DOI issue:
October 18, 1862
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16870#0170
October 18, 1862.]
163
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
" ' ~ - 1 - " - - '■ ■ ' — ■ —■ ■ — i
A THEATRICAL ELECTION.
Mr. Punch observes that the paternal Government of France (which
obligingly interferes in everything, from an astronomer’s theories on the
movement of the world to the sou balloons flown by the children in the
Tuileries gardens) has stepped into one of the provincial theatres. There
has been a Tweedledum and Tweedledee battle, touching the comparative
merits of a brace of “ robust tenors,” and the partisans of each have
resorted to that form of criticism which is expressed by hissing every note
of his rival. So awful a crisis demanded the deus ex machind, and he has
appeared. An edict prohibits anybody from hissing at all, and “ the
votes of the theatre-going public” are to be regularly taken at a
bureau, after which the successful candidate will be declared duly
elected, and entitled to sing, with the whole force of the Government
of France for a claque.
Mr. Punch laughed, of course, and then began to speculate upon the
exceeding good fun which might begot out of some similar arrangement
in England.
Suppose that Mr. Charles Kean and Mr. Hobson were engaged at
the same theatre, and it were desired to produce some play a little above
the range of either artist, but still one in which respective admirers
might like to see their favourite. Let us say Othello. To please both
sides, the management has put up the tragedy every night, the two
actors alternately playing the Moor of Yenice. Mr. Hobson’s friends
have commented upon Mr. Kean’s readings with a volley of Barcelona
nuts, and Mr. Kean’s admirers, who are stated to be more of the aristo-
cratic order, have retaliated with the best Seville oranges. The public
is scandalised, the papers daily make mirth or seriousness of the “dis-
graceful proceedings,” and at length Sir Bichard Mayne clears the
theatre, and Sir George Grey orders that an election for the Repre-
sentation of Othello shall take place, appointing Mr. Paul Bedford
(by the kind permission of Mr. Webster) 'Returning Officer. The day
of election is fixed for Michaelmas Day, being the Festival of St. Michael
Oranges) and All Goose, and the place of voting is 85, Fleet Street
by the kind permission of Mr. Punch). The play-going public is
commanded to choose between Robson and Kean.
The votes are taken over Mr. Punch's counter, and as the clock of
St. Bridget or Bride strikes ten, the doors are opened by the Boy,
who saves his life by a miracle of Leotardiness, and the foremost
electors, forcibly propelled by the behinder ones, hastily bang their
stomachs against Mr. Punch's mahogany, and are brought up short,
and with red faces.
“ Take your time, my people,” says Mr. Punch, affably lighting his
after-breakfast cigar. “ You have all the day before you. Clerks,
attention! ”
“ I believe you, my boys ! ” remarks the Returning Officer.
“ For whom do you poll,” is duly asked of a stout party who has
described himself as John Smith, of Highbury.
“ Robson ! ” roars Smith, in a determined manner. There is a
popular shout for first blood, and Mr. Punch, jumping on the counter,
declares that he will have none of those indecent manifestations of party
feeling. They are convoked for a solemn duty, and there is a police
station just over the way.
The next voter is Peter Wilcox, of Brompton. Interrogated,
responds,
“ Well, Sir, I think Mr. Robson plays some characters very finely,
and indeed in his own line-”
“ We don’t want your theatrical opinions, but your vote,” thunders
Mr. Punch.
“ Mrs. Wilcox, Sir, who is more of a playgoer than I am-”
“ More shame for you, leaving your poor wife to go to the play by
herself. You are an unworthy character, and shan’t vote. Turn him
into Fleet. Street,” exclaims Mr. Punch.
“ My name is Jeffrey Wobbleton, I live in the Temple, and I vote
for Charles Kean, because 1 knew his father.”
“ The assigning such a reason is proof of idiotcy,” remarks Mr.
Punch, “ and disqualifies the voter.”
Samuel Vertebrate, of Clapham, also tenders his vote for Mr.
Kean, on the ground that he did not know his father.
“ Then you ought to have known his father,” roars Mr. Punch.
“ But, Sir, 1 am only five-and-twenty.”
“More shame for you, and don’t do it again. You may vote.”
Ebenezer Cullchickweed, of Hammersmith.
“ I object to that vote,” says a voice. “ The law says a play-goer.
That party ain’t no play-goer. He objects to theatres, says they are
aunts of vice, and at best a waste of time. He has no right to say
nothing.”
“ Respond, Ebenezer,” says Mr. Punch.
“I admit the facts, and vote for Mr. Kean, because, being less
attractive than Mr. Robson, he will ensnare the fewer, Sir.”
“ Have you been to the theatres to discover this ? ”
“Yes, Sir, but to avoid encouraging their wickedness, I always went
in with an order, and hissed.”
