THE NEW BURLESQUE. With the year 1885 there dawned a new epoch for stage travestie in England. The old Gaiety company had broken up, Miss Farren alone remaining; and with the accession of fresh blood there came fresh methods. The manager who had succeeded Mr. Hollingshead recognised the tendencies of the times; and with "Little Jack Sheppard"—a travestie by Messrs. Stephens and Yardley of the well-known story, familiar both in fiction and in drama—a novel departure was made. In the "palmy" days, burlesque had not, as a rule, formed the whole of an evening's entertainment. The one-act travestie had grown on occasion into two and even three acts; but, until recent years, the one act (in several scenes) had usually been deemed sufficient, the remainder of the programme being devoted to comedy or drama. The musical part of the performance had generally been made up of adaptations or reproductions of popular airs of the day—either comic songs or operatic melodies: very rarely had the music been special and original. The scenery had never been particularly remarkable; nor, save during the various rÉgimes of Vestris, had there been any special splen Plays of the greatest and the least pretence Are mounted so regardless of expense That fifty nights is scarce a run accounted— Run! They should gallop, being so well mounted But with "Alcestis" it was to be different:— What you enjoy must be all "on the quiet." No horse will pull our play up if it drag, No banners when our wit is on the flag; No great effects or new-imported dance The drooping eye will waken and entrance; ... But an old story from a classic clime, Done for the period into modern rhyme. A very different policy was to characterise the New Burlesque. The pieces, having now become the staple of the night's amusement, were to be placed upon the boards with all possible splendour. Money was to be spent lavishly on scenery, properties and costumes. Dancing was to be a prominent feature—not the good old-fashioned "breakdowns" and the like, but choreographic interludes of real grace and ingenuity. The music was to be written specially for the productions, and pains were to be taken to secure artists who could really sing. Something had already been done in each of these directions. So long ago as 1865 Mr. Burnand's "Windsor Forest" had been fitted with wholly new music; and at Meanwhile, how were the librettists to be affected? Clearly, they would have to give more opportunities than usual for musical and saltatory illustration; and accordingly we find the book of "Little Jack Sheppard" full of lyrics—solos, duets, quartets and choruses, all of them set to new airs by competent composers. At the same time, the authors took care not to omit the element of punning dialogue. In this respect the old traditions were to be maintained. Byron, for instance, might very well have written the lines which follow, in which the interlocutors strive to outdo one another in the recklessness of their jeux de mots:— Thames Darrell. Wild and Uncle Roland trapped me, They caught this poor kid napping, and kidnapped me; Put me on board a ship in half a crack. Winifred. A ship! Oh, what a blow! Thames. It was—a smack! When out at sea the crew set me, Thames Darrell, Afloat upon the waves within a barrel. Win. In hopes the barrel would turn out your bier. Thames. But I'm stout-hearted and I didn't fear. I nearly died of thirst. Win.Poor boy! Alas! Thames. Until I caught a fish—— Win. What sort? Thames.A bass. Then came the worst, which nearly proved my ruin— A storm, a thing I can't a-bear, a brewin'. Win. It makes me pale. Thames.It made me pale and ail. When nearly coopered I descried a sail; They did not hear me, though I loudly whooped; Within the barrel I was inned and cooped. All's up, I thought, when round they quickly brought her; That ship to me of safety was the porter. "Little Jack Sheppard"—which had for its chief exponents Miss Farren, Mr. Fred Leslie (a brilliant recruit from the comic opera stage), Mr. David James (who had returned for a time to his old love), Mr. Odell, Miss Harriet Coveney, and Miss Marion Hood (who had graduated in Gilbert-Sullivan opera)—was followed at the Gaiety by "Monte Cristo Junior," in which Messrs. "Richard Henry" presented a bright and vivacious travestie of Dumas' famous fiction, greatly aided by the chic of Miss Farren as the hero, and the inexhaustible humorous resource of Mr. Leslie as Noirtier. Here, for example, is a bit of the scene between these two characters in the ChÂteau d'If:— (Noirtier, disguised as Faria, pokes his head through the hole in the prison wall. He wears a long grey beard, and is clad in rags.) DantÈs (startled). This is the rummiest go I e'er heard tell on! Noirtier. Pray pardon my intrusion, brother felon— I'm Seventy-Seven. DantÈs.You look it—and the rest! Noirtier (with senile chuckle). Ah! youth will always have its little jest. My number's Seventy-seven: my age is more! In point of fact, I've lately turned five score: Time travels on with step that's swift, though stealthy. DantÈs (aside). A hundred years of age! This prison's healthy, To judge by this old joker. (aloud) What's your name, sir? To which