DOI issue:
June 14, 1884
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17756#0286
June 14, 1884.] PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
281
The pantomime business in this scene reflects the greatest credit on
all concerned. Mr. Anson is admirable, and the way in which he
won’t tell anything, and has spasms and something to drink, and
then more spasms, and then more something-to-drink, and so contrives
to eke out the Act, until he dies with the secret of the fifth Act still
about him, is highly praiseworthy.
But you ask me what is the interest of the piece ? Well, there
it is ; that’s just it. After the First Act, hardly any. A blind man
recovers his sight, a girl goes crazy only to get all right again, and
Mr. Bellew travels from Hampstead to Siberia, via Soho, to learn
something from Dr. Ceneri, whom he has no more reason to believe
than he has Macari or Petroff, or any of the lot; and as he was far
more likely to have trusted Miss Pauline March, he had better have
waited for her recovery,—for he couldn’t marry her as long as she
was a lunatic, unless he had lost his own senses just to keep her
company,—or made use of the supernatural thought-reading which
is useful in its place in the book, but is absolutely valueless except
for exhibiting a sort of tableau vivant of the talented Anson Ceneri
troupe, in their clever drawing-room entertainment, entitled Mad as
a March Hare—all in one Scene, with no one except Pauline and
Macari as audience to guess it!
Have you seen Mr. Kyrle Bellew lately ? Ho F Well, then you
would be delighted with him. So would partner Hake. I)o you
remember Charles Kean ?
Just.
Good: then I never
saw anybody more like
Charles Kean as Louis dei
Franchi than Mr. Kykle
Bellew in evening dress, in
the Second Act of Called
Bach, that is, as long as he is
standing still; but the instant
he moves, he is Henry Irving
compressed. Yet—what can
you want more F two single
Tragedians rolled into one,
i.e., the late Charles Kean
and. the present Henry
Irving all in one pocket-
companion Artist! Then his
impersonation of blindness!
my ! that will thrill you ! If
it be true that ‘ ‘ none are so
blind as those who won't
see,” you can just imagine
how hopelessly stark staringly
blind is Mr. Kyrle Bellew.
I think your Mr. Henley
could do all the Irving busi-
ness just as well, but not the
Charles Kean department.
Mr. Beerbohh-Tree’s is
a remarkable performance as
the Italian Squirmer, Paolo
Macari. He is an instance
of bow one may “ smile and
smile, and be a villain,”—only he couldn’t be a villain unless
he did smile and smile. He gets on in life, and is an example of
“Self-Help by Smiles”; and he is more and more squirmingly
| villainous every time I see him. Authors, when you ’re writing a
i part for this gentleman, “spare that Tree,” and don’t give him
another foreign villain to play. But that Dr. Anson Ceneri and
the other conspirators are the simplest creatures possible, Beer-
bohm Macari would have had no sort of chance of being trusted as a
brother-conspirator, though he might have very easily got an engage-
ment as one of the Girard Troupe, and have gone round the country
in his celebrated “ Corkscrew Contortionist Act” most successfully.
Au revoir ! Strike while the Ironmonger’s hot, but hear,—from
Nibbs.
The Italian Squirmer Beerbohm-Girard -
Macari-Tree about to meet his fate at
the hands of Little Peter Petroff.
BOOTIFUL OR BOOTHIFUL ?
The following extraordinary Advertisement appeared in the columns
of the Daily News :—
BOOTSHOP. ■— WANTED, a YOUNG LADY for the above for
Hastings. A thorough Christian. Salvation Army preferred. Wages
about 25s.—Apply by letter, Temptation Warehouse,-.
We are by no means certain that a Salvationist Young Lady would
be an acquisition to the trying-on room of a boot-shop. She might
be seized with a desire to play the concertina or thump the tam-
bourine, or exhort her customers when she had either taken off their
own shoes so that they could not leave, or put them into a pair of
tight boots so that they were unahle to move. And what, pray, is a
“ Temptation Warehouse ” P Eh ?
A CHAT WITH THE KING OE THE MAORIES;
OR, HOW THEY INTERVIEW NOWABAYS.
