-side paradise it seems that he
has neither of these nuisances to harass him. Considering this, we are
surprised that he will swop for the same income as that which he now
has : for surely the relief to a well-constituted mind of knowing that
no drinking or dissenting folk live near one is worth what in the law is
called “ consideration money,” and should as much enhance the value
of a clerical preferment as the absence of street-organs would the value
of a house. Moreover the advertiser clearly loves an easy life, or he
would not be so careful to guard himself against a larger population.
Over four hundred a year to cure a couple of hundred souls, as things
now go, we think, is pretty decent pay: and with a “ good and roomy
house” in extremely pretty country, one might manage one would
fancy to live tolerably comfortable, even though one had to preach a
sermon once a week, and once a month or so go through the labour of
christening.
STATISTICS FOR THE NURSERY.
{From the Moniteur Vinicole.)
Fair Brussels takes the lead in beer,
Proud Stockholm loves her brandy,
Madrid is great in chocolate,
Dear to each Spanish grandee.
Vile absinthe keeps gay Paris pert.
The Turk for coffee craves,
Strong wines fill up the Britons’ cup.
Who never will be slaves.
But you look here, my little man.
Be wiser than the bunch :
Through all your life pursue one plan.
And always stick to Punch.
Nothing Like Lather.
A Eashionable Soap-monger incessantly exposes and advertises
“Bar Soap.” We dare say that it is very good; but whence the
name ? Has the Bar so many dirty hands that it must have a special
soap invented for it ? Or is it an invention to enable the Bar the better j
to soap over juries? Or is it for washing what Lady Macbeth calls a j
“filthy Witness ”? We request an explanation, accompanied by a few
hundred pounds of the article against Friday next, which happens to
be our washing-day.