Oh think what a change would soon be wroughtIn sins society now condones,Were virtue and honesty properly taughtBy Comedy's smiles and Tragedy's groans!The peer, the scholar, the fool, the fop,Could learn deportment, high-class, tip-top,From aDancing Girlin aBauble Shop—At least so thinks Mr.H. A. Jones.We shall call it "the work," and not "the play,"When due solemnity prompts the tonesOf serious actors, more grave than gay;They may be bores, but they won't be drones.So learn, should you wish to have a spree,What your Criterion ought to be,Or theTempterwill put you up a Tree.Hear eloquent Mr.H. A. Jones!Amusement? What! Do you dare to thinkThat those respectable classic crones,Melpomene, Thalia, they should sinkTo make you laugh, like a nigger Bones?If you should expect to be amused,Your money would simply be refused,And you would be turned away, abusedBy furious Mr.H. A. Jones.
Oh think what a change would soon be wroughtIn sins society now condones,Were virtue and honesty properly taughtBy Comedy's smiles and Tragedy's groans!The peer, the scholar, the fool, the fop,Could learn deportment, high-class, tip-top,From aDancing Girlin aBauble Shop—At least so thinks Mr.H. A. Jones.
Oh think what a change would soon be wrought
In sins society now condones,
Were virtue and honesty properly taught
By Comedy's smiles and Tragedy's groans!
The peer, the scholar, the fool, the fop,
Could learn deportment, high-class, tip-top,
From aDancing Girlin aBauble Shop—
At least so thinks Mr.H. A. Jones.
We shall call it "the work," and not "the play,"When due solemnity prompts the tonesOf serious actors, more grave than gay;They may be bores, but they won't be drones.So learn, should you wish to have a spree,What your Criterion ought to be,Or theTempterwill put you up a Tree.Hear eloquent Mr.H. A. Jones!
We shall call it "the work," and not "the play,"
When due solemnity prompts the tones
Of serious actors, more grave than gay;
They may be bores, but they won't be drones.
So learn, should you wish to have a spree,
What your Criterion ought to be,
Or theTempterwill put you up a Tree.
Hear eloquent Mr.H. A. Jones!
Amusement? What! Do you dare to thinkThat those respectable classic crones,Melpomene, Thalia, they should sinkTo make you laugh, like a nigger Bones?If you should expect to be amused,Your money would simply be refused,And you would be turned away, abusedBy furious Mr.H. A. Jones.
Amusement? What! Do you dare to think
That those respectable classic crones,
Melpomene, Thalia, they should sink
To make you laugh, like a nigger Bones?
If you should expect to be amused,
Your money would simply be refused,
And you would be turned away, abused
By furious Mr.H. A. Jones.
THE ETERNAL FITNESS OF THINGS.THE ETERNAL FITNESS OF THINGS."And what is your Name?""Marian Watson. But my last Mistress used to call me Mary, because Marian isn't a proper name for a Servant, she said."
"And what is your Name?"
"Marian Watson. But my last Mistress used to call me Mary, because Marian isn't a proper name for a Servant, she said."
A Cry to Whymper.—Last Wednesday Mr.Edward Whymperlectured at the Birkbeck. His subject was "Twenty thousand feet above the Sea." "That's ten thousand pairs of boots!" writes our shoemaker. "Wish I'd had the order! Well, well, soled again!"
The Cottage, Burrow-in-the-Corner, Devon.
The Cottage, Burrow-in-the-Corner, Devon.
The Cottage, Burrow-in-the-Corner, Devon.
Went out for a walk just now; nothing remarkable in that; the wonder came in when I got back. Present postal address given at head of this note. The Cottage is there all right, but where the township, hamlet, village, or whatever Burrow-in-the-Corner may be, is situated, haven't the least idea, and I've tramped pretty well round the country. The Cottage stands at four cross roads, on the top of a hill. Specks in the distance, in the valley and on the hillsides, understood to be farm-houses. Three miles off is Tipperton; it is approached from this point by a steep hill: most convenient way of getting to bottom is to lie down on top and roll; some people said to have become adepts in practise; can even enjoy quiet sleep on the way, and pull up at the very shop in High Street where they have business. So it is said; but I rarely see any people about Burrow-in-the-Corner; so how can they approach Tipperton in this or other way? The only persons that pass The Cottage palings are men who stop to ask their way. The population is sparse, and seems to fill up its time by losing itself. This should have been a warning to me, but it wasn't.
The Cottage been standing here for at least two hundred years. Began life as a smithy; only recently retired from business. The initials of one of its tenants are "R. B." He has carved the letters on the front door, with the date, 1813, following it. Fancy he must have been pretty old then, for, two years later, he cuts his initials again with date 1815; the writing quite shakey; possibly he had heard of Waterloo, and his hand was tremulous with patriotic joy. On second thought, that improbable. News of Waterloo not likely to have reached Burrow-in-the-Corner within limit of twelve months.
