DOI issue:
April 13, 1889
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17687#0183
April 13, 1889.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 173
MUSICAL NOTE OF ADMIRATION.
Benoit’s Lucifer at Albert Hall, striking,
of course, not matchless. "Words ought to have
.been from the Works of Congreve. M. Hensler
was unavoidably prevented from being present,
but in his absence his part was taken — how
few are the friends who will take your part in
your absence!—by one M. Constantin De Bom.
Brayvo Bom ! The Lucifer was applied, Bom
flew out of the BoM-shell, and made a decided
hit. How powerfully he would have come out
in a “ canon quartette ” / It was, indeed, lucky
to have a Bom in, able to do it; for if he had
been hoarse, out of time or tune, how a-Bom-
in-ably bad he would have been. Madame
Lemmens re-appeared, as sweet as Lemmens in
the South. The works of Dickens are being
overhauled by librettists and composers. “ S. &
B.’s ” Pickwick has inspired Messrs. Wingfield
and Reeve to do a scene from Nicholas Nickleby;
and it is said that Mr. Barnby sees a great
opportunity for choruses in another Dickensian
work which he will call Barnby Budge. This
information comes from, Tours truly,
Ben Trovatore.
Probable New and Interesting Work.—
The Can- Can and How to dance it, or Some
Beminiscences of Mabille. By Mr. Justioe
Field.
[“ We are men of the world. We have all seen it
—at least, I have seen it at the Mabille.”—Times'
report of Mr. Justice Field's observations in Barnes v.
Ledger!]
I have been informed, the best-drained Hotel in Rome. Our room,
a double one, for the hotel is full, is large and, we hope, comfortable.
There is no prospect from the window, which “gives” on to a
narrow, noisy street. This, after the beautiful view and the quiet
of our Monte Carlo home, is most depressing. It is raining canes
felesque—{“ Must be classic in Rome,” says Johnnie, trying to cheer
up a bit)—which does not tend to enliven us. We descend to the
Restaurant Department. Considered as a Restaurant, it is the
dreariest room possible.
‘ ‘ What a place! ’ ’ exclaims J ohnnie. “Why, the commercial room
of an old-established provincial hotel in England is quite Parisian in
its gaiety compared with this. City of the Caesars! I should think
this place was started when Caligula was on the throne. Ugh! ”
I am too depressed to contradict him. Let us breakfast. Let us
have a Roman breakfast. Not a Roman dish on the menu! We
order a good French dejeuner. “ At all events,” I say, brightening
up a bit, “we can have some Italian wine.”
“Let’s have some Montepulciano,” says Johnnie, regarding the
waiter severely, as though warning him beforehand not to attempt
passing off any Italian wine of an inferior quality upon him.
The waiter, in perfect English (I having addressed him in French,
and Johnnie in Italian), wishes to know what wine it was the gen-
tleman demanded ?
“Montepulciano,” Johnnie repeats, only this time in a less certain
tone, being evidently a trifle distrustful of his pronunciation, and his
eye falters before the waiter’s calm, but not unsympathetic, gaze.
The waiter has never heard of it. “What!” exclaims Johnnie,
“ never heard of Montepulciano ? Why, in Horace’s time-” But
the waiter was not here in Horace’s time.
“Wasn’t that Falernian ? ” I ask, rather siding with the waiter,
who, as an Italian, at least so I suppose, ought to know.
“Well,” returns Johnnie, ceding the point, “let’s have Faler-
nian.” No; we cannot have Falerian; we can have some chianti,
which the waiter can highly recommend, or some Barolo, of which,
he tells us, they have a remarkably fine specimen.
We decide on chianti. It is some time before Johnnie can get
over the waiter’s never having heard of Montepulciano.
“ Of course,” he says to me, “ you ’ve heard of it.” Yes, I fancy
I have ; but, trying to recall it, I cannot quote my authority unless
it’s somewhere in the Bon Gualtier Ballads. The line, I fancy, is
“Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock.” This is
unsatisfactory to Johnnie, who is just beginning to express his
doubt as to whether Montepulciano is in Italy or Spain, when the
breakfast arrives, and we cheer up a bit.
GLEANINGS EROM GALLERIES.