I'd add—and what's your little game, sir? Noirtier. My name is Faria—I'm a ruined AbbÉ— All through my country's conduct, which was shabby. Because I wouldn't tell of untold gold— Of countless coin and gems and heaps of treasure Which I'd discovered in my baby leisure— (chuckles) But we will foil their schemes, and that ere long. DantÈs (aside, touching forehead significantly). The reverend gentleman has gone quite wrong. Noirtier (clutching DantÈs wildly). But, ah, they starve me! Hence thy strange misgiving— For what's a parson, boy, without his living? Hast e'er a bone to give an old man squalid? DantÈs. Not me! They never give us nothing solid; They seem to think an appetite's unlawful: In fact, their bill of fare is fairly awful. Noirtier. But now to business! You must know, fair youth, Though I in prison lie, I love the truth. Therefore—— But stay (glancing suspiciously around)—are we alone? DantÈs. Of course we are, old guy fox! (business). Noirtier. Then now I will confess my little game. (Removes wig, beard, rags, etc., and appears in convict dress, with [77] conspicuously marked on breast.) And so, behold! DantÈs. What! Noirtier? Noirtier.The same! Here, again, is the duet sung by the same characters in the course of the same scene:— I. DantÈs. Here in this gloomy old ChÂteau d'If We don't get beer, and we don't get beef. Noirtier. They never give us mutton or veal or pork, On which to exercise knife and fork. DantÈs. No nice spring chicken, or boiled or roast— No ham-and-eggs, and no snipe-on-toast! Noirtier. So no wonder we're rapidly growing lean On the grub served up from the prison cuisine. (With treadmill business.) Both. Poor prisoners we! Poor prisoners we! With skilly for breakfast and dinner and tea, And such dismal diet does not agree Noirtier. With Seventy-seven! DantÈs. And Ninety-three! (Grotesque pas de deux.) II. DantÈs. Our wardrobe has long since run to seed, For ci-devant swells we are sights indeed! Noirtier. I shiver and shake, and the creeps I've got— I'd give the world for a "whiskey hot!" DantÈs. And as in my lonely cell I lie, I think of her and the by-and-by. Noirtier. Don't buy or sell, or you'll come to grief, And never get out of the Chateau d'If! Both. Poor prisoners we! etc.(Dance as before.) After "Monte Cristo Junior" there came, at the same theatre and from the pens of the same writers, a travestie of "Frankenstein," produced in 1887, with Miss Farren as the hero, and Mr. Leslie as the Monster that he fashions. Here much ingenuity was shown in the management of the pseudo-supernatural business connected with the Monster. Previous to the vivifying of the figure, Frankenstein thus soliloquised:— The Monster's first utterances were as follows:— Monster. Where am I? also what—or which—or who? What is this feeling that is running through My springs—or, rather, joints?—I seem to be A comprehensive (feeling joints) joint-stock companee; My Veins—that's if they are veins—seem to glow—— I've muscles—yea—in quarts—I move them—so! (Creaks horribly all over: fiddle business in orchestra.) Horror! I've broken something, I'm afraid! What's this material of which I'm made? It seems to be a sort of clay—combined With bits of flesh and wax—I'm well designed— To see, to move, to speak I can contrive— I wonder if I really am alive! (Sings) If my efforts are vain and I can't speak plain, Don't laugh my attempts to scorn! For, as will be seen, I am but a machine Who doesn't yet know if he's born. I can move my feet in a style rather neat, And to waggle my jaws I contrive; I can open my mouth from north to south, I—I—wonder if I'm a-live, a-live! I wonder if I'm a-live! In 1888 Mr. G. R. Sims and Mr. Henry Pettitt joined forces in burlesque, and the result was seen in a piece happily I'm a simple little maid, Of the swells I am afraid, I tell them when they're forward they must mind what they're about. I never go to balls, Or to plays or music-halls, And my venerated mother always knows when I am out. When I leave my work at night, I never think it right To talk to any gentleman I haven't seen before. But I take a 'bus or tram, Like the modest girl I am, For I know that my big brother will be waiting at the door. Martha introduces herself thus:— I'm Martha, and my husband's never seen; Though fifty, my complexion's seventeen. In all the versions I've one rÔle to play, To mind Miss Marguerite while her frÈre's away. You ask me why she don't live with her mother, And I reply by asking you another— Where is my husband? I oft wonder if The public know he left me in a tiff, And not a single word from him I've heerd Since Marguerite's mother also disappeared. Not that I draw conclusions—oh dear, no! The gents who wrote the opera made them go. And Goethe lets a gentleman in red Inform me briefly my old man is dead. These details show my character's not shady— I am a widow and a perfect lady. When Valentine returns home and hears the scandal When to the drawing-room you have to go, With arms all bare and neck extremely low, For four long hours in biting wind and snow, May you the joys of England's springtime know! Whene'er you ride, or drive a prancing pair, May the steam roller meet you