Punch: Punch (91.1886)

40 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHAEIVARI.

RUSS IN URBE.

M. Dimitri Slaviansky D'Agreneee's Russian Choir, gave two
afternoon performances last week at Drury Lane. A non-musical
stranger, straying into the theatre and judging merely by appear -
anoes, might have been excused had he imagined that one of
Wagner's Operas was krcourse of representation. The conductor

The Russ in Cho-rus.

was strikingly like Tannhauser in "make up," and was apparently
habited in that hero's conventional garb "as worn." He directed
the efforts of a costumed chorus, some sixty strong and of both sexes,
in a manner at once original and effective. No baton did he use, but
merely waved his hands with a rhythmical turn of the wrist, standing
the while with his back to the performers and his face to the
audience. There was no orchestral accompaniment, but a harmonium
obbligato, kept the Choir together.

The apparel of the singers, announced as dating from the sixteenth
and seventeenth centuries, was wonderfully well preserved. A dear
little girl acted as a kind of human telegraph, and hoisted on her
breast the numbers of the songs as they proceeded. This was a good
idea, as it was not always easy to discriminate between such numbers
as a " Siberian Ballad" and a " Celebrated Boorlak Song." An
"Entertainment Song," (from the Government of Tamboif) could
not fail to suggest the spasmodic utterances of the Rochester dealer
to whom David Copperfield sold his j acket. The title of the effusion
in question was simply, " O my Ouelder-tree ! " " 0 my Raspberry
Bush ! " To which one feels inclined to add, " 0 Goroo ! " A more
horticultural and less anatomical old clo' man would find such an
expletive as relieving to the feelings as " 0 my eyes and limbs ! 0
my lungs and liver ! "—especially if the plants goroo in the neigh-
bourhood.

The Russian Choir sing extremely well together, and number among
them some good voices. One bass gentleman, in particular, goes so
deep, and sustains his notes so well, that he is heard long after the
harmonium and the organs of his colleagues have ceased to vibrate.
I looked at his boots, but they did not appear capacious enough to
account for the volume of sound produced. He is evidently Russia
leather-lunged. The historical songs to which the first half of the
programme is devoted, are doubtless interesting and well worth
hearing, at least once. But the "popular" songs in the second
part are neither of an elevated nor original type. They embody the
strains of much familiar claptrap, and, apart from the excellent
rendering they receive, are hardly worthy of serious notice. The
expression, modulation, and generally sympathetic singing of the
choir, however, deserve the highest praise ; and not the least remark-
able feature in their performance is the admirable adherence to strict
time which they display when the measure is suddenly changed.

NlBEITOraXET,

Smoke on the Biver.

A Tip for Thames Steamers.
'' No smoke abaft the funnel" is your rule.
Good ! But you should be sent to your own sohool.
Thick clouds of black or dun and fetid smoke,
Streaming in trails behind you, are no joke.
You make our Thames as foul as a close tunnel,
Let your next rule be, " No smoke from the funnel! "

Songs in Sea.—The success of " Florian," by the second English
lady composer the century has produced has been sufficiently marked
to warrant a successor. The new Opera will be nautical—music, of
course, by Walter.

[July 24, 1886.

THE NEW NASEBY.

By Obadiah Bind-the-Priests-in-Chains-and-the-Paddies-with-LinJcs-of-
Iron, Officer in the Unionist Regiment.

[modelled on maoaulay.]

Oh ! wherefore went you forth as in triumph to the North,
With your speech at every station, which the Tories raging read ?

And wherefore did your rout send forth a joyous shout ?
And where be the gapers that your northward journey sped ?

Oh, triumphant was your route, but bitter is its fruit,
And mistaken was the line of your Manifesto odd,

Where you railed against the throng of the wealthy and the strong,
And swore the People's voice was the very voice of God.

It was about the noon of a sunny day of June,

That we saw their banners dance in Midlothian fair and fine ; _
And the Grand Old Man was there, with his scant and snowy hair,

And Cowan, and Lord Rosebery, and Liberal hosts in line.

And the Chief by Scots adored raised his head and bared his sword,
And harangued his motley legions to form them to the fight;

And many a cheer and shout from their listening ranks brake out,
As the aged Sophist glosed upon justice, love, and right.

And hark ! like the roar of the surf upon the shore,

The cry of battle rises along our loyal line !
For Union! for the Cause ! for the Church! for the Laws !

For Salisbury the Splendid and for Joseph the Divine!

The glamorous Gladstone comes, though without his pair of Brums,
Or bravoes from Macallitm, or cheers from County Guy ;

They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks,
For William never comes save to conquer or to die.

They are here' They rush on !—They are broken! They are gone !

Their ranks are borne before us like stubble on the blast.
0 Chamberlain, 0 Bright, is not this a glorious sight ?

Stand with us, Gentlemen, and fight them to the last!

Stout Goschen hath a wound; Sir George hath given ground:
Hark, hark!—what means this trampling of horsemen in our rear ?

Whose banner do I see, boys P 'Tis he, thank Heaven, 'tis he, boys!
Bear up another minute: brave Salisbury is here !

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,

The Tory troops have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,
And at a shock have scattered his Sawnies and his Tykes.

Fast, fast the Liberals ride, in oblivion to hide _
Their humbled heads, not destined at Westminster to meet:

And he—he turns, he flies, wild wonder in those eyes
That hoped to look on victory, but gaze on dire defeat.

Ho! comrades, scour the plain ; look on the uncounted slain ;

Give here and there a stab to make your work secure.
They lie with empty pockets who hoped to mount like rockets,

But cash, like votes, was wanting ; their Party-purse was poor.

Fools! We possessed the gold, and our hearts were proud and bold,
Whilst you passed round the hat in an impecunious way.

Oh many a Duke's strong box for us relaxed its locks.
Whilst for your Caucus Clubs, they could howl but could not pay.

Where be your tongues that late mocked at Class, and Wealth, and

Where the Leicesters that so boasted of their power with the
Trades ? , ,

Were the chaps in fustian clothes to be gammoned by your oaths,
Or had Arch bis vaunted influence with the mattocks and the
spades ?

They are down, for ever down with the artisan and clown.

Parnell trembles when he thinks of wild Ulster s whirling words,
And the Gladstomtes in fear shall shudder when they hear

What the Unionists have wrought for our Commons and our Lords.

The Licence eor French Leave.—On Sunday the 11th instant,
a bust of Rabelais was unveiled at Meudon, when the occasion Was
celebrated by a "Rabelaisian procession, speeches, and versifying."
It may be hoped that the latter was fit for publication, and that, in
the former, Gargantua, Pantagruel, Panurge and Friar John, did
not behave themselves too much in character. A Rabelais Festival
seems rather a peculiar illustration of " a day of innocent amuse-
ment." The population at Meudon, on that holiday may well have
thought what a time they were having !