At the Royal Society of British Artists, lovers of striking originality
and thrilling sensation may whistle for Whistler, and sigh for
Willtam-Stottofoldham. There is no sign of the former but
the yellow velarium, and the daring, sparsely clothed nymphs of the
latter no longer disport themselves on the walls. The disciples of the
Prophet of the White Lock are conspicuous by their absence ;
symphonies and nocturnes are no longer played in the gallery, and
“arrangements” are disarranged altogether. The rule is no longer
cabalistic, but Baylisstic. The even tenor of our way is no longer
startled by a Boanergian basso-profondo, or the shrill shriek of a
fanciful falsetto. There is a soothing, pleasant, domestic tone about
the pictorial music, undisturbed jby daring discords, or Wagnerian
waggeries. Notwithstanding this, there. are _ not a few pictures
whicn are mighty pleasant to behold, which give evidence of close
study of Nature, earnest out-of-door work, and great manipulative
dexterity. Among these may be noted the works by Messrs.
Hayllar, Gt. S. Hunter, Yeend King, Basil Bradley, Edwin
Ellis, Yglesias, G. S. Walters, Halfknight, D. Hardy, Catter-
mole, Davidson, W. S. Jay, Fitzgerald, W. H. Pike, A. W.
Strutt, N. Dawson, H. R. Cauty, and others. There are also some
clever portrait statuettes by Mr. Owen Hale.
One of the very best Art Shows now to be seen in London is the
Loan Exhibition of Portrait Miniatures at the Burlington Fine Arts
Club. Both for quality and quantity it is extraordinary, and any-
one who is fortunate enough to get an invitation to inspect it should,
by no means neglect the opportunity. Since the introduction of
photography, the art of Miniature painting has languished—indeed
it has well-nigh gone out altogether. It is sincerely to be hoped this
exhibition will be a means of the revival of the charming art.
Nothing is more wearying to the eye than a collection of photo-
graphic portraits, but of these exquisite miniatures one never gets
weary—one can visit the exhibition again and again. What to do
with, your Catalogue when you emerge from a picture-show is a
problem that has never yet been solved. The managers of this exhi-
bition meet the difficulty in most satisfactory fashion. They lend you
a Catalogue, which you return to the attendant on leaving. Let other
galleries imitate this noble example ! The Art-ful Dodger.
“With a Yeo, my Boys, Yeo, ho!”—Charles Santley sailed for
Melbourne last Friday. Solo, unaccompanied. But we hope en route
that he’ll find a grand p-an’-o passage much to his liking. Bon
voyage ! and many happy returns.
A Rare Leader of Men.—General Boulanger has made him-
self scarce.
Mr. Milvain, Q.C., has re-introduced his new Bill relating to whip-
ping criminals. It will, of course, be retrospective in its operations, j
MUSICAL NOTE OF ADMIRATION.
Benoit’s Lucifer at Albert Hall, striking,
of course, not matchless. "Words ought to have
.been from the Works of Congreve. M. Hensler
was unavoidably prevented from being present,
but in his absence his part was taken — how
few are the friends who will take your part in
your absence!—by one M. Constantin De Bom.
Brayvo Bom ! The Lucifer was applied, Bom
flew out of the BoM-shell, and made a decided
hit. How powerfully he would have come out
in a “ canon quartette ” / It was, indeed, lucky
to have a Bom in, able to do it; for if he had
been hoarse, out of time or tune, how a-Bom-
in-ably bad he would have been. Madame
Lemmens re-appeared, as sweet as Lemmens in
the South. The works of Dickens are being
overhauled by librettists and composers. “ S. &
B.’s ” Pickwick has inspired Messrs. Wingfield
and Reeve to do a scene from Nicholas Nickleby;
and it is said that Mr. Barnby sees a great
opportunity for choruses in another Dickensian
work which he will call Barnby Budge. This
information comes from, Tours truly,
Ben Trovatore.
Probable New and Interesting Work.—
The Can- Can and How to dance it, or Some
Beminiscences of Mabille. By Mr. Justioe
Field.
[“ We are men of the world. We have all seen it
—at least, I have seen it at the Mabille.”—Times'
report of Mr. Justice Field's observations in Barnes v.
Ledger!]
I have been informed, the best-drained Hotel in Rome. Our room,
a double one, for the hotel is full, is large and, we hope, comfortable.
There is no prospect from the window, which “gives” on to a
narrow, noisy street. This, after the beautiful view and the quiet
of our Monte Carlo home, is most depressing. It is raining canes
felesque—{“ Must be classic in Rome,” says Johnnie, trying to cheer
up a bit)—which does not tend to enliven us. We descend to the
Restaurant Department. Considered as a Restaurant, it is the
dreariest room possible.
‘ ‘ What a place! ’ ’ exclaims J ohnnie. “Why, the commercial room
of an old-established provincial hotel in England is quite Parisian in
its gaiety compared with this. City of the Caesars! I should think
this place was started when Caligula was on the throne. Ugh! ”
I am too depressed to contradict him. Let us breakfast. Let us
have a Roman breakfast. Not a Roman dish on the menu! We
order a good French dejeuner. “ At all events,” I say, brightening
up a bit, “we can have some Italian wine.”
