NOTES BY PASQUIN.

Otago Witness, Issue 1950, 4 April 1889, Page 28

NOTES BY PASQUIN.

Beyond the Vivian Company, which by last advices was still in Auckland drawing good houses, there is no theatrical company of any note in the colony. We shall have a genuine attraction, however, shortly, as I learn that Mr Lohr has definitely arranged to being Mr Frank Lincoln, the brilliant mimic and humourist, through New Zealand. At present he is still crowding the Atbeneum Hall, Melbourne. A new comio opera, written by George R. Sims, and composed by M. Jaoobi, is in preparation for the Avenue Theatre. Baldwin is eclipsed. At Covent Garden Cirous they have now an " intelligent pony " who descends from the roof by means of a parachute. Madame Sara Bernhardt is going to appear at the London Gaiety in a new play written by herself.

Hunt, the music hall poet who wrote " We don't want to fight, but by Jingo, if we do" declares that he received £200 for that lofty lyric. A story going the rounds just now about Mr Irving and the autograph-hunter, is evidently founded on a similar incident of which the late Charles Mathews was the hero. In the case of the famous low comedian, his correspondent stated in a letter that not only would his (the I.c.'s) autograph be "ever after hoarded up as a priceless treasure," but that it would also do much "to solace the declining years of a now bed-ridden ladmirer of his inimitable genius." "Very well," said the actor to Madame Vestris, to whom he had read the letter, " we will test my bed-ridden admirer'e devotion ;" so, taking half a sheet of notepaper, he wrote on it, " Pass two to the upper boxes. — C. J. Mathews." From inquiries subsequently- made, not only did Mr Mathews learn that his autograph, which was to be " ever hoarded as a priceless treasure," was handed in at the upper box entrance within 10 hours of its reception by his correspondent, but he was also informed by the checktaker that his " bedridden admirer," in his eagerness to secure a good seat, went up the steep stone steps of the theatre two at a time. Almost the same yarn, I may remark, was told about Fanny Davenport a few months back. It grows monotonous, but there is yet, it seems, another infant prodigy. This time the phenomenon is not a musician, and he hails not from Germany, but from Texas. He is a little coloured boy named Oscar Moore. Oscar is three and a-half years old, and his peculiar gift is a wonderful memory for facts and figures. He is totally blind, and has been so from his j birth. He was taken to Mr Abbey, and an exhibition was given of his powers in the few minutes that gentleman had to spare before he sailed for Havana. The guardians of the boy had a book of abont 600 printed questions, the answers to which involved geographical and historical knowledge, and figures running up to the billions, and those questions Were put to Oscar Moore at random. He did not, it is stated, fail once to give a correot answer, and he never hesitated to think before responding. A row of nine figures was read to him, and ten minutes afterwards he repeated them, having answered a dozen difficult questions in the meantime. Mr Abbey admitted that the power displayed by the boy was astonishing, but it is said he evinced no inclination to *' handle" the little wonder for the public amusement. Selina Dolaro, an American actress and comic opera singer, who not long ago purred in the warmth and glitter of the footlights and cast the languorous spell of her southern grace and velvet voice over all her subjects, has just died of a painful and wasting disease in New York. She had of late earned a precarious livelihood by play-writing and leaves one posthumous novel, 11 Bella Demonia," whioh haa a strange eventful history. She wrote it at the cost of much time and labour ? it was admired by good literary critics, and the manuscript submitted to the editor of the New ifork World, who approved and agreed to purchase it f o1?o 1 ? a good round sum. Soon after, wishing to make i few trifling alterations in the atory, Madame Dolaro visited the World office and asked fcr her manuscript. Search made in the receptacle to whioh it had been consigned revealed a somewhat startling fact — it was missing ! All lands began a systematic hunt; but, although erery possible hidingplace was thoroughly ransacked, the manuscript could not be found. TMs misfortune was enough to ctush the spirits of any woman similarly placed, but Madame Dolaro put a characteristically good face on the matter. Having no duplicate copy, she started immediately to write the novel affesh— to go over the the old ground and restore &),000 words ! The ungrateful task was completed a few weeks only before her deatb, a and the editor of " Lippincott'e Magazine " read it and at once bought it for a far larger price than the World had agreed to pay.

J, E. Emmet, the famous t( Frtiz, " is a rich man, and when on tour he carries with him an iron-clad contract, to be signed by the proprietors of the hotels at which he stops, stipulating that the finest suite of rooms and the most comfortable arrangements possible shall be made for himself, his wife, and his dog, " Plinlimmon," a 5000dol St. Bernard. Provision is made that " Plinlimmon " shall have efficient care and attention, aud Mr Emmet's motto is printed on the contract, bo that the proprietor shall be sure to see it. This is the legend: "The best of everything is not too good." The question of termß for these sumptuous accommodations never enters into the arrangements. Madame Sarah Bernhardt has been having a grand time of it in the land of Cleopatra. Her visit to the Great Pyramid is described as a sight to be remembered, and exemplifies the farcical turn which she is fond of giving to the moat heroic and solemn moments. She stood for half an hour in front of the Sphinx, and then turned to her favourite companion and said, " Tenez, if her nose were not broken she would resemble me. M> friend, if you could see me a hundred years from now I would look exactly like that." Then she gave a little shudder and said she was " devilish hungry."

