AN EVENING FROM HOME.
There used to appear daily—and it may be appearing daily now, for aught I know, only, speaking on oath, I haven't lately noticed it—a question addressed by Everybody in General, or by Nobody in Particular to Everybody Else, which took this form: "Where shall we dine to-day?" I forget what the answer was, but, as a rule, the domesticated man, with a good cook in his own kitchen, could answer it offhand by saying to himself, "'Where shall we dine to-day?' Why, at home, of course—where better?—and catch me moving out afterwards." But, if he were contemplating the unpleasant certainty of having post-prandially to leave his hearth and home in order to visit some theatre, opera, or concert, then it might occur to him that he could do the thing well, and give his party a novel treat, if, in French fashion, he took them somewhere to dine, previous to doing their play. Thus it occurred to Yours truly, Y Ti-Bullus Bibulus, a day or two ago, when, dressed in his classical evening Togaryii in a Currus Pulcher (with a Cursor alongside anticipating denarii, and risking the sharp rebuke of a probable Cursor inside the vehicle) he was passing the Oxford Music Hall, and a brightly decorated Restauration caught his observant eye. Was it new, or was it a Restauration restored? Its name, in large letters, "Frascati." This seemed at once to lend itself to a familiar jingle, and I found myself humming,—
Oh, did you never hear of Frascati?
'Tis not far from Rome, eh my hearty?
The place looks so fine,
I will there go and dine,
And I'll bring with me all of my party!
Horatian inspiration! I like to find out a new dining-place. Years ago, by the merest accident sailing north, I discovered the Holborn, and, since then, how many have not blessed the Columbus Holbornius? I do not ask how many have done so. "That is another story." Since then, the taste for dining domestically away from home has come considerably into fashion. The Ladies like it, and the Law allows it. (Quotation from Merchant of Venice adapted to occasion—Restaurant edition—Portia for two.) It is a cheerful change, it assists the circulation of coin, it is an aid to the solution of the problems of Bimetallism, it rejuvenesces the home-fire-sider, it developes ideas, restores the balance of temper; and, if only the dinner be good, everybody goes away delighted,—guests are satisfied, the host is pleased, the waiter smiles on the tipper, the tipper on the manager, the manager on the proprietor, and all is Joy and Junketing! Judge my surprise, when to me, Tibullus, entering Frascati, and as Cicerone, informing my friends (all eager and hungry, and therefore unwilling to dispute) how Frascati was the ancient Tusculum, a well-known face appears welcoming us with smiles. It is Signor Hampi, better known as Mr. Hamp of Holborn. "Salve!" quoth I, as Tibullus. "The same to you, Sir," responds Hampius. "Now," said my friend Wagstaffius, without whom no party is complete, "Now we shall be Hamp-ly satisfied."
The arrangement of the Frascati is a novelty; it is all so open and, though there are plenty of staffers about, not in the least stuffy. It would take a considerable crowd to overcrowd the place and to demoralise the troops of well-disciplined waiters, all under the eye of the ever-vigilant generalissimo of the forces, who in his white waist-coat, black tie, and frock-coat of most decided cut and uncompromising character—there is much in a frock-coat and something too in the wearing of it—is here, there, and everywhere, and only waiting till the last moment, and the right one, when the banquet is ended, to give the word of command, "Charge!"—and the charge (decidedly moderate and previously named in the carte du jour) is received with satisfaction and defrayed with delight.
I have only one suggestion to make, and that affects the music not the meal. Let the music be adapted to the dishes; and not only should the course of time be considered as it progresses, but also the time of the course. For example,—who that has an ear for music can swallow oysters deliberately and sedately while the band is playing a mad galop? Let there be something very slow and pianissimo for the hors d'œuvres: something gentle and soothing for the oysters; there can be an indication of heartiness in the melody that ushers in the soup, as though giving it a warm welcome. There should be a mincing minuet-like movement for the entrées, a sparkling air for the champagne, and something robust for the joint. A sporting tune for the game: sweet melody for the sweets, and a grand and grateful Chorale—a kind of thanksgiving service as it were—when the last crumb and the last bit of cheese have been swept away.
After this to The Pavilion, in plenty of time to hear the ubiquitous Albert Chevalier singing his celebrated coster-songs. Signor Costa was a well-known name in the musical world some years ago; Chevalier Coster is about the best-known now. These ditties are uncommonly telling; the music is so catching and so really good. Then his singing of the little Nipper "on'y so 'igh, that's all," has in it that touch of nature which makes you drop the silent tear and pretend you are blowing your nose. Capital entertainment at the "Pav." Ingress and egress is not difficult, and the place doesn't become inconveniently hot. The sweet singer with the poetic name of Herbert Campbell is very funny; which indeed he would be, even if he never opened his mouth. Such a low comedian's "mug!"
But of all the pretty things to be seen in its perfection here (I have seen it elsewhere, and was not so struck by it) is the Skirt Dance. It is "real elegant," graceful, and picturesque. What a change has come over the Music-hall entertainment since—since—"since even I was a boy!" says the Acting Manager, Mr. Edward Swanborough,—evergreen in the true sense of the word. A vast improvement, no doubt of it. But, with such good amusement for the public, why on earth do the Music-Halls want to do "Dramatic Sketches"? And, if they do them, then, judging by what I saw at the "Pav," I am fain to ask again, why, in the name of Shakspeare, and the musical glasses, should the theatres object?
Does anyone seriously think that Othello or King Lear is wanted at the Music-Halls, or that Sheridan's School for Scandal wouldn't empty any Music-Hall of its patrons? It is the "variety" which is the charm of the Music-hall show, and if any one part of the variety show is a bit too long—longer let us say, than the time it takes to smoke one-eighth of a fair-sized cigar and to drink half a glass of something according to taste—then the audience will pretty plainly express what they understand by Variety, what they have paid to see, and what they mean to have for their money; and if they don't get it there, they'll go somewhere else where it will be given them. The summing-up, Gentlemen, is that, if you want a pleasant evening, you can't do better than dine at Frascati and afterwards patronise the "Pav." Such is the opinion of
Y Ti-Bullus Bib.
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