DOI issue:
March 20, 1880
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17763#0131
Makch 20, 1880.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
125
supplied Miss "Ward with a character, in which it
would he very difficult for her to find a rival who
could hold the audience in two intensely dramatic situa-
tions, which tread so closely on each other’s heels as to
risk an anti-climax.
But how is it that Miss Genevieve Ward hursts upon
us with all the pyrotechnic surprise of a Diz-solution ?
Did she not play at the Adelphi, and at other theatres ?
Did she not even astonish Paris as Lady Teazle in
an adaptation of the School for Scandal, and in Lady
Macbeth, acted half in English, half in French ? And
yet London hails with a semblance of surprise her
singularly powerful performance at the Prince of Wales’s,
in the part of Stephanie, in Messrs. Mertvale and
Groves’s Forget-Me-Not! Is it that these Authors
have given Miss Genevieve Ward exactly what she
can do ? Is it that Stephanie, which this Actress has
been performing for some months past in the country,
after its production in the “off” season at the
Lyceum last year, gives the best measure London has
yet had of Miss Ward’s talents ? The part in which
Miss Ward has thus leapt into public favour was
written for Miss Ada Cavendish, who, for some reason
or other—perhaps the age of the Machiavellian heroine
—refused it; and the Authors have been most fortunate
in falling in with Miss Genevieve Ward, who, should
she never succeed in any other part—though I cannot
imagine anything but success for her in Lady Macbeth.
Constance, or Volumnia—has made her mark in this,
a mark not easily effaced.
There are, however, two decided blots on her perform-
ance—and if they be corrected, the impersonation will
be as nearly faultless as possible. The first blot is this
—and those who have seen the piece will know what I
mean without entering into details of situation—where,
expecting a reply from Sir Horace, who is silent, she
exclaims, ironically, “ Dumb ! ” and then breaking into
an artificial laugh—purposely artificial—makes her exit.
With the monosyllable she “plays to the gallery” for
the first time in the piece; and by over-forcing and pro-
longing an unnatural laugh, she irritates the audience
and robs the exit of its dramatic point. It is an old
stage trick, which should be beneath an artist like Miss
Ward.
The second blot occurs in that situation which, as I
have already said, risks an anti-climax. The situation
is this :—The man who would assassinate her, has given
his promise not to turn round and look at the woman
who is about to cross the room and make her escape by
the door. She is terrified for her life, and has to steal
away from the curtain at the back to the door in front,
scarcely daring to breathe, but her eyes fixed on the
man of whom she goes in mortal dread. That she should
stagger under this strong physical fear, and that her
limbs should tremble as she makes her way, is all
natural enough, and most effective ; but when she reaches
the door, all hesitation should vanish in the sense of
relief, in the return of life and hope, and she should
dart through the door without a moment’s pause.
Instead of which, she delays at the threshold, she hangs
fondly on the panels, as if loth to part with the audience,
at whom she takes a last fond look, as she cries out, in
an audible stage whisper, “Saved!” and so very
gradually disappears—very gradually, for there must
be a couple of yards of satin train left behind her,
which has scarcely dragged its slow length along before
Barratro turns, and Mr. Clayton Das said to Miss
Ve^ney, “ Wife! ”—which had far better be omitted—
and the curtain drops.
This finish of hers is sufficiently dangerous to
jeopardise her triumph. Miss Genevieve Ward’s last
words at the door, addressed to her old flame, Sir Horace,
might well be—“ When she who adores thee has left
but the train.'1'1 And Sir Horace, when the outskirts
have disappeared, could say, by way of tag, “Well, she
who adores me has left for the train, and I hope she ’ll
catch it.” Whereupon, Barratro, the Corsican Paul
Pry, might see a chance for himself, and, exclaiming
“ Catch it! She shall!” might vanish down the steps
at back. Fiat justitia !
By the way, Miss Pattison is invariably being spoken
of as “ the pale-faced Alice,” and being told to her very
healthy face that “ she lacks colour,” when, from first to
last, she is evidently in the most perfect milkmaidish
health quite equal to Mr. John Clayton, who is the very
type of a robustious sturdy Sir John Bull. Miss Path-
son might easily give some colour to these personal remarks with a little touch'
of white.
And so, having finished my review, I can only repeat my recommendation of
both pieces ; adding, for the convenience of intending playgoers, that The Old
Love and the New begins at eight, and Forget-Me-Not commences at twenty
minutes to nine exactly, both hours most suitable to late diners and
Your Representative.
BETSY'S BATTLE BLAST.
hich it’s come, and my'
soul’s up in arms, my
umbreller is furled for-
the fray !
As to “ springing a mine,”
that’s all rubbidge, the-
season’s hit right to a
day.
For what can my Benjy do
wrong ? is he ever mis-
took, bless his curls ?—
Here’s his ’ealth, and con-
fugion to all as would
bother my sweetest of
Earls!
What a letter he’s writ to
the Juke ! Oh, my Ben’s-
compogition ’s that fine
I could flop on my knees at
each sentence, and drop
a tear over each line.
The style of my smartest
young men ain’t a patch
upon his’n, I own,
Eor hepigrams pootily put,
and for mettyfurs gor-
geously blown.