everywhere! When thro' the Park you wend your homeward way, Oh, may it be a Home Rule gala day! When for a concert you have paid your gold, May Mr. Sims Reeves have a dreadful cold! May you live where, through lath-and-plaster walls, Come loud and clear the next-door baby's squalls! Your husband's mother, when you are a wife, Bring all her cats, and stay with you for life! At the end, when Mephistopheles (Mr. E. J. Lonnen) comes to claim Faust, it turns out that Faust and Marguerite have been duly married, but have been obliged to conceal the fact because Marguerite was a ward in Chancery. Moreover, Old Faust reappears, and insists that, as it was he who signed the bond, it is he and not young Faust who ought to suffer for it. "Faust up to Date" includes some clever songs and some excruciating puns, of which these are perhaps the most excruciating:— Marg. These sapphires are the finest I have seen. Faust. Ah! what I've sapphired for your sake, my queen! Marg. An opal ring, they say, bad luck will be; This one I opal not do that for me. Again:— Mephis. Along the Riviera, dudes her praises sing. Val. Oh, did you Riviera such a thing? "Atalanta," the travestie by Mr. G. P. Hawtrey brought out at the Strand in 1888, was fitted with prose dialogue, much of which was very smart and amusing. The songs were numerous and well-turned, and certain details of the travestie were ingenious. Hippomenes, the hero, wins the race he runs with Atalanta, by placing in her path a brand-new "costume," of modern cut and material, which she finds it impossible not to stop for. For the rest, while possessing a decidedly "classical" flavour, "Atalanta" was, in essence, a racing burlesque, abounding in the phraseology of the turf, and introducing in the last scene counterfeit presentments of a number of well-known sportsmen. An agreeable cynicism ran through both the talk and the lyrics, from one of which—a duet between King Schoeneus and his High Chamberlain, Lysimachus—I extract the following satire on turf morale:— Lys. There's a time to win and a time to lose. Sch.Of course, of course, of course. Lys. You can make 'em safe whenever you choose— Sch. By force, by force, by force. Lys. Then doesn't it seem a sin and a shame To stop such a pleasant and easy game? If a horse doesn't win, why, who is to blame? Sch. The horse, the horse, the horse. Lys. If it's cleverly managed, I always think— Sch.Proceed, proceed, proceed— Lys. At a neat little swindle it's proper to wink. Sch.Indeed, indeed, indeed! I don't understand what it's all about; But a man must be punished, I have no doubt, If he's such a fool as to get found out. Lys.Agreed, agreed, agreed. Sch.They go too far, too far. Lys. That the stewards are down like a thousand of bricks— Sch. They are, they are, they are. For a season or two, you'll observe with pain, They'll hunt out abuses with might and main; Then the good old times will come back again. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! Elsewhere, there is a diverting bit of parody suggested by the extreme cautiousness and bad grammar of some newspaper racing prophecies. Hippomenes and Atalanta are the sole competitors in the race, and the local "tipster" thus discusses their prospects:—
Of "Joan of Arc," the "operatic burlesque" written by Messrs. J. L. Shine and "Adrian Ross" to music by Mr. Osmond Carr (OpÉra Comique, 1891), the distinguishing feature—apart from the fact that the music is all original and all the work of one composer—is the neatness of the lyric writing, with which special pains appear to have been taken. Of Joan herself her father is made to sing as follows:— Oh, there's nobody adepter Than our Joan, Joan, Joan! She is born to hold a sceptre On a throne, throne, throne; She's the head of all her classes, And in fervour she surpasses All the Hallelujah lasses, As they own, own, own! Don't call her preaching dull, for It is not, not, not! She can do Salvation sulphur Hot and hot, hot, hot! She can play the drum and cymbal, With her fingers she is nimble, And the pea beneath the thimble She can spot, spot, spot. She can tell you by your faces What you'll do, do, do; She can give you tips for races Good and new, new, new! She can cut a martial swagger, She's a dab at sword and dagger, And will fight without a stagger Till all's blue, blue, blue! Of all the songs in the piece, however, perhaps the most vivacious is that in which De Richemont (Mr. Arthur Roberts) describes how he "went to find Emin":— Oh, I went to find Emin Pasha, and started away for fun, With a box of weeds and a bag of beads, some tracts and a Maxim gun; My friends all said I should come back dead, but I didn't care a pin, So I ran up a bill and I made my will, and I went to find Emin! I went to find Emin, I did, I looked for him far and wide, I found him right, I found him tight, and a lot of folks beside; Away through Darkest Africa, though it cost me lots of tin, For without a doubt I'd find him out, when I went to find Emin! Then I turned my face to a savage place, that is called Boulogne-sur-Mer, Where the natives go on petits chevaux and the gay chemin de fer; And the girls of the tribe I won't describe, for I'm