DOI issue:
May 28, 1887
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17657#0273
264 PUNCH, OS THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [May 28, 1887.
VERY ORIGINAL GREEK AT OXFORD.
(By an Untutored Corrcspoiident.)
I was on a visit to the Junior "Warden of jSTo Bodies College,
when my eye was caught by an announcement of the second night of
a play at the New Theatre. It was
Alcestis. Though I have not had a classi-
cal education, yet I have had a very fair
theatrical one, and I remembered the title
years ago at, I think, the Haymarket. I
procured a stall. The house was crowded,
and I could not obtain a programme or
a book of the play, and so I was depen-
dent on my neighbour, a very pleasant
young Undergraduate, for my information,
which, in the shape of notes taken at the
time, I now send to you.
8-30.—We are looking at a most original
act-drop, painted expressly (.so my neigh-
bour tells me) by Professor Heekomeb.
" A sonnet has been written on it," said
my informant,—though, for the life of me,
as I had no opera-glasses, I couldn't see
it,—"by Mr. Courtenay, a new fellow."
My informant speaks of the Author of the
Sonnet as old boys do of a young chap
fj^r just come up. I mention this because it
is really an encouraging sign. For " a
Classic Costume revived at new fellow" to have written a sonnet on
Oxford. Professor Heekomeb's " drop," proves him
to'be of considerable promise. The drop, my young friend thinks,
might possibly be a drop too much in any but a Classical Theatre,
and he explains that the bold and beautiful figure seated on a
gigantic soap-bubble is intended to represent an ideal form of mural
decoration as known to the advertising ancient Greeks, on whom to
gaze long and lovingly on this would have had a soapyrific effect.
At least," adds my youthful but well-informed companion, " so it
ap-pears." I fancy, from the twinkle in his eye, that he intends a
pun somewhere, but at this moment three strokes of the hammer, as
m French Theatres, give the signal to take up the drop; and as the
lights are lowered, my young friend's twinkle, like " all worldly
shapes " in the'poem, is " lost in* gloom."
The Play.—A House on a raised platform on the principle of a
show in a Fair. Country landscape in the distance. In front of the
stage is a property stone table on which is a dessert of apples, oranges,
(no bills of the play) bananas, and grapes, with a spirit-lamp to keep
the coffee hot when it comes, or for lighting cigarettes. Apollo (I
know he is Apollo, having seen him frequently in classical bur-
lesques) enters and speaks. My young friend asks me "if I under-
stand what he's saying." I reply, '"Perfectly." ."It's Greek,"
says my young friend, looking at me with an expression implying a
vote of want of confidence in my statement. I listen to it for a few
seconds, as if I were catching a tune, and then reply, "He is not
very distinct, but it does sound like Greek to me." This is strictly
true. I follow it at a more respectful distance than I should an
Opera in German.
My young friend further whispers to me, that the piece was, when
first written, an exact model of the old Classic Greek Farce, but that
the Vice-Chancellor had refused to license it, unless it was con-
siderably altered and cut down. The result seems to have been, that
most of 'the fun has been taken out of it, which however, I think,
could not originally have been screamingly humorous.
" Did the new fellow you mentioned just now write it?" I ask.
My youthful informant pauses a second or so,—he cannot have a very
good memory—and he answers "No, it was another fellow." He
forgets his name at the moment, but is sure it is something like Mr.
Hugh Rippites ; and, do I know him ? No, I do not.; Is he an Oxford
man ? "Oh, yes," replies my young friend with certainty. " He's
an Undergraduate here." Really ! Now this is encouraging. That
an Undergraduate, Mr. Hugh Rippites, should have written a play
in Greek, is an excellent sign of the revival of learning. I regret
my want of a classical education, and contemplate going to Oxford
as a student. Never too old to learn. I do not blame Mr. Hugh
Rippites for having introduced many English words which every
now and then caught my ear—and indeed they were pointed out to
me by my neighbour—because, after all, as a first attempt, it is
most creditable.
Apollo talks. .My young friend nudges me whenever there is a
double entendre m Greek, and laushs behind his hand. "Rather
strong that, he whispers occasionally. I reply in an undertone, as
if I were with difficulty stifling my laughter, " Hush! be quiet! "—
but this only makes him laugh the more. The audience, I notice,
scarcely smile once. _ Being in Greek, perhaps the ladies don't under-
stand the "hits" m the dialogue. I don't, but this I keep to
myself. Then steam arises (an anachronism, of course, but "sym-
bolical of progress," as my friend assures me), and an old woman in
grey muslin, with a knife, appears. " It's the Demon of Soceates,"
my companion tells me. very good. Apollo and the Demon have
a dialogue, during which my companion is perpetually nudging me,
so I suppose it's full of good jokes which I don't exactly catch.