“ Turn him into Fleet Street. Come on, people, are you going to be
all day ? Hullo, a lady.” {Murmurs.) “What does that mutinous
noise mean ? ”
Some Voices. “ Women ought not to vote.”
“But they shall vote,” storms Mr. Punch, in a fearful rage. “It is
a woman’s question. The theatres are kept up by the women. Who’d
go to a theatre when he could smoke at his club in peace, if he hadn’t
to convoy his females ? Come up, M’m, and I’ll disfranchise anybody
who even pushes you. What’s your name ?
“ Matilda Jemima Judkins, Kennington Oval.”
“ I believe you, my girl! ” said the Returning Officer.
“And you vote for --,” asks Mr. Punch.
“ Mr. Robson, of course. Bless you, Sir-”
“ I am sure I am very much obliged to you, M’m.”
“ Oh, he is so funny. I declare that when he played in something, I
forget the name of the piece, but I think it was something about
Mr. Beni on, so it might be the Clockmaker’s Hat; no, it couldn’t be
that, because it was something about obliging Mr. Benson. Well, it
doesn’t matter what the name of the piece was, but I know 1 laughed
till the tears ran down my face.”
“And, therefore, M’m,” said Mr. Punch, smiling, “you think he
ought to play Othello?"
“Well, a clever man’s a clever man all the world over, and a person
who can play one thing can play another.”
“ Can you play cribbage, Mrs. Judkins ? ”
“ Yes, Sir, pretty well. I like it.”
“ Can you play the ophicleide, Mrs. Judkins F ”
“You ought to be ashamed to ask a woman such a question, Sir.
What, that great snorting thing ?—Lor! are you mad ? ”
“ As is cribbage to ophicleide, so is Benson to Othello, M’m; but you
do not argue badly for a lady critic, and as I am aware that you
express the sense of a large portion of your sex, you may vote.
Eh, Paul?”
“ I believe you, my boy ! ” said the Returning Officer.
Various incidents marked the day’s polling, and some trouble was
occasioned by a young gent from an attorney’s office who insisted that
Mr. Bedford ought to play Othello, and who would vote for nobody
else. A splendid testimonial that had been presented to Mr. Kean by
his friends, was paraded before the door in the course of the day, but
was instantly removed by Mr. Punch's orders, as being an intimidating
device. Several actors voted, but under protest that though their can-
didate might be better than the other, neither was fit to hold a candle
to themselves. Two Shaksperian commentators desired to make their
votes conditional on the candidate’s coming to the voter, and being
coached up in the part, of which, in the voter’s opinion, he knew nothing.
Three fast men, who understood that the play was Othello according to
Act of Parliament, refused to poll when they heard that it was only that
awful old blank-verse bosh. An admirer of new readings insisted on
the candidate for whom he voted undertaking that Othello should hang
himself, but was utterly smashed by Mr. Punch's reply that the Moor,
at the time of his suicide, was already suspended from the command of
the Venetian army. The candidates kept pretty near together, and the
struggle waxed very fierce as the hour of closing drew near, when
bribery was said to be freely resorted to, partisans of Mr. Robson
offering tickets to see him in Baddy Hardacre, and friends of Mr. Kean
tendering admissions to his performance of Louis the Eleventh. Even
on these terms, the best either side could offer, no very great difference
in the numbers occurred until 3'30, when Mr. Punch, throwing away
the butt-end of his seventy-fourth cigar, demanded to vote. The crowd
gave way.
“ I poll for Mr. Kean. (Sensation.) Unhesitatingly. His per-
formance is after my own heart, and {modestly) I do not think that I
could play Othello much better than he does.”
From this moment the election was virtually settled, and when St.
Bride’s struck four, and Mr. Punch ordered his now triumphant Boy
to avenge his morning wrongs by kicking the public into the street,
it was known that Mr. Kean was elected to play Othello. I he
declaration of the poll and the addresses of the candidates were, of
course, postponed. .
“ A hard day’s work, Mr. Bedford,” said Mr. Punchy Will you
come up to my room, and have some Hock and Seltzer ? ”
“ I believe you, my boy ! ” said the Returning Officer.
Why shouldn’t we have this sort of thing in England ? Why are the
French to have all the fun P
The Bishop Most Eager for Translation.
No, we don’t mean you, Doctor-. It must be that poor little
foolish converted English Bishop whom his Popish employers have used
as a Bourbon tool, and who is lying in an Italian prison under a heavy
sentence. Couldn’t he be let out, Italia ? You don’t keep cages for
such very helpless little rats as that ? Ratazzi, for the sake 9!’ your
name, let him go. Translate that very little Bishop, and give him
letters dimissory to Rome. Please let him out. We wouldn’t ask it
if lie were other than harmless, but what can be feared from such a
“ convertite P ”
163
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
" ' ~ - 1 - " - - '■ ■ ' — ■ —■ ■ — i
A THEATRICAL ELECTION.
