DOI issue:
September 19, 1874
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16939#0129
September 19, 1874.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
121
OUR REPRESENTATIVE MAN.
Goes to dine with a noble Friend; then to the Promenade Concerts,
and Reports on both.
ir,—Being unwilling to do
yourself what another
could do for you (I will
make no comparisons), you
expressed your wish that
I should represent you at
the Promenade Concerts,
Covent Garden Theatre.
Your wish to me is law.
As to my opinion of law,
that is another question.
I mentioned my intentions
to the dear old D—ke-
well, suffice it to say to an
excellent and noble friend
of mine, who immediately
exclaimed, “ Let us go to-
gether.” “Not full dress,
I returned quickly, for the
dear D—ke (I mean my
dear and noble friend) has
a way of wearing his stars
and garters on every pos-
sible occasion.
“No, no,” he replied,
“go as we are.”
How we were at that
moment is of not much
importance. Neat but not gaudy: decidedly striking, but not
obtrusively stylish. Well, Sir, we stepped into the barouche, and
the gallant steppers set out in the direction of Holborn.
“Holborn ? ” said 1, turning to my noble friend.
He winked; as he reclined on the damask cushions, he winked.
Full of his fun: that’s the best of him, whether he’s his Grace
before or after dinner, always full of his fun: of his own fun I
mean.
“Yes,” he answered, chuckling. “I am going to give you a
dinner at a new place.”
“New or old,” I returned heartily, “a stalled ox is better than
no beef and a contented mind.”
But here we pulled up with a jerk.
“This is the place. Stand still, my steed! ” And here it was.
Could I believe my eyes ? Yes. I am, as you know, a young man
from the country, and these sudden surprises do get over me.
Where once stood that undecided edifice which was a dancing
place in the winter, and a bathing place in the summer, though
in neither capacity did it, I believe, get on swimmingly, there is
now a spacious, well-arranged, admirably-served, well-conducted,
leasantly-ventilated, resplendent Restaurant, the like of which I
ave not yet come across m London, either west or east. An excel-
lent repast is served at a fixed moderate tariff—I am not above
saying it was three-and-sixpence, with threepence for the waiter
(which that polite functionary told us plaintively he didn’t get, and
so—but no matter, what was a sovereign, more or less, to my noble
friend, the donor of the feast ? hah!) and for that sum what had
we ? A choice of soups, a choice of fish, a choice of entrees, a roti, a
sweet (the only approach to a failure) cheese, ices, and dessert of
plums, pears, and nuts. The liquor was not vin compris, but ’twas
uncommonly good, and worth the extra money. During this
repast, served without any unnecessary delay between the courses,
a well-selected orchestra discoursed sweet music. Why we were
dining royally! My noble friend was good enough to inform me
that he had never had a better dinner, accompanied by a better
band, even in B-ck-gh-m Pa-ace, or at W-nds-r C-stle. In fact,
he admitted that the cheese at either of the above-named places was
far inferior to that of which we had partaken at the Holborn
j Restaurant.
The airs were not, to my thinking, sufficiently well chosen; but
this is a serious subject, on which an essay might he written.
Digestion is nine points of the law. Dinner-music should be
neither lugubrious, nor exciting. You should float on it as on a
melodious stream, eating the while without distraction. The D—ke
(I mean my noble friend) said it reminded him of Yienna. I don’t
know why, and he didn’t explain himself. It didn’t remind me of
Vienna.; but that may arise from my never having been there.
One thing I will swear to, that coming out of that dull second-hand
, thoroughfare, it did seem as if we were in some gay Parisian realm
I of joy ; only I cannot call to mind any place in that festive capital
where there is so reasonable and so good a dinner set to music.
The dinner-music time is six-eight: I mean, it is performed from
six to eight. Then there is a temporary lull. But with the coffee and
cigars, Mr. Ripley’s musicians burst forth again, and it must be a
strong attraction, or a stronger sense of duty, which is able to tear
the lounging and satisfied one from so blissful a scene.
