DOI issue:
October 5, 1878
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17733#0152
148
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[October 5, 1878.
OUR REPRESENTATIVE MAN.
He stoops to " Folk/" and rises to the Olympic—A few words on the
approach of Winter, and on some Good Old Times that might
he revived with Advantage to Everybody.
SlR,
When-a theatre styles itself The Varieties, or the Vaude-
ville, or the Opera Comique, it ought to act up to its pretensious.
The Alahambra's full title is, I believe, The Alhambra Theatre of
Varieties, and variety is its charm. There is nothing of the Vaude-
ville at present about the theatre managed by Messrs. James and
Thorne, but the Opera Comique sticks strictly to its line of business.
The little Charing Cross Theatre, originally intended for such enter-
tainments as those given by Mr. Wooden, Mr. Maccabe, Lieutenant
Cole, or half a dozen Ethiopian Serenaders, was christened some
three years or so ago "The Tolly."
Folly was to be, there, the order of the night. At the Folly,
Blue Beard, with Miss Ltdia Thompson and Messrs. Bboegh and
Edoetn, ran some hundred nights. The music was very catching,
the Heathen Chinee was a novelty, and Mr. Bboegh's " That's the
sort of Man I am " made a hit.
Robinson Crusoe was a dismal failure on the first night; but, after
excision and revision, it had a very long run. It was Folly to have
produced such a piece as Robinson, it was Folly to stick to it, but
Folly won in the end—won, in fact, in the long run.
True to its title, nothing could be greater folly than to produce
two such pieces as La Veuve and L'Etoile, the one under the name
of The Idol, the other as Stars and Garters.
The subject of The Idol, unless treated, either from an utterly
extravagant, or a most painfully serious point of view, is unpleasant.
A widow idolises her departed husband, has his bust stuck up in
her drawing-room, addresses it as though it were her husband still
living, is gradually disillusioned by his real character being brought
to light, after which the bust is smashed, mended, laughed at, and
placed in somebody else's room.
That there is humour of a certain sort in this notion has been
shown us by Lord Lytton's Graves, in Money, who, after per-
petually invokmg_his "Sainted Mabta," and dwelling upon the
impossibility of his ever finding anyone to fill her place, proposes to
merry Lady Franklin. But that was only episodical, and very
lightly, very farcically, touched.
In The Idol, the worship of the dear defunct is the very essence of
the play, and a nasty essence too. The piece, treated eccentrically,
might have been vulgarly called Bust Up !
Miss Eastlake looks well, dresses well, and plays fairly as Cupid
Erie, and Miss Edith Blande and Miss Rose Cellen are bright
and lively as Mrs. Jekyll and Bessy Jekyll.
Mr. J. C. Graham^s an honest, hearty, impassioned Captain, in
love with the Widow, but his attentions, at first sight, do not appear
exactly honourable. Mr. Lionel Broegh's is a stupid part. Mr.
Alered Bishop extorted from me the one single laugh I indulged in
throughout the performance. His make-up is capital, and his
attempt, in the last Act, to address the people who won't listen to
him, is immensely funny.
The best bit of acting is Mr. Pahlton's Jeweller. The scene is
too long, and, in less clever hands, would be wearisome, but Mr.
Paelton has carefully thought it out point by point, and from first
to last it is a very good performance. Mr. Paelton, like Mr. Hake,
takes pains to show us what can be done with a small character-
part in a good situation, and his Mr. Chisel (a very bad name for
such an honest and delicate-minded tradesman) is unquestionably
the pearl of price in this very bad oyster.
As for Stars and Garters, except a trio, " Going bach to Dixie,"
sung by Mr. Alfred Bishop, Miss Rose Cellen, and Miss Annie
Poole, and some verses and choruses divided between Messrs. Broeg-h,
Paelton, and a bevy of girls, there is hardly anything to suggest
the probability of a long run; yet I cannot forget how Robinson
Crusoe was denounced as irredeemably bad, how it was knocked
over, how it picked itself up, and had a really long run of prosperity.
