DOI Heft:
March 20, 1880
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17763#0127
March 20, 1880.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
121
ADOLPHUS ON THE BOAT-RACE.
[The Oxford and Cambridge Boat-Race will be rowed at 7.50 a.m. this year !]
T, tat, tat, tat! Was that a rat, or
somethin’ in the skirtin’ there ?
Or beastly mouse all over house !
A cat I must be settin’ up.
P’ waps was a dweam. There ain’t a
gleam of light comes through the
curtain there.
Aw—m’m, oh yaw!—confounded
haw!—it can’t be time for get-
tin’ up!
Tap, tap, tap! Eh? What’s that
you say ? It’s six o’clock. Well,
what o’ that ?
Six ’clock—aw right! Jus’ so.
Goo’ night! It’s time you were
in bed, I think !
Roostin’ early makes hair curly. Fine
old crusted motto that!
What d’ye say? It’s Boat-Race
Day ? You ain’t quite right
in head, I think !
Bang, hang, bang, bang! Again?
Oh hang! Just when a fellah’s
snoozin’ off!
This is too bad ! No sleep I ’ ve had—eh ? What the doose the matter now ?
Down the River ? Makes one shiver just to think of cruisin’ off
So late at night. You must he tight, or mad as any hatter now!
Drum, drum! Oh lor! You ’ll smash that door! You seem to mean your
knocks for’t, man!
What ? Early purls and jolly girls ? Oh yaas, an’ nice dishevel ed beaux.
Gurr ! You may shout. I won't turn out, for Cambridge or for O,- ford man !
Don’ care a rap ! Goo’ night, ol’ chap ! Come to breakfas’—devilled ho-
[Left snoring.
HINTS EOR A NEW AND ORIGINAL DRAMATIC COLLEGE.
Chapter X.
Heads of Lecture :—Introduction—Point—Points—Supposing—Press—Critics
—Public — Established Favourite — Fatal Erroi— Authors — Flare-up—•
Advice — Trick — Carelessness — Fat — Real Turtle — Edmund Kean —
Important —Runs—English language—Recoration — Expense - B.hind—
Before—Time up—Farewell Announcement.
Professor David James may he expected to address his class thus:—
Gents all—I mean Gentlemen—I come before you as your own partic-
I should say your own Professor, to lecture on certain particular subjects.
It’s just this, you see. I’m free and out-spoken, I am; there ain’t none of
the flowery about me. I mean, Gents—that is, Gentlemen—that what I have
to say will be right straight to the point—regular rumho, and no mistake.
Rumbo,” Gentlemen, is a technical term, implyin’ “correct card,” “all
right,” “no deception, no spring, or false bottom,” “no kid about it,” and
so forth. (“Hear! hear!”) I said, Gents—I mean Gentlemen—that I was
cornin’ straight to the point. “Point” will be my first subject in this
lecture. Most Actors think they ought to study points just like a chap on
a railway line. Don’t make any bloomin’ error, there ain’t a bigger mistake
made by a “ Pro,”—I mean a Professional,—than this very identical one about
“points.” Take this hit of advice, not as from a Professor sort o’ chap, but
from your own particular pal—I mean quite in a friendly way. {Applause.)
Supposin’, Gentlemen, as any one of you was already in the profession, and
Lad made your mark in one part; supposing that thereupon the Press—good
fellows, perhaps, but not to he kootoo’d to on any account—supposing that the
Press has praised you up to the flies—as they will do if they once make up their
minds to it, bless you—supposing that they declare there never teas such a
genius, such an Artist—as you,—and all on account o’ this one performance
o’ this one part—then mind you take the greatest care in future to avoid every
part resembling the one in which you've been so successful. {Applause. The
Lecturer resumes, ivith a confidential wink at the audience.) Don’t you go
having any “ companion picturs” to it done for you. {Shakes his head with
an air of disgust.) It don’t do. I tell ’ee it don’t do. {Cheers.)