But duty called, and the Covent Garden Concert had already com-
menced.
The D—ke (I mean my friend), who is himself an amateur of
music, and no mean performer on the Hungarian Bolophone (a
slightly ponderous instrument, demanding most delicate manipula-
tion, and. generally played in the mountains during the grape
season) was anxious not to miss one single morqeau in M. Herye’s
programme.
I am delighted to say that we were in time to hear selections from
M. Gounod’s Faust (arranged by the late Alfred Mellon), per-
formed in first-rate style—a trifle too loud occasionally, that was
all. Then came the beautiful Mr. Levy, of European and Cornopean
celebrity, with a decoration in his button-hole, and looking un- \
commonly like some distant relation of the great Bonaparte
family: perhaps a Corsican brother. Enthusiastic cheers greeted
him, and to oblige the company, he graciously took the encore,
beamed on the audience through his eye-glass, and played something
totally different, of a soft and touching character. Then, amid the
plaudits of the immense assembly of promenaders, he blew himself
out, and disappeared.
The “vocals” were not strong on this particular occasion. But
what shall he do who cometh after the King ! And when the King
has been hard at work on a cornet-a-pistons, a small man with a
pretty voice hasn’t much chance. Nevertheless, the generous audience
insisted on this gentleman singing twice: because, perhaps, they
weren’t quite certain of what he was doing the first time. Not his
fault: only his misfortune, in having to begin before the echoes of
Mr. Levy’s instrument had entirely died away. Altogether, though
this clearly was not the best entertainment provided by the Messrs.
Gatti for the public, it was sufficiently good to induce your Repre-
sentative to wish for another, and a better opportunity of hearing
one of these concerts. The place was crowded; and that is a good
sign. The man, as the poet says, who has not music in his soul,
would lay hands on a female, not in the way of kindness, and
get six months, with an occasional cat-o’-nine tails as a refresher,
during his hours of recreation. The D—ke (I mean my worthy
and excellent friend), regretted the absence of the Bolophone,
gently beat the time all wrong to some dance music, composed and
conducted by Mister Keler Bela (there’s a name!), and wagging
his venerable and musical head, dropped off into the sweetest
infantine-like slumber. Noticing that he was evincing symptoms
of being about to accompany Mademoiselle Benati’s last song on
the nasal organ, I deferentially aroused him, and led him forth
into the chill September night. This was the first air that seemed
to thoroughly awake the hero of the Bolophone, who, after re-
turning to express himself to the energetic manager, Mr. Russell,
as much pleased with the performance, and promising to give
H—r Ma—esty a favourable report of the entire entertainment,
took my arm and sauntered towards--but I must not be in-
discreet. My noble friend is not Corinthian Tom, nor I Master
Jerry, but now, and always,
Your Representative.
CORRESPONDENCE.
If you please, Sir, as a young visitor to the Metropolis, and well
acquainted with History, I want to ask you—
Who is the Constable of the Tower ?
What is his Number ?
Is he dressed like other Constables ?
Can he run anyone in, and make them move on if found loitering
on his beat ?
Is his beat all round the Tower ?
Is he a special ? one of the Force de Tour, empowered to use a
tour deforce ? (You see I am well up in French.)
I saw a very amiable-looking Policeman cracking nuts in the
vicinity of the Tower. Do you think this was the Constable in
question ? Yours,
Rusty Cuss in Urbe.
P.S.—Pantheon means a place where all the Gods are. I know
Greek. The Pantheon in Regent Street I find is now a wire
merchant’s. Is England exclusively devoted to Bacchus, and is
Temperance a heresy ?_
A British. Idea.
The Post announces that:—
“ The Right Hon. Sir Alexander Cockburn, the Lord Chief Justice of
the Queen’s Bench, is cruising in his yacht off the coast of Spain.”
If a German fleet does not overawe the Carlists, surely the Lord
Chief Justice of England in Spanish waters will!