The new opera by Planquette is entitled "Paul Jones," and although it is a feeble work compared with some of the composers' previous efforts it is likely to turn a pretty penny for Mr Carl Rosa in the Prince of Wales Theatre. To call the piece a comic opera is to commit a wilful error. Comic opera is a legitimate form of art, but in opera bouffe impossible people wear impossible costumes and do impossible things, and this is the case in " Paul Jones." The plot is built on the usual lines, and the characters are mostly old acquaintances. Paul Jones is the poor lover, Ivonne is his sweetheart in short skirts, Rufino is his elderly and wealthy rival, Bieoquet is the tyrannioaj uncle; Banillabaise, a smuggler, is the leading comio character, and Cfaopinette, his wife, is the inevitable toubrette. These people go through the usual- business, the sentimental lovers singing ballads and duets, while the others have ditties of a more or less humorous nature, and dialogue which professes to be comic. A thread of consistency vuns through the first and second aots, which take place at St. Malo ;

■ bat in the third, in the gorgeous island ©f Estrella, extravagance reigna supreme. m From a London paper I glean the following t s details as to the new « Pickwick" exfcravanganza !d by Messrs P. 0. Burnand and Solomon, which ~ has been produced at the Comedy Theatre. I is remarkable of course for quips, quibbles, and L word play of the usual Burnand type :— lfc The baker, who in the novel is only incidentd ally referred to in Mrs Sander's evidence at the trial, now becomes a prominent 'personage. Mrs Bardell is discovered dusting m Mr Pickwick s sitting room and singing her Barde.ll ballad :— 'Us to everybody known that a widow all alone Of existence I was left to bear the fardel ; When in cellar dirty stocked, on the head bo badly knocked, , , _ . „ With a pint pot was the late lamented Bardell. Pickwick arrives and takes up his abode as a lodger in the first floor front. Then enters little Tommy, who, after producing from his capacious pockets marbles, half an apple, buttons, cakes of paint, biscuits, slate pencil, peppermint drops, alley tors, and cotnmoneys and various other miscellaneous artioles, finds a letter which 'Mr Pickwick had entrusted him to take to the now celebrated Sam Weller, at the White Hart, in the Borough. The field is then left clear for the two principal personages of the story. Mrs Bardell first sings her song speculating upon "My Next " :— Will he be always at home to dinner, With what'a set before him never be vexed ? Will he — ; but there, be he saint or sinnerHe who speaks first is my next, ray next. At this the baker's voice is heard without shoutiDg " Baker ! baker ! " and we pass at once to the punning " Baker-roll " :— Morning breaks, I must awake her, In the yeast the sun's a baker ; You are crumby and full-weighted, Hear your baker-laureate troll ; Would you crusty be if mated, Listen to my baker-roll. So the baker aerated, Singa his morning baker-roll. The baker, in his professional costume, with a basket, dances in and kneels at the feet of Mrs Bardell. She begs of him to rise, and he replies, "0, my loaf— l mean my love I" At that moment Mr Pickwick's voice is heard,' shouting for his gaiters :— Will you oblige me with my gaiten T I've packed up my other paire; I'm m a state that's almost natur's, So cannot appear downstairs. Whereupon, in mock solemn fashion, the three sing the trio :— 0, ye godsand small whitebaiters, What's Pickwick without his gaiter* ? The baker has in his pocket a marriage license in blank, and addressing Mrs Bardell as "Wenus of Widows," he gives her half an hour to make up her mind, and with her ejaculation " Not today, baker ; not to-day," and his reply : — I will do as I am bid, O, Sings your Master of the Soils. He goes off warbling the Tra, la, la of his " Baker-roll." Mr Pickwick is thui left alone. He sings first of the " Pickwick portmanteau," then his romance of "The boy and the borough," and finally the still more amusing song of 4I The happy valet." He is once more interrupted by Mrs Bardell, who declares she has " returned to dust," whereupon Mr Pickwick pleasantly exclaims, " What a sepulchral idea I" They sing the solemn " Dust Chant," followed by Mr Pickwick's own song of "The bachelor of forty-two." He then questions Mrs Bardell on the cost of Sam Weller's keep :— Mrs Bardell, tell me true, In your experience, ma'am, Pray tell me, does the keep of two Add much to one's expense, ma'am ? which it must be admitted is not a little compromising. It becomes still more so as the song proceeds, and eventually the widow, exclaiming rapturously, " Ob, bless you, Mr Pickwick !" falls on that astonished gentleman's neck. At that precise moment the voice of the baker is heard without shouting " Loved and adored one !" (as if serenading), and Mrs Bardell forthwith faints. The baker, with ironical politeness, apologises for being in the way, and gaily goes off .trolling his « Baker-roll." Last of all, the « Baker-roll " itself is blended with wedding bells.