“Let’s have some Montepulciano,” says Johnnie, regarding the
waiter severely, as though warning him beforehand not to attempt
passing off any Italian wine of an inferior quality upon him.
The waiter, in perfect English (I having addressed him in French,
and Johnnie in Italian), wishes to know what wine it was the gen-
tleman demanded ?
“Montepulciano,” Johnnie repeats, only this time in a less certain
tone, being evidently a trifle distrustful of his pronunciation, and his
eye falters before the waiter’s calm, but not unsympathetic, gaze.
The waiter has never heard of it. “What!” exclaims Johnnie,
“ never heard of Montepulciano ? Why, in Horace’s time-” But
the waiter was not here in Horace’s time.
“Wasn’t that Falernian ? ” I ask, rather siding with the waiter,
who, as an Italian, at least so I suppose, ought to know.
“Well,” returns Johnnie, ceding the point, “let’s have Faler-
nian.” No; we cannot have Falerian; we can have some chianti,
which the waiter can highly recommend, or some Barolo, of which,
he tells us, they have a remarkably fine specimen.
We decide on chianti. It is some time before Johnnie can get
over the waiter’s never having heard of Montepulciano.
“ Of course,” he says to me, “ you ’ve heard of it.” Yes, I fancy
I have ; but, trying to recall it, I cannot quote my authority unless
it’s somewhere in the Bon Gualtier Ballads. The line, I fancy, is
“Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock.” This is
unsatisfactory to Johnnie, who is just beginning to express his
doubt as to whether Montepulciano is in Italy or Spain, when the
breakfast arrives, and we cheer up a bit.
GLEANINGS EROM GALLERIES.
At the Royal Society of British Artists, lovers of striking originality
and thrilling sensation may whistle for Whistler, and sigh for
Willtam-Stottofoldham. There is no sign of the former but
the yellow velarium, and the daring, sparsely clothed nymphs of the
latter no longer disport themselves on the walls. The disciples of the
Prophet of the White Lock are conspicuous by their absence ;
symphonies and nocturnes are no longer played in the gallery, and
“arrangements” are disarranged altogether. The rule is no longer
cabalistic, but Baylisstic. The even tenor of our way is no longer
startled by a Boanergian basso-profondo, or the shrill shriek of a
fanciful falsetto. There is a soothing, pleasant, domestic tone about
the pictorial music, undisturbed jby daring discords, or Wagnerian
waggeries. Notwithstanding this, there. are _ not a few pictures
whicn are mighty pleasant to behold, which give evidence of close
study of Nature, earnest out-of-door work, and great manipulative
dexterity. Among these may be noted the works by Messrs.
Hayllar, Gt. S. Hunter, Yeend King, Basil Bradley, Edwin
Ellis, Yglesias, G. S. Walters, Halfknight, D. Hardy, Catter-
mole, Davidson, W. S. Jay, Fitzgerald, W. H. Pike, A. W.
Strutt, N. Dawson, H. R. Cauty, and others. There are also some
clever portrait statuettes by Mr. Owen Hale.
One of the very best Art Shows now to be seen in London is the
Loan Exhibition of Portrait Miniatures at the Burlington Fine Arts
Club. Both for quality and quantity it is extraordinary, and any-
one who is fortunate enough to get an invitation to inspect it should,
by no means neglect the opportunity. Since the introduction of
photography, the art of Miniature painting has languished—indeed
it has well-nigh gone out altogether. It is sincerely to be hoped this
exhibition will be a means of the revival of the charming art.
Nothing is more wearying to the eye than a collection of photo-
graphic portraits, but of these exquisite miniatures one never gets
weary—one can visit the exhibition again and again. What to do
with, your Catalogue when you emerge from a picture-show is a
problem that has never yet been solved. The managers of this exhi-
bition meet the difficulty in most satisfactory fashion. They lend you
a Catalogue, which you return to the attendant on leaving. Let other
galleries imitate this noble example ! The Art-ful Dodger.
“With a Yeo, my Boys, Yeo, ho!”—Charles Santley sailed for
Melbourne last Friday. Solo, unaccompanied. But we hope en route
that he’ll find a grand p-an’-o passage much to his liking. Bon
voyage ! and many happy returns.
A Rare Leader of Men.—General Boulanger has made him-
self scarce.
Mr. Milvain, Q.C., has re-introduced his new Bill relating to whip-
ping criminals. It will, of course, be retrospective in its operations, j