When you have got a new part which is in every respect different from the
old ’un, don’t you make the fatal error of gettin’ the Author to write it up
by introducin’ the very “ Jack Simmily,” as the gal said, of the points where
you’ve made your hits in the first piece. {Applause.) You know what I
mean—if you’ve made one great success with a burst of passion, a big speech,
and_ a regular dash out of an exit—flare-up no end, in fact—don’t you insist on
having that same sort o’ business written in for you in every other piece, but
‘■forcibly) you have it cut out if it’s in ; and if you’ve thrilled an audience
■with a bust of sentiment—I don’t mean the upperarf of a statue when I say
bust,” but a genuine gushing-out, broken-voice, staggering, knock-me-down,
utterly heart-broken business—and drawn tears from their eyes, then don’t you
go repeatin’ this in every piece you ever play after-
wards. (Winks confidentially and emphatically.) Just
take it from me, as a pal. {Great applause.) It don’t
want the Wizard of the North to tell you that you can
do the cleverest trick in the world just once too often,
and. that very few tricks bear repeating to the same
audience. And, don’t make any mistake, it is the same
audience that ’ll come to see your second piece, on the
strength of your success in the first. {Applause.)
What does this study of points lead the favourite
Artist to ? Why, to carelessness and idleness-.. No
larks,—1 mean it. . He is spoilt by popularity. When
the popular favourite gets a part, what does he do with
it ? Why, he looks at it to see where his bits of fat are !
{Laughter.) He is at it like a City man with a basin of
turtle-soup, and goes for the green fat. {Laughter.)
The green fat is the spoilt favourite’s points. Between
these points he does nothing, and leaves the character to
take care of itself. {Cheers.) O’ course the Press and the
public still praise him, ’cos they only catch the points,
and probably they come down heavy on the poor devil
of an Author for not havin’ given you enough to do—
though, of course, this wouldn’t be of no manner o’ con-
sequence to an Actor who says to himself, “If I ain’t got
my usual fakements in this piece, I’ll have ’em in the
next, and pick it up that way.”
Now that’s the sort o’ thing I wouldn’t allow, and
wish tq guard you against. That spoiled favourite
Actor ain’t an Artist—not he—he’s not in it; he’s only
a performin’ dog — doosid clever performer, maybe —
who’s learnt a lot ’o tricks, and don’t get his grub till
he’s done ’em. {Great and enthusiastic applause.)
Now, for goodness sake, don’t any of you Gents—I
mean Gentlemen, drop into this error. If you do,
then, bless you, after a time you won’t be in it. You ’ll
be little Jack in the cart—{laughter)—and left there.
The great Edmund Kean—I mean the Actor that we’ve
heard spoken of as the great Edmund Kean—I’ve read
of him that he tried the sentimental trick once too
often. One night the public, who wouldn’t be taken
in any more, hissed him,—actually hissed him,—and
as he came off at the wing he said to a pal—a friend
standing by, “ D-mme, Jack, they’ve found me out
at last! ” That’s a pretty strong order, Gents—eh ?
{Applause.) You won’t hear anywhere better advice
than you’ve had from me this morning, don’t make
any error.
Gentlemen, do your yery, very utmost to put down
long runs. They ’re destructive of Dramatic Art.
(“Hear, hear!'') 1 wouldn’t run a piece more than
thirty nights at most, if I had a theatre of my own,
which I should call the St. David James’s. One down,
t ’other come on, is my motto. A reg’lar merry-go-
round o’ variety. An Actor wants a change of dramatic
diet to keep him fresh, and in good form. {Applause.)
You can’t be too careful in speakin’ on the sfage, which
should be the best school of instruction for students of
the English lingo,—real straight-for’ard Saxon and no
parley-vooing. {Applause.) That ’s me, George!
{Great applause.)
In your professional career, Gentlemen, let your
motto he “ give and take.” Playfair. A true dramatic
artist, bless you, he ’ll be more pleased to assist, by
close study and careful performance, the general excel-
lence, and contribute his little quantum to the harmony
of the evening—I mean, of the entire picture, than he
will be by having his character painted out in glaring
colours, which ’ll catch the eye and be good enough for
the exhibition of his own personal and. peculiar talents,
but which ’ll be quite out of the picture, and be a
regular knock-on-the-head for everybody else engaged
all round; or, to quote the words of a dramatic high art
cove, “It will be utterly destructive of what was
originally a well-considered combination.” {Prolonged
and enthusiastic applause.) Gents all, I’ve come to the
end of the chief subjects of this morning’s Lecture, but,
before retiring gracefully from the. scene, I should just
like to say a word on stage decoration and the front of
the house.
On the stage spare no expense, either for salaries, or
for furniture, or scenes, or properties. Go it, emphatic-
ally go it. Be lavish rather than penurious. Spare the
property, spoil the scene. Nowadays, in a Comedy
theatre, it’s the fashion to do. away with the fiddles in
front. That’s all very well in its way, but that the
fiddlers are invisible shouldn’t be an excuse for your
121
ADOLPHUS ON THE BOAT-RACE.