But the Folly is the Folly, be it never so Foolish.
Miss Edith Blande looks magnificent, Miss Ltdia Thompson is
as sprightly as ever, and the Pages and Maids of Honour are as
smiling and smirking as Lord Ogle, the oldest habitue in the Stalls,
could wish ; but there is a lack of fun, a lack of " go," which in any
other theatre would be fatal to success. The Manager can spell
"Folly," but "Failure" is not in his dictionary. Yet, as the French
Lady remarked on the absence of ennui from the English language,
" What need of the ivord when they have the thing itself f "
King Jingo affords no opportunities for Mr. Bboegh's genuine
burlesque humour; but I should say the part itself is very different
from, its original, Oaf Premier, as played by little, fat, fussy Dah-
bray at the Bouffes last year. But in Paris L'Etoile owed its non-
success rather to the composer, M. Chabbier, than to the librettists,
MM. Letebbieb and Vanloo. Odd name, Vanloo ! It looks like a
muddled game of cards, something between Van John and Loo. So
much, and enough too, for The Folly; and now for a visit to the
Olympic Orphanage.
Les Deux Orphelines, by Messrs. D'Ennery and CoRMON,'at the
Olympic. What a clever play! in what masterly style is the plot
put together ! Yet how needless are the frequent repetitions of the
story told over and over again to the different personages who are
required as links in the chain. "With a little extra care the English
adaptation might have had the advantage over the French original
in telling the story with equal lucidity and at less length.
Mr. Neville, who has recently been the Pierre the Convict in
Proof at the Adelphi, is now Pierre, the _ Cripple, in The Two
Orphans at the Olympic. His performance is admirable. When I
think of the two different figures, Pierre Lorance, the tall, manly,
honest soldier, in Proof, and Pierre, the Cripple, the poor, helpless
weakling in The Two Orphans, I can scarcely bring myself to
believe they are played by one and the same person. Yet, there he
is,—the "needy knife-grinder," at the Olympic, whom " a sense of
wrongs does rouse to vengeance," who turns like the bruised worm,
and, in his final struggle with his big bully of a brother, announces
that it is the case of the sons of Adam reversed, that it is Abel who
is going to kill Cain, and now he is Abel—-to do it! What a scene
that last! What a stab ! Go it, you Cripple! What breathless
interest and what delight when the Big Brother Bill—I beg his par-
don, William—Rignold, gives his final kick, and expires. But
'tis a melancholy play, sad from beginning to end ; no sun-light, no
gleam of relief, not even from the Valet, Picard, whose hard humour
is only aggravating. Nothing can be more pathetic than Miss
Marlon Terry's Blind Girl, nothing more earnest than Miss Ern-
stone's Henriette, nothing more revolting than Mrs. Hentlet's La
Forcharde, nothing more disgustingly repulsive than Mr. William
Rignold's Jacques.
But it is too long, not being over till past twelve. The first part
could be considerably curtailed; a whole handful could come out of
Tableau IV., one Scene could be entirely eliminated, and at least
three repetitions of the story could be taken for granted. Again,
after the grand climax in the garret, the last Act is not required by
the audience, who would be quite content to take Mr. Neville's
word for everything ending happily, if he would only step out, and
pleading the lateness of the hour and the earliness of the closing
movement (it is a thirsty piece), assure them that everything would
be settled satisfactorily behind the curtain. This may be a hint
worth taking. " Our Girls" wouldn't have been an inappropriate
title for Les Deux Orphelines.
The Winter's Tale at Drury^ Lane reminds us that Christmas is
coming. More on this head, I mean on this Winter's Tale, in my
next.
I hear that the Methodistical Melodrama, Uncle Tom's Cabin, is
drawing unprecedentedly big Pits at the Princess's. I don't care for
this Moody-and-Sankey-panky on the stage, and very little for it
off, and I would rather hear of another Pink Dominos being licensed,
than Niggers, in a theatrical performance, being permitted to sing
such a verse as this,—I quote from memory, but the lines are very
nearly these:—
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[October 5, 1878.