Again I pretend to be restraining my laughter, and beg him to be
decorous. Off trips Apollo, and the Demon goes through some
pantomimic action, then goes through a door, and disappears. Enter
a lot of melancholy young-old men—with very evident beards of
every description. They gather round the dessert and the ciga-
rette spirit-lamp. No one touches so much as a grape. Then on
the raised platform appears a classically costumed gentleman. My
young friend tells me that he is the show proprietor, and is called by
a very appropriate name, " Admittus." The showman, Admittus,
tells the young-old men what is to be seen inside, in a speech, which
my companion (who knows the play by heart) tells me is "immensely
witty." His audience do not seem to appreciate it, but evidently
there is no great attraction, as the young-elders show no sign of
even wishing to " "Walk up, walk up !" but, instead, stay outside,
and commence singing an irish dirge as they once more group
themselves about the dessert and the cigarette spirit-lamp.
Enter a lady on the platform, evidently very ill. "This,"
whispers my informant, " is Alcestis." Of course I remember her
name perfectly, many years ago. She is in great pain, and Admittus,
the showman, suggests something about "toddy." Bat whether she
is to take it, or whether she has taken too much of it already, I
cannot clearly make out, and don't like to bother my young friend
with too many questions. He whispers to me that it is this part of
the piece which the Vice-Chancelloe has spoilt by cutting, and
that, therefore, it is rather heavy. It certainly is.
Then come on two very pretty children, named, as I gather from
what I can catch of the words, "Tommy" and "Kitty." Subse-
quently I find I am wrong, and that " Kitty " is " Sukey."
Admittus talks about a "Se-gar," which is also an anachronism
pardonable in a young Author's first work, but in keeping with
the spirit-lamp and dessert. Then Alcestis gets worse, and cries,
"Ow! ow! ow!" and Admittus, whose mind seems to run upon
nothing but eating and drinking, offers her " ducks and gun-
aiky," which, my young friend tells me, is very old Attic for
green peas cooked in a certain way. I catch the plot now; she is
suffering from having eaten " ducks and gunaiky," and having tried
to correct the effects with "toddy" and a "se-gar." Admittus
addresses her tenderly as Molly." I thought her name was
Alcestis. "Her family name is Alcestis," my companion whispers,
apparently annoyed at my tone of momentary doubt. " She is Molly
Alcestis." I beg pardon. I see perfectly. " Molly" the petit nom.
Well, Molly expires. Everyone is broken-hearted, and one of the
leaders of the Chorus, addressed by Admittus as "Mr. Martin,"
leads a walk round the dessert and cigarette-lamp.
Enter Hercules, with all the strength in his legs, which are
enormous (and were probably provided by the costumier), but with
no " power to his elbow," as his arms are comparatively very slight,
which accounts for Ms not doing the usual strong-man business of
lifting weights, &c. He belongs to the Show, and goes in with
Admittus, who has upbraided him for not being there at the com-
mencement of the performance. The young-old men then break out
into a classic hunting chorus, with a refrain that sounds like
"Tiddy ti! who cares?" They finish with a "walk round," and
exeunt, leaving the dessert untouched and the spirit-lamp still
burning. This ends the First Part.
My young friend bids me good-night, as he has to go to supper,
and has seen it all before. I thank him heartily for his assistance,
and post this to you.
Personally Conducted.—Dean Kitchen, so the St. Ja?nes,s
Gazette informed us last week, has announced that on certain days
he will himself, in propria persona, show visitors over Winchester
Cathedral. "No Fees!" "Will hi3 example bo followed by Lord
Salisbury, or the Lord Chancellor, personally conducting country
cousins over the House of Lords, while the Speaker will do the same
for " Strangers" in the House of Commons, illustrating every object
of interest with "the Speaker's commentary" on it? It is quite a
"newdeparture." Dean Kitchin, telling the same stories over and
over again, may be known as a " "Winchester Repeater;" but, at all
events, for the benefit of tourists, a most useful Servus Servorum
will be found in this Kitchin. Daring the Dean's special Show
Service, the Organist might play variations on "In Verdure clad,"
with new words for the choir, commencing " As Verger clad."
Duet tor Sir Reginald Hanson, Bart., and Sib Robert
Cabden, Bart.—" Barty, Barty!"
A Spotless Cabeeb.—That of an unsuccessful Tipster. (Must be,
if ho has never " spotted a winner.")