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
121
OUR REPRESENTATIVE MAN.
Goes to dine with a noble Friend; then to the Promenade Concerts,
and Reports on both.
ir,—Being unwilling to do
yourself what another
could do for you (I will
make no comparisons), you
expressed your wish that
I should represent you at
the Promenade Concerts,
Covent Garden Theatre.
Your wish to me is law.
As to my opinion of law,
that is another question.
I mentioned my intentions
to the dear old D—ke-
well, suffice it to say to an
excellent and noble friend
of mine, who immediately
exclaimed, “ Let us go to-
gether.” “Not full dress,
I returned quickly, for the
dear D—ke (I mean my
dear and noble friend) has
a way of wearing his stars
and garters on every pos-
sible occasion.
“No, no,” he replied,
“go as we are.”
How we were at that
moment is of not much
importance. Neat but not gaudy: decidedly striking, but not
obtrusively stylish. Well, Sir, we stepped into the barouche, and
the gallant steppers set out in the direction of Holborn.
“Holborn ? ” said 1, turning to my noble friend.
He winked; as he reclined on the damask cushions, he winked.
Full of his fun: that’s the best of him, whether he’s his Grace
before or after dinner, always full of his fun: of his own fun I
mean.
“Yes,” he answered, chuckling. “I am going to give you a
dinner at a new place.”
“New or old,” I returned heartily, “a stalled ox is better than
no beef and a contented mind.”
But here we pulled up with a jerk.
“This is the place. Stand still, my steed! ” And here it was.
Could I believe my eyes ? Yes. I am, as you know, a young man
from the country, and these sudden surprises do get over me.
Where once stood that undecided edifice which was a dancing
place in the winter, and a bathing place in the summer, though
in neither capacity did it, I believe, get on swimmingly, there is
now a spacious, well-arranged, admirably-served, well-conducted,
leasantly-ventilated, resplendent Restaurant, the like of which I
ave not yet come across m London, either west or east. An excel-
lent repast is served at a fixed moderate tariff—I am not above
saying it was three-and-sixpence, with threepence for the waiter
(which that polite functionary told us plaintively he didn’t get, and
so—but no matter, what was a sovereign, more or less, to my noble
friend, the donor of the feast ? hah!) and for that sum what had
we ? A choice of soups, a choice of fish, a choice of entrees, a roti, a
sweet (the only approach to a failure) cheese, ices, and dessert of
plums, pears, and nuts. The liquor was not vin compris, but ’twas
uncommonly good, and worth the extra money. During this
repast, served without any unnecessary delay between the courses,
a well-selected orchestra discoursed sweet music. Why we were
dining royally! My noble friend was good enough to inform me
that he had never had a better dinner, accompanied by a better
band, even in B-ck-gh-m Pa-ace, or at W-nds-r C-stle. In fact,
he admitted that the cheese at either of the above-named places was
far inferior to that of which we had partaken at the Holborn
j Restaurant.
The airs were not, to my thinking, sufficiently well chosen; but
this is a serious subject, on which an essay might he written.
Digestion is nine points of the law. Dinner-music should be
neither lugubrious, nor exciting. You should float on it as on a
melodious stream, eating the while without distraction. The D—ke
(I mean my noble friend) said it reminded him of Yienna. I don’t
know why, and he didn’t explain himself. It didn’t remind me of
Vienna.; but that may arise from my never having been there.
One thing I will swear to, that coming out of that dull second-hand
, thoroughfare, it did seem as if we were in some gay Parisian realm
I of joy ; only I cannot call to mind any place in that festive capital
where there is so reasonable and so good a dinner set to music.
The dinner-music time is six-eight: I mean, it is performed from
six to eight. Then there is a temporary lull. But with the coffee and
cigars, Mr. Ripley’s musicians burst forth again, and it must be a
strong attraction, or a stronger sense of duty, which is able to tear
the lounging and satisfied one from so blissful a scene.