OUR REPRESENTATIVE MAN.
He stoops to " Folk/" and rises to the Olympic—A few words on the
approach of Winter, and on some Good Old Times that might
he revived with Advantage to Everybody.
SlR,
When-a theatre styles itself The Varieties, or the Vaude-
ville, or the Opera Comique, it ought to act up to its pretensious.
The Alahambra's full title is, I believe, The Alhambra Theatre of
Varieties, and variety is its charm. There is nothing of the Vaude-
ville at present about the theatre managed by Messrs. James and
Thorne, but the Opera Comique sticks strictly to its line of business.
The little Charing Cross Theatre, originally intended for such enter-
tainments as those given by Mr. Wooden, Mr. Maccabe, Lieutenant
Cole, or half a dozen Ethiopian Serenaders, was christened some
three years or so ago "The Tolly."
Folly was to be, there, the order of the night. At the Folly,
Blue Beard, with Miss Ltdia Thompson and Messrs. Bboegh and
Edoetn, ran some hundred nights. The music was very catching,
the Heathen Chinee was a novelty, and Mr. Bboegh's " That's the
sort of Man I am " made a hit.
Robinson Crusoe was a dismal failure on the first night; but, after
excision and revision, it had a very long run. It was Folly to have
produced such a piece as Robinson, it was Folly to stick to it, but
Folly won in the end—won, in fact, in the long run.
True to its title, nothing could be greater folly than to produce
two such pieces as La Veuve and L'Etoile, the one under the name
of The Idol, the other as Stars and Garters.
The subject of The Idol, unless treated, either from an utterly
extravagant, or a most painfully serious point of view, is unpleasant.
A widow idolises her departed husband, has his bust stuck up in
her drawing-room, addresses it as though it were her husband still
living, is gradually disillusioned by his real character being brought
to light, after which the bust is smashed, mended, laughed at, and
placed in somebody else's room.
That there is humour of a certain sort in this notion has been
shown us by Lord Lytton's Graves, in Money, who, after per-
petually invokmg_his "Sainted Mabta," and dwelling upon the
impossibility of his ever finding anyone to fill her place, proposes to
merry Lady Franklin. But that was only episodical, and very
lightly, very farcically, touched.
In The Idol, the worship of the dear defunct is the very essence of
the play, and a nasty essence too. The piece, treated eccentrically,
might have been vulgarly called Bust Up !
Miss Eastlake looks well, dresses well, and plays fairly as Cupid
Erie, and Miss Edith Blande and Miss Rose Cellen are bright
and lively as Mrs. Jekyll and Bessy Jekyll.
Mr. J. C. Graham^s an honest, hearty, impassioned Captain, in
love with the Widow, but his attentions, at first sight, do not appear
exactly honourable. Mr. Lionel Broegh's is a stupid part. Mr.
Alered Bishop extorted from me the one single laugh I indulged in
throughout the performance. His make-up is capital, and his
attempt, in the last Act, to address the people who won't listen to
him, is immensely funny.
The best bit of acting is Mr. Pahlton's Jeweller. The scene is
too long, and, in less clever hands, would be wearisome, but Mr.
Paelton has carefully thought it out point by point, and from first
to last it is a very good performance. Mr. Paelton, like Mr. Hake,
takes pains to show us what can be done with a small character-
part in a good situation, and his Mr. Chisel (a very bad name for
such an honest and delicate-minded tradesman) is unquestionably
the pearl of price in this very bad oyster.
As for Stars and Garters, except a trio, " Going bach to Dixie,"
sung by Mr. Alfred Bishop, Miss Rose Cellen, and Miss Annie
Poole, and some verses and choruses divided between Messrs. Broeg-h,
Paelton, and a bevy of girls, there is hardly anything to suggest
the probability of a long run; yet I cannot forget how Robinson
Crusoe was denounced as irredeemably bad, how it was knocked
over, how it picked itself up, and had a really long run of prosperity.