[Cfp NOTICE.—Kejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will
in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule
there will be no exception.
VERY ORIGINAL GREEK AT OXFORD.
(By an Untutored Corrcspoiident.)
I was on a visit to the Junior "Warden of jSTo Bodies College,
when my eye was caught by an announcement of the second night of
a play at the New Theatre. It was
Alcestis. Though I have not had a classi-
cal education, yet I have had a very fair
theatrical one, and I remembered the title
years ago at, I think, the Haymarket. I
procured a stall. The house was crowded,
and I could not obtain a programme or
a book of the play, and so I was depen-
dent on my neighbour, a very pleasant
young Undergraduate, for my information,
which, in the shape of notes taken at the
time, I now send to you.
8-30.—We are looking at a most original
act-drop, painted expressly (.so my neigh-
bour tells me) by Professor Heekomeb.
" A sonnet has been written on it," said
my informant,—though, for the life of me,
as I had no opera-glasses, I couldn't see
it,—"by Mr. Courtenay, a new fellow."
My informant speaks of the Author of the
Sonnet as old boys do of a young chap
fj^r just come up. I mention this because it
is really an encouraging sign. For " a
Classic Costume revived at new fellow" to have written a sonnet on
Oxford. Professor Heekomeb's " drop," proves him
to'be of considerable promise. The drop, my young friend thinks,
might possibly be a drop too much in any but a Classical Theatre,
and he explains that the bold and beautiful figure seated on a
gigantic soap-bubble is intended to represent an ideal form of mural
decoration as known to the advertising ancient Greeks, on whom to
gaze long and lovingly on this would have had a soapyrific effect.
At least," adds my youthful but well-informed companion, " so it
ap-pears." I fancy, from the twinkle in his eye, that he intends a
pun somewhere, but at this moment three strokes of the hammer, as
m French Theatres, give the signal to take up the drop; and as the
lights are lowered, my young friend's twinkle, like " all worldly
shapes " in the'poem, is " lost in* gloom."
The Play.—A House on a raised platform on the principle of a
show in a Fair. Country landscape in the distance. In front of the
stage is a property stone table on which is a dessert of apples, oranges,
(no bills of the play) bananas, and grapes, with a spirit-lamp to keep
the coffee hot when it comes, or for lighting cigarettes. Apollo (I
know he is Apollo, having seen him frequently in classical bur-
lesques) enters and speaks. My young friend asks me "if I under-
stand what he's saying." I reply, '"Perfectly." ."It's Greek,"
says my young friend, looking at me with an expression implying a
vote of want of confidence in my statement. I listen to it for a few
seconds, as if I were catching a tune, and then reply, "He is not
very distinct, but it does sound like Greek to me." This is strictly
true. I follow it at a more respectful distance than I should an
Opera in German.
My young friend further whispers to me, that the piece was, when
first written, an exact model of the old Classic Greek Farce, but that
the Vice-Chancellor had refused to license it, unless it was con-
siderably altered and cut down. The result seems to have been, that
most of 'the fun has been taken out of it, which however, I think,
could not originally have been screamingly humorous.
" Did the new fellow you mentioned just now write it?" I ask.
My youthful informant pauses a second or so,—he cannot have a very
good memory—and he answers "No, it was another fellow." He
forgets his name at the moment, but is sure it is something like Mr.
Hugh Rippites ; and, do I know him ? No, I do not.; Is he an Oxford
man ? "Oh, yes," replies my young friend with certainty. " He's
an Undergraduate here." Really ! Now this is encouraging. That
an Undergraduate, Mr. Hugh Rippites, should have written a play
in Greek, is an excellent sign of the revival of learning. I regret
my want of a classical education, and contemplate going to Oxford
as a student. Never too old to learn. I do not blame Mr. Hugh
Rippites for having introduced many English words which every
now and then caught my ear—and indeed they were pointed out to
me by my neighbour—because, after all, as a first attempt, it is
most creditable.
Apollo talks. .My young friend nudges me whenever there is a
double entendre m Greek, and laushs behind his hand. "Rather
strong that, he whispers occasionally. I reply in an undertone, as
if I were with difficulty stifling my laughter, " Hush! be quiet! "—
but this only makes him laugh the more. The audience, I notice,
scarcely smile once. _ Being in Greek, perhaps the ladies don't under-
stand the "hits" m the dialogue. I don't, but this I keep to
myself. Then steam arises (an anachronism, of course, but "sym-
bolical of progress," as my friend assures me), and an old woman in
grey muslin, with a knife, appears. " It's the Demon of Soceates,"
my companion tells me. very good. Apollo and the Demon have
a dialogue, during which my companion is perpetually nudging me,
so I suppose it's full of good jokes which I don't exactly catch.