rather a modest man. They are poor, I suppose, for they're short of clothes, when they take what they call les bains! And they said to me, "Oh, sapristi!" and the men remarked, "SacrÉ!" And vive la guerre aux pommes de terre, and vingt minutes d'arrÊt! So I parlez'd bon soir and said au revoir, for I had to find Emin! And at last I found Emin, poor chap, in the midst of the nigger bands Who daily prowl, with horrible howl, along the Margate sands; I heard the tones of the rattling bones, and I hurried down to the beach— Full well I know that they will not go till you give them sixpence each! Said they, "Uncle Ned, oh! he berry dead, and de banjo out ob tune! Oh! doodah, day! hear Massa play de song of de Whistling Coon! If you ain't a snob, you'll give us a bob for blacking our blooming skin"— But I took that band to the edge of the sand, and there I dropped 'Emin! I have not thought it necessary, in the preceding pages, to offer any apology for stage burlesque. One must regret that it sometimes lacks refinement in word and action, and that in the matter of costume it is not invariably decorous; but that we shall always have it with us, in some form or other, may be accepted as incontrovertible. So long as there is anything extravagant in literature or manners—in the way either of simplicity or of any other quality—so long will travestie find both food and scope. That is the raison d'Être of theatrical burlesque—that it shall satirise the exaggerated and the extreme. It does not wage war against the judicious and the moderate. As H. J. Byron once wrote of his own craft:— Though some may scout it, ... Burlesque is like the winnowing machine: It simply blows away the husks, you know— The goodly corn is not moved by the blow. What arrant rubbish of the clap-trap school Has vanished—thanks to pungent ridicule! What stock stage-customs, nigh to bursting goaded, With so much "blowing up" have been exploded! Had our light writers done no more than this, Their doggrel efforts scarce had been amiss. In this defence of his calling, Byron had been anticipated by PlanchÉ, who, in one of his occasional pieces, introduced the following passage, in which Mr. and Mrs. Wigan and the representatives of Tragedy and Burlesque all figured. When Burlesque entered, Tragedy cried out— Avaunt, and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee. Unreal mockery, hence! I can't abide thee! Burlesque. Because I fling your follies in your face, And call back all the false starts of your race, Show up your shows, affect your affectation, And by such homoeopathic aggravation, Would cleanse your bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon our art—bombast and puff. Mr. Wigan. Have you so good a purpose, then, in hand? Burlesque. Else wherefore breathe I in dramatic land? Mrs. Wigan. I thought your aim was but to make us laugh. Burlesque. Those who think so but understand me half. Did not my thrice-renownÈd Thomas Thumb, That mighty mite, make mouthing Fustian dumb? Is Tilburina's madness void of matter? Did great Bombastes strike no nonsense flatter? When in his words he's not one to the wise, When his fool's bolt spares folly as it flies, When in his chaff there's not a grain to seize on, When in his rhyme there's not a grain of reason, His slang but slang, no point beyond the pun, Burlesque may walk, for he will cease to run. FINIS. 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Judy: "It's Zangwillian, which is saying a very great deal indeed in its favour." Ariel: "The cleverest book ever written" (Author's own review). LONDON: HENRY & CO., 6, BOUVERIE STREET, E.C. The Whitefriars Library of Wit and Humour. Edited by W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS. A New Series of Monthly Volumes designed to supply the Public with Entertaining Literature by the Best Writers. Vol. I.—ESSAYS IN LITTLE. By Andrew Lang. Sixth Thousand. Also a Large-Paper Edition (limited to 150, all sold upon subscription). Crown 4to. 10s. 6d. net. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. "If it is well to judge by firstfruits (and, generally speaking, the judgment is right), the new 'Whitefriars Library' should compass the very laudable designs of its projectors. The first monthly volume of the new series may fairly be said to be aflush with the finest promise. Mr. Andrew Lang's 'Essays in Little' is one of the most entertaining and bracing of books. 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"This story, which has no small merit as a work of imagination, makes its more direct appeal as a fictional presentment of the arguments for advancing the legal status of women, and making marriage a 'co-operation' rather than a 'despotism.'"—Scotsman. LONDON: HENRY & CO., 6, BOUVERIE STREET, E.C., FOOTNOTES:Love levels all—it elevates the clown, And often brings the fattest people down. Transcriber's Notes Variations in spelling, accents, punctuation and hyphenation are as in the original, except in cases of obvious typographical error. The use of upper or lower case at the beginning of abbreviated proper names (e.g. a'Beckett and A'Beckett) is inconsistent. This inconsistency has been retained. On page 9 |