Immediately on hearing that Talkawayo, the Maori King, wat
coming to this country, we sent off—as we usually do—a Member of
our Staff to have a quiet conversation with him. The result of the
interview, as far as we can gather from incoherent sentences dropped
by our Correspondent, is as follows; but as he is at present in the
Plymouth Hospital, and is only at intervals conscious, it is difficult to
extract a connected narrative out of him. If he ever gets well again,
he intends to prosecute King Talxawayo for trying to eat him.'
Appearance oe the King.
Talkaivayo is a singularly athletic monarch. His agility in jump-
ing on a prostrate adversary and his development of biceps are, 1
should imagine from recent experience, quite extraordinary. WheD
I entered his cabin the New Zealand King was lying on a sofa, and 1
had the opportunity of observing the singularly mild and benevolent
aspect of his countenance. When much excited, the tattoo-marks all
over his face become absolutely livid. The sole remnant of barbaric
display that I noticed about him was an overcoat made of dried
scalps stitched together, and fastened on the breast by a couple of
bones, which the King sometimes detaches when he desires to prac-
tise a new tune on his favourite musical instruments. He carries a
rather thick club ornamented with sharks’ teeth, which at an early
moment of our interview I managed to hide in a convenient corner
under pretence of admiring it, and I attribute my subsequent escape
from sudden death entirely to this innocent stratagem.
What he has come to England for.
“ What is your object in visiting our shores ? ” I asked him, in my
choicest New Zealand, patois.
The Native Interpreter here interposed somewhat nervously, and
told me I had better not pursue that line of interrogation. He had
known Talkawayo skin people alive for calling him an “ object.” I
hastened to assure the Interpreter that he had misunderstood me,
and continued pleasantly—
“Do you expect to have a satisfactory interview with the
Authorities at the Colonial Office ?”
I was gratified to find that the King understood this question, as
he smacked his lips, and said something about “ liking them boiled
best.”
“ Ha, ha! A good joke! ” I replied, thinking it as well to humour
him; “but you mustn’t let people mistake you for the King of the
Cannibal Islands, you know,” I added, thinking that a harmless jest
might tickle his Royal fancy.
The next moment I regretted my imprudence ! Seizing me by the
hair of my head-But the Editor requests me to draw a veil over
the ensuing scene, so I will merely remark that I am convinced
Talkawayo would have lunched on me raw if I had not been rescued
by the combined efforts of the Steward, the Bo’sun’s Mate, and the
Cabin-Boy.
Talkawayo’s Retinue.
After having brandy and other restoratives administered to me in
the State Cabin, I managed to crawl on deck. There I found the
Chiefs who had accompanied the King to England. Their names, as
pronounced to me by the Cabin-Boy, are Topia Copia, Hurri Upa-
cupa, Pattera Teacaki, and Hi Tallyhoawoa, all of them, so I
was assured, being household words in New Zealand.
“ How do you like England as far as you’ve got F ” I asked of one
of these noble savages.
His reply, couched in the vigorous vernacular, is difficult to repro-
duce in English, but is practically equivalent to “Find out!” I
may mention that I experienced at once a friendly feeling towards
Pattera Teacaki, as he had been the Editor of the New Zealand
newspaper, Hookeyoi. He told me, however, that he had given up
journalistic pursuits since his type had been smashed and most of
his compositors scalped by the Editor of a rival paper called the
Walkeroi.
How the Interview Ended.
I could not, as you will see, gather from this remarkably.taciturn
band their object in visiting England, but the Cabin-Boy informed
me that it was connected with an error in the number of kegs of
whiskey which had been given the monarch fifteen years ago bv the
“ New Zealand Nigger Expropriation Company ” for the whole of his
territory in fee simple.
Since that time Talkawayo and suite have all taken the Blue
Ribbon. Intending to make myself pleasant to poor old Teacaki, I
asked him in a jocular manner, “ whose Blue llibbon it was that he
took.” It must have been my pronunciation of the Maori language
which irritated him ; for before I knew where I was, I found myself,
by an incredibly adroit movement of Teacaki’s foot, hoisted over
the side of the vessel. Since then I have felt, both morally and
physically unable to gather any more information about the Maori
King and his companions.