“ Consolidate Co-operation ” ! !! ’Ow lovely, ’ow truly sublime !
My “ safeguarding the Empire” ain’t nowheres, I fear, though I fancied it
prime.
My use of the hadjective “ splendid ” I flatters myself is uneek,
But compared with my Benjamin’s diction, how all other men’s language reads
weak!
Then his sperrit!! “ Ascendency ” !! Ah ! that’s the motter to write on our
flag!
Though the traitors who ’d haul down our bunting may howl about bunkum
and brag.
Oh me ! with what shame I now think of my own unregenerate days.
When L used to pull Benjy to bits, and poke fun at his words and his ways !
I remember one leader I wrote, which I own it were sarcy and scurvy,
On much such a letter as this, which I laughed at and turned topsy-turvy.
I called it a-ringing the changes on rubbige and rhodomontade ;
Which I was but a skittish young thing, and sweet Benjy were then in the-
shade.
But now, he is top of the tree, Betsy Prig is a patriot now !
With ’er ’and on ’er high-swellin’ buzzum, her bonnet, bay-trimmed, on her
brow,
Her gingham “ at charge,” and her eyes glaring wrath on the Russ and the Rad,.
Like a Penthesilea in pattens, she wires into William like mad.
Up ! up ! for the honour of England. “ Integrity ! ” Yes, that’s the cry
(In course ’tis of empire I mean—not of dealing, for that’s all my eye).
No Disintegration !—Fine word! one of Ben’s ! Write it big, write it black,
And pin it, a damaging badge, on each bragian Liberal’s back.
Of course they ’ll complain, and protest, and pretend at the charge for to scoff,
But when Benjy has fastened it on ’em in vain would they wriggle it off.
That’s where he’s so artful, dear boy ! You daub “ traitor ” on anyone’s door,
And though ’tis washed off the next morning, the world will ha’ twigged it afore.
He knows how to tie a tin-kettle or dish clout to any dog’s tail,
To stir all the street up agen him, and set half the town on his trail;
He knows how to make his mud stick, and his dirt and his darts for to lodge;
And talking about “ light and leading ” to fog fools with darkness and dodge.
“ Let in William the Woodman,” says he, “ and the dread dual bogey ’ll come,
One face means effacement abroad, and the other defacement at ’ome.”
St. Ben for Old England ! ’Tis he as the two-headed dragon will slay ;
So ye patriots rush to the poll, and plump boldly for Dizzy ! Hooray ! !\
Definition by a Serious M.P. (not Mr. Gladston],—Dissolution: “A
Return to your Original Constituents.”
125
supplied Miss "Ward with a character, in which it
would he very difficult for her to find a rival who
could hold the audience in two intensely dramatic situa-
tions, which tread so closely on each other’s heels as to
risk an anti-climax.
But how is it that Miss Genevieve Ward hursts upon
us with all the pyrotechnic surprise of a Diz-solution ?
Did she not play at the Adelphi, and at other theatres ?
Did she not even astonish Paris as Lady Teazle in
an adaptation of the School for Scandal, and in Lady
Macbeth, acted half in English, half in French ? And
yet London hails with a semblance of surprise her
singularly powerful performance at the Prince of Wales’s,
in the part of Stephanie, in Messrs. Mertvale and
Groves’s Forget-Me-Not! Is it that these Authors
have given Miss Genevieve Ward exactly what she
can do ? Is it that Stephanie, which this Actress has
been performing for some months past in the country,
after its production in the “off” season at the
Lyceum last year, gives the best measure London has
yet had of Miss Ward’s talents ? The part in which
Miss Ward has thus leapt into public favour was
written for Miss Ada Cavendish, who, for some reason
or other—perhaps the age of the Machiavellian heroine
—refused it; and the Authors have been most fortunate
in falling in with Miss Genevieve Ward, who, should
she never succeed in any other part—though I cannot
imagine anything but success for her in Lady Macbeth.
Constance, or Volumnia—has made her mark in this,
a mark not easily effaced.
There are, however, two decided blots on her perform-
ance—and if they be corrected, the impersonation will
be as nearly faultless as possible. The first blot is this
—and those who have seen the piece will know what I
mean without entering into details of situation—where,
expecting a reply from Sir Horace, who is silent, she
exclaims, ironically, “ Dumb ! ” and then breaking into
an artificial laugh—purposely artificial—makes her exit.
With the monosyllable she “plays to the gallery” for
the first time in the piece; and by over-forcing and pro-
longing an unnatural laugh, she irritates the audience
and robs the exit of its dramatic point. It is an old
stage trick, which should be beneath an artist like Miss
Ward.
The second blot occurs in that situation which, as I
have already said, risks an anti-climax. The situation
is this :—The man who would assassinate her, has given
his promise not to turn round and look at the woman
who is about to cross the room and make her escape by
the door. She is terrified for her life, and has to steal
away from the curtain at the back to the door in front,
scarcely daring to breathe, but her eyes fixed on the
man of whom she goes in mortal dread. That she should
stagger under this strong physical fear, and that her
limbs should tremble as she makes her way, is all
natural enough, and most effective ; but when she reaches
the door, all hesitation should vanish in the sense of
relief, in the return of life and hope, and she should
dart through the door without a moment’s pause.