But the Folly is the Folly, be it never so Foolish.
Miss Edith Blande looks magnificent, Miss Ltdia Thompson is
as sprightly as ever, and the Pages and Maids of Honour are as
smiling and smirking as Lord Ogle, the oldest habitue in the Stalls,
could wish ; but there is a lack of fun, a lack of " go," which in any
other theatre would be fatal to success. The Manager can spell
"Folly," but "Failure" is not in his dictionary. Yet, as the French
Lady remarked on the absence of ennui from the English language,
" What need of the ivord when they have the thing itself f "
King Jingo affords no opportunities for Mr. Bboegh's genuine
burlesque humour; but I should say the part itself is very different
from, its original, Oaf Premier, as played by little, fat, fussy Dah-
bray at the Bouffes last year. But in Paris L'Etoile owed its non-
success rather to the composer, M. Chabbier, than to the librettists,
MM. Letebbieb and Vanloo. Odd name, Vanloo ! It looks like a
muddled game of cards, something between Van John and Loo. So
much, and enough too, for The Folly; and now for a visit to the
Olympic Orphanage.
Les Deux Orphelines, by Messrs. D'Ennery and CoRMON,'at the
Olympic. What a clever play! in what masterly style is the plot
put together ! Yet how needless are the frequent repetitions of the
story told over and over again to the different personages who are
required as links in the chain. "With a little extra care the English
adaptation might have had the advantage over the French original
in telling the story with equal lucidity and at less length.
Mr. Neville, who has recently been the Pierre the Convict in
Proof at the Adelphi, is now Pierre, the _ Cripple, in The Two
Orphans at the Olympic. His performance is admirable. When I
think of the two different figures, Pierre Lorance, the tall, manly,
honest soldier, in Proof, and Pierre, the Cripple, the poor, helpless
weakling in The Two Orphans, I can scarcely bring myself to
believe they are played by one and the same person. Yet, there he
is,—the "needy knife-grinder," at the Olympic, whom " a sense of
wrongs does rouse to vengeance," who turns like the bruised worm,
and, in his final struggle with his big bully of a brother, announces
that it is the case of the sons of Adam reversed, that it is Abel who
is going to kill Cain, and now he is Abel—-to do it! What a scene
that last! What a stab ! Go it, you Cripple! What breathless
interest and what delight when the Big Brother Bill—I beg his par-
don, William—Rignold, gives his final kick, and expires. But
'tis a melancholy play, sad from beginning to end ; no sun-light, no
gleam of relief, not even from the Valet, Picard, whose hard humour
is only aggravating. Nothing can be more pathetic than Miss
Marlon Terry's Blind Girl, nothing more earnest than Miss Ern-
stone's Henriette, nothing more revolting than Mrs. Hentlet's La
Forcharde, nothing more disgustingly repulsive than Mr. William
Rignold's Jacques.
But it is too long, not being over till past twelve. The first part
could be considerably curtailed; a whole handful could come out of
Tableau IV., one Scene could be entirely eliminated, and at least
three repetitions of the story could be taken for granted. Again,
after the grand climax in the garret, the last Act is not required by
the audience, who would be quite content to take Mr. Neville's
word for everything ending happily, if he would only step out, and
pleading the lateness of the hour and the earliness of the closing
movement (it is a thirsty piece), assure them that everything would
be settled satisfactorily behind the curtain. This may be a hint
worth taking. " Our Girls" wouldn't have been an inappropriate
title for Les Deux Orphelines.
The Winter's Tale at Drury^ Lane reminds us that Christmas is
coming. More on this head, I mean on this Winter's Tale, in my
next.
I hear that the Methodistical Melodrama, Uncle Tom's Cabin, is
drawing unprecedentedly big Pits at the Princess's. I don't care for
this Moody-and-Sankey-panky on the stage, and very little for it
off, and I would rather hear of another Pink Dominos being licensed,
than Niggers, in a theatrical performance, being permitted to sing
such a verse as this,—I quote from memory, but the lines are very
nearly these:—