The smithy still stands as "R. B." left it when his bellows blew their last gasp. The Cottage itself transformed. The thatched roof remains; also the whitewashed walls, the porch, the little windows embayed in thick walls, which quite naturally form window-seats, where, if you take care not to bang your head, you may sit at ease, and look out over the swelling upland—rich red where it has just been ploughed; for the most part green pastures trending down to the Exe, a silver stream, rippling on to the sea, reckless of all it will pass through before it joins it. We have a parlour, but prefer to sit in the kitchen, a dainty room with gleaming dark-red sideboard; a kitchener, polished to distraction, so that looking-glasses are superfluities; a piano in recess by fireplace; a chimney-piece, on which gleam copper pans, brass candlesticks, and pewter plates, with their initials and ancient birth-dates polished almost out of sight; white-curtained windows, bright with begonias and cyclamen; a low ceiling, supported by a pragmatical beam, strictly conforming to the regulation that forbids a straight line in the room.
Have discovered that kitchen is best place in house to dine in; only drawback is that everything served so unexpectedly hot, new-comers scald themselves. Soon grow used to it, and to get grilled mushrooms served really hot is compensation for inconvenience. As for pancakes (made with freshly-laid eggs), begin to think I never tasted the real delicacy before. Your true pancake, asBrillat-Savarinomitted to say in his well-known treatise, should be eaten to the music of the one in the pan preparing to follow. When we go back to town, mean to ask servants to sit in dining-room whilst we dine in kitchen.
When I speak of going back to town, of course I imply the certainty of being able to find our way out of Burrow-in-the-Corner to nearest railway station.
Seems a good deal to have four cross roads all to yourself at your front door. The Cottage scarcely of sufficient importance to justify such lavish accommodation. But in these parts the amount of arable land wasted in roads and lanes is almost criminal. It was a Saturday evening when I went out to find the post-office. Nothing seemed plainer than instructions.
LIKA JOKO'S JOTTINGS.—No. 2. PHEASANT SHOOTING.LIKA JOKO'S JOTTINGS.—No. 2. PHEASANT SHOOTING.
"Go straight down the road facing you, and you'll come to a church. Close by it is a house; letter-box inserted in side of house; box painted red, you know."
Of course I knew; set off with a light heart and handful of letters. A little way down high road, on right-hand side, lane suddenly opened and delved downwards, its sinuous course embowered in trees; where they failed, barricaded with hedges. High road seemed originally bent upon taking this direction; changed its mind; turned abruptly to left. Suppose a few traps driven down hill must occasionally have taken this dip; feeble attempt to avoid too frequent recurrence of accident made by setting posts on line of high road, and painting tops white. If, after this, anyone on pitch-dark night mistakes road, only themselves to blame. Other roads and lanes perplexingly branching out to right and left at short intervals; kept on steadily till church came in view; found the house; not difficult, as there was only one; also discovered letter-box painted red. Twenty minutes to five was hour for clearing box; barely that; posted letters. Turning away when observed remark on letter-box, "Next collection Monday."
Pretty go, this; postman evidently been before his time; no sign of him on wide expanse. Looking round perceived Elderly Gentleman sitting in garden behind house; doubtless this was the householder; apparently had anticipated Sunday by putting on best clothes; black frock coat, getting brown about the seams; high collar, nearly covering black stock; black waistcoat, which seemed to belong to other suit than the coat; (was buttoned close up over stock, whilst coat, with generous lapels folded back, buttoned low down); brown trousers, a little short in leg; stout green umbrella under left arm. Elderly Gentleman was sitting on rustic bench, with cup of cider at hand, and expression of serene content on his wrinkled face. A quaintly-coloured cup, with two handles close together, presumably with view to taking a good pull at contents. "Bin my grandfather's," he said, looking at it with affection, and incidentally half emptying it. There was a motto roughly scrawled by the potter; Elderly Gentleman read it to me:
Erth I am et es most trew,Disdain me not for so be yew.
Erth I am et es most trew,Disdain me not for so be yew.
Erth I am et es most trew,
Disdain me not for so be yew.
Thus it was spelled, but no one born out of Devon could convey the tremendous sound of theuin the rhyming words. This peculiar to the soil; even barndoor fowls have it; notice that gamecock at The Cottage when it wakes me early in the morning, always shrilly pipes "cock-a-doodle-dew!" Asked Elderly Gentleman if he lived here? Born in the house, he said. Was he going for a walk? No, only sitting about. Then why the umbrella? Ah! he always took it out of drawer with his Sunday clothes, and put it under his arm, if he was only sitting in the garden.
But that's another story, told me after we had caught the postman.
Mr.D'Oyly Carteis to be heartily congratulated on his brilliant mounting of Messrs.GillivanandSulbert'smost recent production entitledUtopia (Limited). "Limited" it is in more senses than one. As there was, according to the immortalCyrus Bantam, M.C., when he was giving his information toMr. Pickwick, "nobody old or ugly in Ba-ath," so there is on "the spindle side" no one old or ugly on the stage of the Savoy Theatre. And this, too, with a difference, applies to SirArthur'smusic, in which if there be nothing particularly new—and the old familiar friends receive the heartiest welcome—there is at all events nothing dull, even though it may "hardly ever" rise above mere commonplace. Occasionally there is a snatch of sweet melody that brings to mind the composer's happiest inspirations, whether in oratorio or burlesque.