Again I pretend to be restraining my laughter, and beg him to be
decorous. Off trips Apollo, and the Demon goes through some
pantomimic action, then goes through a door, and disappears. Enter
a lot of melancholy young-old men—with very evident beards of
every description. They gather round the dessert and the ciga-
rette spirit-lamp. No one touches so much as a grape. Then on
the raised platform appears a classically costumed gentleman. My
young friend tells me that he is the show proprietor, and is called by
a very appropriate name, " Admittus." The showman, Admittus,
tells the young-old men what is to be seen inside, in a speech, which
my companion (who knows the play by heart) tells me is "immensely
witty." His audience do not seem to appreciate it, but evidently
there is no great attraction, as the young-elders show no sign of
even wishing to " "Walk up, walk up !" but, instead, stay outside,
and commence singing an irish dirge as they once more group
themselves about the dessert and the cigarette spirit-lamp.
Enter a lady on the platform, evidently very ill. "This,"
whispers my informant, " is Alcestis." Of course I remember her
name perfectly, many years ago. She is in great pain, and Admittus,
the showman, suggests something about "toddy." Bat whether she
is to take it, or whether she has taken too much of it already, I
cannot clearly make out, and don't like to bother my young friend
with too many questions. He whispers to me that it is this part of
the piece which the Vice-Chancelloe has spoilt by cutting, and
that, therefore, it is rather heavy. It certainly is.
Then come on two very pretty children, named, as I gather from
what I can catch of the words, "Tommy" and "Kitty." Subse-
quently I find I am wrong, and that " Kitty " is " Sukey."
Admittus talks about a "Se-gar," which is also an anachronism
pardonable in a young Author's first work, but in keeping with
the spirit-lamp and dessert. Then Alcestis gets worse, and cries,
"Ow! ow! ow!" and Admittus, whose mind seems to run upon
nothing but eating and drinking, offers her " ducks and gun-
aiky," which, my young friend tells me, is very old Attic for
green peas cooked in a certain way. I catch the plot now; she is
suffering from having eaten " ducks and gunaiky," and having tried
to correct the effects with "toddy" and a "se-gar." Admittus
addresses her tenderly as Molly." I thought her name was
Alcestis. "Her family name is Alcestis," my companion whispers,
apparently annoyed at my tone of momentary doubt. " She is Molly
Alcestis." I beg pardon. I see perfectly. " Molly" the petit nom.
Well, Molly expires. Everyone is broken-hearted, and one of the
leaders of the Chorus, addressed by Admittus as "Mr. Martin,"
leads a walk round the dessert and cigarette-lamp.
Enter Hercules, with all the strength in his legs, which are
enormous (and were probably provided by the costumier), but with
no " power to his elbow," as his arms are comparatively very slight,
which accounts for Ms not doing the usual strong-man business of
lifting weights, &c. He belongs to the Show, and goes in with
Admittus, who has upbraided him for not being there at the com-
mencement of the performance. The young-old men then break out
into a classic hunting chorus, with a refrain that sounds like
"Tiddy ti! who cares?" They finish with a "walk round," and
exeunt, leaving the dessert untouched and the spirit-lamp still
burning. This ends the First Part.
My young friend bids me good-night, as he has to go to supper,
and has seen it all before. I thank him heartily for his assistance,
and post this to you.
Personally Conducted.—Dean Kitchen, so the St. Ja?nes,s
Gazette informed us last week, has announced that on certain days
he will himself, in propria persona, show visitors over Winchester
Cathedral. "No Fees!" "Will hi3 example bo followed by Lord
Salisbury, or the Lord Chancellor, personally conducting country
cousins over the House of Lords, while the Speaker will do the same
for " Strangers" in the House of Commons, illustrating every object
of interest with "the Speaker's commentary" on it? It is quite a
"newdeparture." Dean Kitchin, telling the same stories over and
over again, may be known as a " "Winchester Repeater;" but, at all
events, for the benefit of tourists, a most useful Servus Servorum
will be found in this Kitchin. Daring the Dean's special Show
Service, the Organist might play variations on "In Verdure clad,"
with new words for the choir, commencing " As Verger clad."
Duet tor Sir Reginald Hanson, Bart., and Sib Robert
Cabden, Bart.—" Barty, Barty!"
A Spotless Cabeeb.—That of an unsuccessful Tipster. (Must be,
if ho has never " spotted a winner.")
[Cfp NOTICE.—Kejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will
in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule
there will be no exception.