[The Oxford and Cambridge Boat-Race will be rowed at 7.50 a.m. this year !]
T, tat, tat, tat! Was that a rat, or
somethin’ in the skirtin’ there ?
Or beastly mouse all over house !
A cat I must be settin’ up.
P’ waps was a dweam. There ain’t a
gleam of light comes through the
curtain there.
Aw—m’m, oh yaw!—confounded
haw!—it can’t be time for get-
tin’ up!
Tap, tap, tap! Eh? What’s that
you say ? It’s six o’clock. Well,
what o’ that ?
Six ’clock—aw right! Jus’ so.
Goo’ night! It’s time you were
in bed, I think !
Roostin’ early makes hair curly. Fine
old crusted motto that!
What d’ye say? It’s Boat-Race
Day ? You ain’t quite right
in head, I think !
Bang, hang, bang, bang! Again?
Oh hang! Just when a fellah’s
snoozin’ off!
This is too bad ! No sleep I ’ ve had—eh ? What the doose the matter now ?
Down the River ? Makes one shiver just to think of cruisin’ off
So late at night. You must he tight, or mad as any hatter now!
Drum, drum! Oh lor! You ’ll smash that door! You seem to mean your
knocks for’t, man!
What ? Early purls and jolly girls ? Oh yaas, an’ nice dishevel ed beaux.
Gurr ! You may shout. I won't turn out, for Cambridge or for O,- ford man !
Don’ care a rap ! Goo’ night, ol’ chap ! Come to breakfas’—devilled ho-
[Left snoring.
HINTS EOR A NEW AND ORIGINAL DRAMATIC COLLEGE.
Chapter X.
Heads of Lecture :—Introduction—Point—Points—Supposing—Press—Critics
—Public — Established Favourite — Fatal Erroi— Authors — Flare-up—•
Advice — Trick — Carelessness — Fat — Real Turtle — Edmund Kean —
Important —Runs—English language—Recoration — Expense - B.hind—
Before—Time up—Farewell Announcement.
Professor David James may he expected to address his class thus:—
Gents all—I mean Gentlemen—I come before you as your own partic-
I should say your own Professor, to lecture on certain particular subjects.
It’s just this, you see. I’m free and out-spoken, I am; there ain’t none of
the flowery about me. I mean, Gents—that is, Gentlemen—that what I have
to say will be right straight to the point—regular rumho, and no mistake.
Rumbo,” Gentlemen, is a technical term, implyin’ “correct card,” “all
right,” “no deception, no spring, or false bottom,” “no kid about it,” and
so forth. (“Hear! hear!”) I said, Gents—I mean Gentlemen—that I was
cornin’ straight to the point. “Point” will be my first subject in this
lecture. Most Actors think they ought to study points just like a chap on
a railway line. Don’t make any bloomin’ error, there ain’t a bigger mistake
made by a “ Pro,”—I mean a Professional,—than this very identical one about
“points.” Take this hit of advice, not as from a Professor sort o’ chap, but
from your own particular pal—I mean quite in a friendly way. {Applause.)
Supposin’, Gentlemen, as any one of you was already in the profession, and
Lad made your mark in one part; supposing that thereupon the Press—good
fellows, perhaps, but not to he kootoo’d to on any account—supposing that the
Press has praised you up to the flies—as they will do if they once make up their
minds to it, bless you—supposing that they declare there never teas such a
genius, such an Artist—as you,—and all on account o’ this one performance
o’ this one part—then mind you take the greatest care in future to avoid every
part resembling the one in which you've been so successful. {Applause. The
Lecturer resumes, ivith a confidential wink at the audience.) Don’t you go
having any “ companion picturs” to it done for you. {Shakes his head with
an air of disgust.) It don’t do. I tell ’ee it don’t do. {Cheers.)