Mr. Punch observes that the paternal Government of France (which
obligingly interferes in everything, from an astronomer’s theories on the
movement of the world to the sou balloons flown by the children in the
Tuileries gardens) has stepped into one of the provincial theatres. There
has been a Tweedledum and Tweedledee battle, touching the comparative
merits of a brace of “ robust tenors,” and the partisans of each have
resorted to that form of criticism which is expressed by hissing every note
of his rival. So awful a crisis demanded the deus ex machind, and he has
appeared. An edict prohibits anybody from hissing at all, and “ the
votes of the theatre-going public” are to be regularly taken at a
bureau, after which the successful candidate will be declared duly
elected, and entitled to sing, with the whole force of the Government
of France for a claque.
Mr. Punch laughed, of course, and then began to speculate upon the
exceeding good fun which might begot out of some similar arrangement
in England.
Suppose that Mr. Charles Kean and Mr. Hobson were engaged at
the same theatre, and it were desired to produce some play a little above
the range of either artist, but still one in which respective admirers
might like to see their favourite. Let us say Othello. To please both
sides, the management has put up the tragedy every night, the two
actors alternately playing the Moor of Yenice. Mr. Hobson’s friends
have commented upon Mr. Kean’s readings with a volley of Barcelona
nuts, and Mr. Kean’s admirers, who are stated to be more of the aristo-
cratic order, have retaliated with the best Seville oranges. The public
is scandalised, the papers daily make mirth or seriousness of the “dis-
graceful proceedings,” and at length Sir Bichard Mayne clears the
theatre, and Sir George Grey orders that an election for the Repre-
sentation of Othello shall take place, appointing Mr. Paul Bedford
(by the kind permission of Mr. Webster) 'Returning Officer. The day
of election is fixed for Michaelmas Day, being the Festival of St. Michael
Oranges) and All Goose, and the place of voting is 85, Fleet Street
by the kind permission of Mr. Punch). The play-going public is
commanded to choose between Robson and Kean.
The votes are taken over Mr. Punch's counter, and as the clock of
St. Bridget or Bride strikes ten, the doors are opened by the Boy,
who saves his life by a miracle of Leotardiness, and the foremost
electors, forcibly propelled by the behinder ones, hastily bang their
stomachs against Mr. Punch's mahogany, and are brought up short,
and with red faces.
“ Take your time, my people,” says Mr. Punch, affably lighting his
after-breakfast cigar. “ You have all the day before you. Clerks,
attention! ”
“ I believe you, my boys ! ” remarks the Returning Officer.
“ For whom do you poll,” is duly asked of a stout party who has
described himself as John Smith, of Highbury.
“ Robson ! ” roars Smith, in a determined manner. There is a
popular shout for first blood, and Mr. Punch, jumping on the counter,
declares that he will have none of those indecent manifestations of party
feeling. They are convoked for a solemn duty, and there is a police
station just over the way.
The next voter is Peter Wilcox, of Brompton. Interrogated,
responds,
“ Well, Sir, I think Mr. Robson plays some characters very finely,
and indeed in his own line-”
“ We don’t want your theatrical opinions, but your vote,” thunders
Mr. Punch.
“ Mrs. Wilcox, Sir, who is more of a playgoer than I am-”
“ More shame for you, leaving your poor wife to go to the play by
herself. You are an unworthy character, and shan’t vote. Turn him
into Fleet. Street,” exclaims Mr. Punch.
“ My name is Jeffrey Wobbleton, I live in the Temple, and I vote
for Charles Kean, because 1 knew his father.”
“ The assigning such a reason is proof of idiotcy,” remarks Mr.
Punch, “ and disqualifies the voter.”
Samuel Vertebrate, of Clapham, also tenders his vote for Mr.
Kean, on the ground that he did not know his father.
“ Then you ought to have known his father,” roars Mr. Punch.
“ But, Sir, 1 am only five-and-twenty.”
“More shame for you, and don’t do it again. You may vote.”
Ebenezer Cullchickweed, of Hammersmith.
“ I object to that vote,” says a voice. “ The law says a play-goer.
That party ain’t no play-goer. He objects to theatres, says they are
aunts of vice, and at best a waste of time. He has no right to say
nothing.”
“ Respond, Ebenezer,” says Mr. Punch.
“I admit the facts, and vote for Mr. Kean, because, being less
attractive than Mr. Robson, he will ensnare the fewer, Sir.”
“ Have you been to the theatres to discover this ? ”
“Yes, Sir, but to avoid encouraging their wickedness, I always went
in with an order, and hissed.”