281
The pantomime business in this scene reflects the greatest credit on
all concerned. Mr. Anson is admirable, and the way in which he
won’t tell anything, and has spasms and something to drink, and
then more spasms, and then more something-to-drink, and so contrives
to eke out the Act, until he dies with the secret of the fifth Act still
about him, is highly praiseworthy.
But you ask me what is the interest of the piece ? Well, there
it is ; that’s just it. After the First Act, hardly any. A blind man
recovers his sight, a girl goes crazy only to get all right again, and
Mr. Bellew travels from Hampstead to Siberia, via Soho, to learn
something from Dr. Ceneri, whom he has no more reason to believe
than he has Macari or Petroff, or any of the lot; and as he was far
more likely to have trusted Miss Pauline March, he had better have
waited for her recovery,—for he couldn’t marry her as long as she
was a lunatic, unless he had lost his own senses just to keep her
company,—or made use of the supernatural thought-reading which
is useful in its place in the book, but is absolutely valueless except
for exhibiting a sort of tableau vivant of the talented Anson Ceneri
troupe, in their clever drawing-room entertainment, entitled Mad as
a March Hare—all in one Scene, with no one except Pauline and
Macari as audience to guess it!
Have you seen Mr. Kyrle Bellew lately ? Ho F Well, then you
would be delighted with him. So would partner Hake. I)o you
remember Charles Kean ?
Just.
Good: then I never
saw anybody more like
Charles Kean as Louis dei
Franchi than Mr. Kykle
Bellew in evening dress, in
the Second Act of Called
Bach, that is, as long as he is
standing still; but the instant
he moves, he is Henry Irving
compressed. Yet—what can
you want more F two single
Tragedians rolled into one,
i.e., the late Charles Kean
and. the present Henry
Irving all in one pocket-
companion Artist! Then his
impersonation of blindness!
my ! that will thrill you ! If
it be true that ‘ ‘ none are so
blind as those who won't
see,” you can just imagine
how hopelessly stark staringly
blind is Mr. Kyrle Bellew.
I think your Mr. Henley
could do all the Irving busi-
ness just as well, but not the
Charles Kean department.
Mr. Beerbohh-Tree’s is
a remarkable performance as
the Italian Squirmer, Paolo
Macari. He is an instance
of bow one may “ smile and
smile, and be a villain,”—only he couldn’t be a villain unless
he did smile and smile. He gets on in life, and is an example of
“Self-Help by Smiles”; and he is more and more squirmingly
| villainous every time I see him. Authors, when you ’re writing a
i part for this gentleman, “spare that Tree,” and don’t give him
another foreign villain to play. But that Dr. Anson Ceneri and
the other conspirators are the simplest creatures possible, Beer-
bohm Macari would have had no sort of chance of being trusted as a
brother-conspirator, though he might have very easily got an engage-
ment as one of the Girard Troupe, and have gone round the country
in his celebrated “ Corkscrew Contortionist Act” most successfully.
Au revoir ! Strike while the Ironmonger’s hot, but hear,—from
Nibbs.
The Italian Squirmer Beerbohm-Girard -
Macari-Tree about to meet his fate at
the hands of Little Peter Petroff.
BOOTIFUL OR BOOTHIFUL ?
The following extraordinary Advertisement appeared in the columns
of the Daily News :—
BOOTSHOP. ■— WANTED, a YOUNG LADY for the above for
Hastings. A thorough Christian. Salvation Army preferred. Wages
about 25s.—Apply by letter, Temptation Warehouse,-.
We are by no means certain that a Salvationist Young Lady would
be an acquisition to the trying-on room of a boot-shop. She might
be seized with a desire to play the concertina or thump the tam-
bourine, or exhort her customers when she had either taken off their
own shoes so that they could not leave, or put them into a pair of
tight boots so that they were unahle to move. And what, pray, is a
“ Temptation Warehouse ” P Eh ?
A CHAT WITH THE KING OE THE MAORIES;
OR, HOW THEY INTERVIEW NOWABAYS.
