PICCADILLY PLAYERS.
A few evenings since, I assisted at a Members' Concert in Piccadilly, where a very fair exhibition of Amateur Musical talent was displayed by the "Strolling Players." The vocal part of the entertainment was especially good, thanks to the really charming singing of the Misses Agnes Janson and Hamlin. The geniuses in the Orchestra who are for all time, and any tune, managed occasionally to get a little out of hand in spite of Mr. Norfolk Megone's earnest conductorship. Taken all round, "The First Members' Concert" was so good that I should not have the smallest objection to attending the Second.
The Ancient Mariner with Mr. J. F. Barnett's brilliant music at St. James's Hall last Thursday night, held entranced a large audience which listened "like a three ears child" ("Had I three ears I'd hear thee," says Macbeth. Did Coleridge write Shakspeare?—however, this has nothing much to do with the cantata, and so on we goes again)—so "the Mariner hath his Will" (which is almost conclusive evidence that Coleridge's Mariner was written by Will Shakspeare) and we were all delighted. I hadn't a book. Who was Albert Ross that the Mariner shot? Madame Patey sang "O Sleep, it is a Genteel Thing!" (I think these were the words) with great feeling and expression. Beautiful idea, "sleep a genteel thing!" Somebody told me I was wrong, and that the poet wrote, "O Sleep, it is a Gentle Thing!" which anybody could have said, without being a poet. So I prefer my own version. The recitative (Santley) and chorus (Everybody), about "the coming wind did roar," and something (I didn't catch what) was "like a sledge," and "the Moon was on its side and then upon its edge," which sounds just what a harvest moon would do after a good day's harvesting, were excellent.
Then followed Mr. C. V. Stanford's Symphony in F Minor, "The Irish" as my neighbour informed me, to which I replied, "Oh, indeed!" and appeared, as I hope, much interested; though what he meant I haven't the smallest idea. Who was my neighbour?—a very learned person who kept on drawing my attention to the excellent instrumentation, and the admirable use which the Composer had made of his "strings"—I didn't see that he had any "strings," but I said, "Ah, yes,"—his "Wood-wind and Horns." "Just observe his horns!" said my neighbour enthusiastically. He spoke of Mr. C. V. Stanford as if he were drawing the portrait of Ancient Nicholas, as portrayed by Cruikshank when illustrating The Lay of S. Médard, in the Ingoldsby Legends. A Composer with Strings, Wood-wind ("comest thou with blasts from——" &c., as Baconspeare hath it) and "horns" is the man to write a cantata entitled "Herne the Hunter," and I am not at all sure that there isn't a Herne already in existence, and that that Herne isn't His'n. After a pause (during which the orchestra continued playing) my neighbour begged me to notice that now the theme was, "Remember the glories of O'Brien the Brave," but at this point not wishing to enter into a political discussion which might have landed me in the police-station, I courteously, but firmly, wished him good night, and having signified to everybody generally the extreme pleasure I had derived from the entertainment provided by the Messrs. Novello and Ewer, I gracefully withdrew, and am, No Fellow, but Ewers truly,
The Cricket on the Harp.
P.S.—À propos of music, I cannot refrain from mentioning the gathering of the élite who recently collected together to do honour to the talents of Mrs. Dutton Cook. Madame Albani was in great force, and the fair bénéficiaire played with her customary grace and artistic feeling, eliciting the invariable result of unbounded applause. It is to be greatly regretted that the Public have not the opportunity of hearing Mrs. Dutton Cook more frequently. She is certainly in the first rank of pianists and a sound musician.
"I hear," said Mrs. Ram, "that the Princess Christian has written about the Margarine of Baireuth. I like to hear of Royalty interesting themselves in such matters. However," she added, "of course, they know which side their Bread's buttered, and like the butter, whether at home or abroad—that is, here or at Baireuth—to be of the very best. So do I."