As to dramatic plot—well, strictly speaking, there is none; and it would be difficult to name a single telling "situation," inUtopia (Limited). The Monarch of Utopia wishes to introduce English customs into his kingdom; there is a court party opposed to this innovation: that's the essence of it. In the First Act the one hit, is the introduction ofCaptain CorcoranfromThe Pinaforeof years ago, and the repetition of the once popular catch-phrase about "What never?"and"Hardly ever," which, taken as applying to our most recent tragical ironclad disaster, is thoroughly appreciated. Beyond this, as far as dialogue and music go, in the First Act there is very little anyone would care to "carry away with him" after a first visit. And if that little were carried away the residuum would offer scant attraction.
The Union of Arts. 'Again we come to thee,'The Union of Arts. "Again we come to thee, Savoy."—Old Duet.
As for the Second Act, with its Royal Drawing-room scene, its splendid costumes, and its mimicry of Court etiquette, have we not witnessed a similar spectacle on a larger scale in a Drury Lane Pantomime, not so very many years ago? And was not that arranged by the same artistic stage-manager, who is now, by a wise dispensation of theatrical providence, in command at the Savoy, yclept Mr.Charles Harris? I fancy the Drury Lane Pantomime had the best of it in point of broad fun, as, if I remember right,Herbert Campbellwas the Queen, andHarry Nichollsthe King. Before this scene is the principal hit of the Second Act, when the King, Mr.Barrington,—to whom author and composer are under considerable obligations for the success of the piece, and without whose acting, dancing, and singing the entertainment would fare indifferently well,—with his counsellors, an admiral, a Lord Chamberlain, and so forth, place their chairs in a row, and detaching from the back of each seat a musical instrument, turn themselves into a St. James's ("Hall" not "Court") Christy Minstrel Company, Unlimited, of which Mr.Barrington, as theMr. Johnson, is the life and soul. Is this the remarkably original creation of the united intellects of Messrs.GilbertandSullivan? Have they ever heard of, or did either of them ever see a burlesque entitledBlack Eye'd Susanat the Royalty, which ran a long way over six hundred nights, and in later days was revived at the Opera Comique and elsewhere? I will quote from theTimes' notice of that burlesque:—
"The court-martial arranged after the fashion of the Christy's orchestra, every admiral being dressed in a colour corresponding to his title, an actual 'nigger' figuring as Admiral of the Black, is another odd device which keeps the audience in a roar."
"The court-martial arranged after the fashion of the Christy's orchestra, every admiral being dressed in a colour corresponding to his title, an actual 'nigger' figuring as Admiral of the Black, is another odd device which keeps the audience in a roar."
And it is this "odd device," with a Lord Chancellor, if I remember right, or some legal luminary in black, for one of the "corner men," which is, after all is said, sung, and done, just the one thing (of the two in the show) that brings down the house, and is applauded to the echo as the outcome of the combined whimsical originality of Messrs.GilbertandSullivan! Imitation being the sincerest flattery, the author ofBlack Eye'd Susanmust be indeed gratified by this tribute to his original success paid by the librettist and the composer ofUtopia, and having no further use for this particular bit of humour, he will, no doubt, be willing to make a present of it, free of charge, for nightly use, to the distinguished Savoyards as a practical congratulation to the pair of them on their return to the scene of some of their former triumphs.
Mr.Barringtonis the life and soul of the show; withdraw him, and then there would be precious little left to draw, excepting, of course, themise en scène, due to Messrs.HarrisandCarte, if I may put theHarrisbefore theCarte,—and to the Scenic Artist,Craven. Nor must I forget to mention the Electric Lightists, Messrs.LyonsandKerr, which last is a queer combination of names, from the king of the forest to the lowest of snappy dogs. MissRosina Brandramis, of course, excellent in what she has to do, and MissNancy McIntoshis equal to the occasion of her appearance.Percy Anderson'scostumes are gorgeous and artistic; and to the "Parisian Diamond Company" are due the gems of the piece. The dances are by the ever fertile and agileD'Auban, and everybody who has contributed to the success of the show obtains honourable mention in the neat programme-card.
"Inquirer" writes: "I see an advertisement of a series called 'The Aldine Poets.' Exceptional bards I suppose, as I was always given to understand that poets rarely eat anything. Will this series be followed by 'The Allunch Poets,'The Allbreakfast Poets,' and 'The Allsup Poets'? The last-mentioned, of course, will sing in praise ofAllsup'sAle."
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"There's no entrance to the music-hall this way."
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"What never?" and "Hardly ever," which, taken as applying to our most recent tragical ironclad disaster, is thoroughly appreciated.