Immediately on hearing that Talkawayo, the Maori King, wat
coming to this country, we sent off—as we usually do—a Member of
our Staff to have a quiet conversation with him. The result of the
interview, as far as we can gather from incoherent sentences dropped
by our Correspondent, is as follows; but as he is at present in the
Plymouth Hospital, and is only at intervals conscious, it is difficult to
extract a connected narrative out of him. If he ever gets well again,
he intends to prosecute King Talxawayo for trying to eat him.'
Appearance oe the King.
Talkaivayo is a singularly athletic monarch. His agility in jump-
ing on a prostrate adversary and his development of biceps are, 1
should imagine from recent experience, quite extraordinary. WheD
I entered his cabin the New Zealand King was lying on a sofa, and 1
had the opportunity of observing the singularly mild and benevolent
aspect of his countenance. When much excited, the tattoo-marks all
over his face become absolutely livid. The sole remnant of barbaric
display that I noticed about him was an overcoat made of dried
scalps stitched together, and fastened on the breast by a couple of
bones, which the King sometimes detaches when he desires to prac-
tise a new tune on his favourite musical instruments. He carries a
rather thick club ornamented with sharks’ teeth, which at an early
moment of our interview I managed to hide in a convenient corner
under pretence of admiring it, and I attribute my subsequent escape
from sudden death entirely to this innocent stratagem.
What he has come to England for.
“ What is your object in visiting our shores ? ” I asked him, in my
choicest New Zealand, patois.
The Native Interpreter here interposed somewhat nervously, and
told me I had better not pursue that line of interrogation. He had
known Talkawayo skin people alive for calling him an “ object.” I
hastened to assure the Interpreter that he had misunderstood me,
and continued pleasantly—
“Do you expect to have a satisfactory interview with the
Authorities at the Colonial Office ?”
I was gratified to find that the King understood this question, as
he smacked his lips, and said something about “ liking them boiled
best.”
“ Ha, ha! A good joke! ” I replied, thinking it as well to humour
him; “but you mustn’t let people mistake you for the King of the
Cannibal Islands, you know,” I added, thinking that a harmless jest
might tickle his Royal fancy.
The next moment I regretted my imprudence ! Seizing me by the
hair of my head-But the Editor requests me to draw a veil over
the ensuing scene, so I will merely remark that I am convinced
Talkawayo would have lunched on me raw if I had not been rescued
by the combined efforts of the Steward, the Bo’sun’s Mate, and the
Cabin-Boy.
Talkawayo’s Retinue.
After having brandy and other restoratives administered to me in
the State Cabin, I managed to crawl on deck. There I found the
Chiefs who had accompanied the King to England. Their names, as
pronounced to me by the Cabin-Boy, are Topia Copia, Hurri Upa-
cupa, Pattera Teacaki, and Hi Tallyhoawoa, all of them, so I
was assured, being household words in New Zealand.
“ How do you like England as far as you’ve got F ” I asked of one
of these noble savages.
His reply, couched in the vigorous vernacular, is difficult to repro-
duce in English, but is practically equivalent to “Find out!” I
may mention that I experienced at once a friendly feeling towards
Pattera Teacaki, as he had been the Editor of the New Zealand
newspaper, Hookeyoi. He told me, however, that he had given up
journalistic pursuits since his type had been smashed and most of
his compositors scalped by the Editor of a rival paper called the
Walkeroi.
How the Interview Ended.
I could not, as you will see, gather from this remarkably.taciturn
band their object in visiting England, but the Cabin-Boy informed
me that it was connected with an error in the number of kegs of
whiskey which had been given the monarch fifteen years ago bv the
“ New Zealand Nigger Expropriation Company ” for the whole of his
territory in fee simple.
Since that time Talkawayo and suite have all taken the Blue
Ribbon. Intending to make myself pleasant to poor old Teacaki, I
asked him in a jocular manner, “ whose Blue llibbon it was that he
took.” It must have been my pronunciation of the Maori language
which irritated him ; for before I knew where I was, I found myself,
by an incredibly adroit movement of Teacaki’s foot, hoisted over
the side of the vessel. Since then I have felt, both morally and
physically unable to gather any more information about the Maori
King and his companions.