“ Turn him into Fleet Street. Come on, people, are you going to be
all day ? Hullo, a lady.” {Murmurs.) “What does that mutinous
noise mean ? ”
Some Voices. “ Women ought not to vote.”
“But they shall vote,” storms Mr. Punch, in a fearful rage. “It is
a woman’s question. The theatres are kept up by the women. Who’d
go to a theatre when he could smoke at his club in peace, if he hadn’t
to convoy his females ? Come up, M’m, and I’ll disfranchise anybody
who even pushes you. What’s your name ?
“ Matilda Jemima Judkins, Kennington Oval.”
“ I believe you, my girl! ” said the Returning Officer.
“And you vote for --,” asks Mr. Punch.
“ Mr. Robson, of course. Bless you, Sir-”
“ I am sure I am very much obliged to you, M’m.”
“ Oh, he is so funny. I declare that when he played in something, I
forget the name of the piece, but I think it was something about
Mr. Beni on, so it might be the Clockmaker’s Hat; no, it couldn’t be
that, because it was something about obliging Mr. Benson. Well, it
doesn’t matter what the name of the piece was, but I know 1 laughed
till the tears ran down my face.”
“And, therefore, M’m,” said Mr. Punch, smiling, “you think he
ought to play Othello?"
“Well, a clever man’s a clever man all the world over, and a person
who can play one thing can play another.”
“ Can you play cribbage, Mrs. Judkins ? ”
“ Yes, Sir, pretty well. I like it.”
“ Can you play the ophicleide, Mrs. Judkins F ”
“You ought to be ashamed to ask a woman such a question, Sir.
What, that great snorting thing ?—Lor! are you mad ? ”
“ As is cribbage to ophicleide, so is Benson to Othello, M’m; but you
do not argue badly for a lady critic, and as I am aware that you
express the sense of a large portion of your sex, you may vote.
Eh, Paul?”
“ I believe you, my boy ! ” said the Returning Officer.
Various incidents marked the day’s polling, and some trouble was
occasioned by a young gent from an attorney’s office who insisted that
Mr. Bedford ought to play Othello, and who would vote for nobody
else. A splendid testimonial that had been presented to Mr. Kean by
his friends, was paraded before the door in the course of the day, but
was instantly removed by Mr. Punch's orders, as being an intimidating
device. Several actors voted, but under protest that though their can-
didate might be better than the other, neither was fit to hold a candle
to themselves. Two Shaksperian commentators desired to make their
votes conditional on the candidate’s coming to the voter, and being
coached up in the part, of which, in the voter’s opinion, he knew nothing.
Three fast men, who understood that the play was Othello according to
Act of Parliament, refused to poll when they heard that it was only that
awful old blank-verse bosh. An admirer of new readings insisted on
the candidate for whom he voted undertaking that Othello should hang
himself, but was utterly smashed by Mr. Punch's reply that the Moor,
at the time of his suicide, was already suspended from the command of
the Venetian army. The candidates kept pretty near together, and the
struggle waxed very fierce as the hour of closing drew near, when
bribery was said to be freely resorted to, partisans of Mr. Robson
offering tickets to see him in Baddy Hardacre, and friends of Mr. Kean
tendering admissions to his performance of Louis the Eleventh. Even
on these terms, the best either side could offer, no very great difference
in the numbers occurred until 3'30, when Mr. Punch, throwing away
the butt-end of his seventy-fourth cigar, demanded to vote. The crowd
gave way.
“ I poll for Mr. Kean. (Sensation.) Unhesitatingly. His per-
formance is after my own heart, and {modestly) I do not think that I
could play Othello much better than he does.”
From this moment the election was virtually settled, and when St.
Bride’s struck four, and Mr. Punch ordered his now triumphant Boy
to avenge his morning wrongs by kicking the public into the street,
it was known that Mr. Kean was elected to play Othello. I he
declaration of the poll and the addresses of the candidates were, of
course, postponed. .
“ A hard day’s work, Mr. Bedford,” said Mr. Punchy Will you
come up to my room, and have some Hock and Seltzer ? ”
“ I believe you, my boy ! ” said the Returning Officer.
Why shouldn’t we have this sort of thing in England ? Why are the
French to have all the fun P
The Bishop Most Eager for Translation.
No, we don’t mean you, Doctor-. It must be that poor little
foolish converted English Bishop whom his Popish employers have used
as a Bourbon tool, and who is lying in an Italian prison under a heavy
sentence. Couldn’t he be let out, Italia ? You don’t keep cages for
such very helpless little rats as that ? Ratazzi, for the sake 9!’ your
name, let him go. Translate that very little Bishop, and give him
letters dimissory to Rome. Please let him out. We wouldn’t ask it
if lie were other than harmless, but what can be feared from such a
“ convertite P ”