Instead of which, she delays at the threshold, she hangs
fondly on the panels, as if loth to part with the audience,
at whom she takes a last fond look, as she cries out, in
an audible stage whisper, “Saved!” and so very
gradually disappears—very gradually, for there must
be a couple of yards of satin train left behind her,
which has scarcely dragged its slow length along before
Barratro turns, and Mr. Clayton Das said to Miss
Ve^ney, “ Wife! ”—which had far better be omitted—
and the curtain drops.
This finish of hers is sufficiently dangerous to
jeopardise her triumph. Miss Genevieve Ward’s last
words at the door, addressed to her old flame, Sir Horace,
might well be—“ When she who adores thee has left
but the train.'1'1 And Sir Horace, when the outskirts
have disappeared, could say, by way of tag, “Well, she
who adores me has left for the train, and I hope she ’ll
catch it.” Whereupon, Barratro, the Corsican Paul
Pry, might see a chance for himself, and, exclaiming
“ Catch it! She shall!” might vanish down the steps
at back. Fiat justitia !
By the way, Miss Pattison is invariably being spoken
of as “ the pale-faced Alice,” and being told to her very
healthy face that “ she lacks colour,” when, from first to
last, she is evidently in the most perfect milkmaidish
health quite equal to Mr. John Clayton, who is the very
type of a robustious sturdy Sir John Bull. Miss Path-
son might easily give some colour to these personal remarks with a little touch'
of white.
And so, having finished my review, I can only repeat my recommendation of
both pieces ; adding, for the convenience of intending playgoers, that The Old
Love and the New begins at eight, and Forget-Me-Not commences at twenty
minutes to nine exactly, both hours most suitable to late diners and
Your Representative.
BETSY'S BATTLE BLAST.
hich it’s come, and my'
soul’s up in arms, my
umbreller is furled for-
the fray !
As to “ springing a mine,”
that’s all rubbidge, the-
season’s hit right to a
day.
For what can my Benjy do
wrong ? is he ever mis-
took, bless his curls ?—
Here’s his ’ealth, and con-
fugion to all as would
bother my sweetest of
Earls!
What a letter he’s writ to
the Juke ! Oh, my Ben’s-
compogition ’s that fine
I could flop on my knees at
each sentence, and drop
a tear over each line.
The style of my smartest
young men ain’t a patch
upon his’n, I own,
Eor hepigrams pootily put,
and for mettyfurs gor-
geously blown.
“ Consolidate Co-operation ” ! !! ’Ow lovely, ’ow truly sublime !
My “ safeguarding the Empire” ain’t nowheres, I fear, though I fancied it
prime.
My use of the hadjective “ splendid ” I flatters myself is uneek,
But compared with my Benjamin’s diction, how all other men’s language reads
weak!
Then his sperrit!! “ Ascendency ” !! Ah ! that’s the motter to write on our
flag!
Though the traitors who ’d haul down our bunting may howl about bunkum
and brag.
Oh me ! with what shame I now think of my own unregenerate days.
When L used to pull Benjy to bits, and poke fun at his words and his ways !
I remember one leader I wrote, which I own it were sarcy and scurvy,
On much such a letter as this, which I laughed at and turned topsy-turvy.
I called it a-ringing the changes on rubbige and rhodomontade ;
Which I was but a skittish young thing, and sweet Benjy were then in the-
shade.
But now, he is top of the tree, Betsy Prig is a patriot now !
With ’er ’and on ’er high-swellin’ buzzum, her bonnet, bay-trimmed, on her
brow,
Her gingham “ at charge,” and her eyes glaring wrath on the Russ and the Rad,.
Like a Penthesilea in pattens, she wires into William like mad.
Up ! up ! for the honour of England. “ Integrity ! ” Yes, that’s the cry
(In course ’tis of empire I mean—not of dealing, for that’s all my eye).
No Disintegration !—Fine word! one of Ben’s ! Write it big, write it black,
And pin it, a damaging badge, on each bragian Liberal’s back.
Of course they ’ll complain, and protest, and pretend at the charge for to scoff,
But when Benjy has fastened it on ’em in vain would they wriggle it off.
That’s where he’s so artful, dear boy ! You daub “ traitor ” on anyone’s door,
And though ’tis washed off the next morning, the world will ha’ twigged it afore.
He knows how to tie a tin-kettle or dish clout to any dog’s tail,
To stir all the street up agen him, and set half the town on his trail;
He knows how to make his mud stick, and his dirt and his darts for to lodge;
And talking about “ light and leading ” to fog fools with darkness and dodge.
“ Let in William the Woodman,” says he, “ and the dread dual bogey ’ll come,
One face means effacement abroad, and the other defacement at ’ome.”
St. Ben for Old England ! ’Tis he as the two-headed dragon will slay ;
So ye patriots rush to the poll, and plump boldly for Dizzy ! Hooray ! !\
Definition by a Serious M.P. (not Mr. Gladston],—Dissolution: “A
Return to your Original Constituents.”