But duty called, and the Covent Garden Concert had already com-
menced.
The D—ke (I mean my friend), who is himself an amateur of
music, and no mean performer on the Hungarian Bolophone (a
slightly ponderous instrument, demanding most delicate manipula-
tion, and. generally played in the mountains during the grape
season) was anxious not to miss one single morqeau in M. Herye’s
programme.
I am delighted to say that we were in time to hear selections from
M. Gounod’s Faust (arranged by the late Alfred Mellon), per-
formed in first-rate style—a trifle too loud occasionally, that was
all. Then came the beautiful Mr. Levy, of European and Cornopean
celebrity, with a decoration in his button-hole, and looking un- \
commonly like some distant relation of the great Bonaparte
family: perhaps a Corsican brother. Enthusiastic cheers greeted
him, and to oblige the company, he graciously took the encore,
beamed on the audience through his eye-glass, and played something
totally different, of a soft and touching character. Then, amid the
plaudits of the immense assembly of promenaders, he blew himself
out, and disappeared.
The “vocals” were not strong on this particular occasion. But
what shall he do who cometh after the King ! And when the King
has been hard at work on a cornet-a-pistons, a small man with a
pretty voice hasn’t much chance. Nevertheless, the generous audience
insisted on this gentleman singing twice: because, perhaps, they
weren’t quite certain of what he was doing the first time. Not his
fault: only his misfortune, in having to begin before the echoes of
Mr. Levy’s instrument had entirely died away. Altogether, though
this clearly was not the best entertainment provided by the Messrs.
Gatti for the public, it was sufficiently good to induce your Repre-
sentative to wish for another, and a better opportunity of hearing
one of these concerts. The place was crowded; and that is a good
sign. The man, as the poet says, who has not music in his soul,
would lay hands on a female, not in the way of kindness, and
get six months, with an occasional cat-o’-nine tails as a refresher,
during his hours of recreation. The D—ke (I mean my worthy
and excellent friend), regretted the absence of the Bolophone,
gently beat the time all wrong to some dance music, composed and
conducted by Mister Keler Bela (there’s a name!), and wagging
his venerable and musical head, dropped off into the sweetest
infantine-like slumber. Noticing that he was evincing symptoms
of being about to accompany Mademoiselle Benati’s last song on
the nasal organ, I deferentially aroused him, and led him forth
into the chill September night. This was the first air that seemed
to thoroughly awake the hero of the Bolophone, who, after re-
turning to express himself to the energetic manager, Mr. Russell,
as much pleased with the performance, and promising to give
H—r Ma—esty a favourable report of the entire entertainment,
took my arm and sauntered towards--but I must not be in-
discreet. My noble friend is not Corinthian Tom, nor I Master
Jerry, but now, and always,
Your Representative.
CORRESPONDENCE.
If you please, Sir, as a young visitor to the Metropolis, and well
acquainted with History, I want to ask you—
Who is the Constable of the Tower ?
What is his Number ?
Is he dressed like other Constables ?
Can he run anyone in, and make them move on if found loitering
on his beat ?
Is his beat all round the Tower ?
Is he a special ? one of the Force de Tour, empowered to use a
tour deforce ? (You see I am well up in French.)
I saw a very amiable-looking Policeman cracking nuts in the
vicinity of the Tower. Do you think this was the Constable in
question ? Yours,
Rusty Cuss in Urbe.
P.S.—Pantheon means a place where all the Gods are. I know
Greek. The Pantheon in Regent Street I find is now a wire
merchant’s. Is England exclusively devoted to Bacchus, and is
Temperance a heresy ?_
A British. Idea.
The Post announces that:—
“ The Right Hon. Sir Alexander Cockburn, the Lord Chief Justice of
the Queen’s Bench, is cruising in his yacht off the coast of Spain.”
If a German fleet does not overawe the Carlists, surely the Lord
Chief Justice of England in Spanish waters will!