When you have got a new part which is in every respect different from the
old ’un, don’t you make the fatal error of gettin’ the Author to write it up
by introducin’ the very “ Jack Simmily,” as the gal said, of the points where
you’ve made your hits in the first piece. {Applause.) You know what I
mean—if you’ve made one great success with a burst of passion, a big speech,
and_ a regular dash out of an exit—flare-up no end, in fact—don’t you insist on
having that same sort o’ business written in for you in every other piece, but
‘■forcibly) you have it cut out if it’s in ; and if you’ve thrilled an audience
■with a bust of sentiment—I don’t mean the upperarf of a statue when I say
bust,” but a genuine gushing-out, broken-voice, staggering, knock-me-down,
utterly heart-broken business—and drawn tears from their eyes, then don’t you
go repeatin’ this in every piece you ever play after-
wards. (Winks confidentially and emphatically.) Just
take it from me, as a pal. {Great applause.) It don’t
want the Wizard of the North to tell you that you can
do the cleverest trick in the world just once too often,
and. that very few tricks bear repeating to the same
audience. And, don’t make any mistake, it is the same
audience that ’ll come to see your second piece, on the
strength of your success in the first. {Applause.)
What does this study of points lead the favourite
Artist to ? Why, to carelessness and idleness-.. No
larks,—1 mean it. . He is spoilt by popularity. When
the popular favourite gets a part, what does he do with
it ? Why, he looks at it to see where his bits of fat are !
{Laughter.) He is at it like a City man with a basin of
turtle-soup, and goes for the green fat. {Laughter.)
The green fat is the spoilt favourite’s points. Between
these points he does nothing, and leaves the character to
take care of itself. {Cheers.) O’ course the Press and the
public still praise him, ’cos they only catch the points,
and probably they come down heavy on the poor devil
of an Author for not havin’ given you enough to do—
though, of course, this wouldn’t be of no manner o’ con-
sequence to an Actor who says to himself, “If I ain’t got
my usual fakements in this piece, I’ll have ’em in the
next, and pick it up that way.”
Now that’s the sort o’ thing I wouldn’t allow, and
wish tq guard you against. That spoiled favourite
Actor ain’t an Artist—not he—he’s not in it; he’s only
a performin’ dog — doosid clever performer, maybe —
who’s learnt a lot ’o tricks, and don’t get his grub till
he’s done ’em. {Great and enthusiastic applause.)
Now, for goodness sake, don’t any of you Gents—I
mean Gentlemen, drop into this error. If you do,
then, bless you, after a time you won’t be in it. You ’ll
be little Jack in the cart—{laughter)—and left there.
The great Edmund Kean—I mean the Actor that we’ve
heard spoken of as the great Edmund Kean—I’ve read
of him that he tried the sentimental trick once too
often. One night the public, who wouldn’t be taken
in any more, hissed him,—actually hissed him,—and
as he came off at the wing he said to a pal—a friend
standing by, “ D-mme, Jack, they’ve found me out
at last! ” That’s a pretty strong order, Gents—eh ?
{Applause.) You won’t hear anywhere better advice
than you’ve had from me this morning, don’t make
any error.
Gentlemen, do your yery, very utmost to put down
long runs. They ’re destructive of Dramatic Art.
(“Hear, hear!'') 1 wouldn’t run a piece more than
thirty nights at most, if I had a theatre of my own,
which I should call the St. David James’s. One down,
t ’other come on, is my motto. A reg’lar merry-go-
round o’ variety. An Actor wants a change of dramatic
diet to keep him fresh, and in good form. {Applause.)
You can’t be too careful in speakin’ on the sfage, which
should be the best school of instruction for students of
the English lingo,—real straight-for’ard Saxon and no
parley-vooing. {Applause.) That ’s me, George!
{Great applause.)
In your professional career, Gentlemen, let your
motto he “ give and take.” Playfair. A true dramatic
artist, bless you, he ’ll be more pleased to assist, by
close study and careful performance, the general excel-
lence, and contribute his little quantum to the harmony
of the evening—I mean, of the entire picture, than he
will be by having his character painted out in glaring
colours, which ’ll catch the eye and be good enough for
the exhibition of his own personal and. peculiar talents,
but which ’ll be quite out of the picture, and be a
regular knock-on-the-head for everybody else engaged
all round; or, to quote the words of a dramatic high art
cove, “It will be utterly destructive of what was
originally a well-considered combination.” {Prolonged
and enthusiastic applause.) Gents all, I’ve come to the
end of the chief subjects of this morning’s Lecture, but,
before retiring gracefully from the. scene, I should just
like to say a word on stage decoration and the front of
the house.
On the stage spare no expense, either for salaries, or
for furniture, or scenes, or properties. Go it, emphatic-
ally go it. Be lavish rather than penurious. Spare the
property, spoil the scene. Nowadays, in a Comedy
theatre, it’s the fashion to do. away with the fiddles in
front. That’s all very well in its way, but that the
fiddlers are invisible shouldn’t be an excuse for your