THE remainder of the year ’49 has left me nothing to tell. For me, it
was the inane life of that draff of Society—the young man-about-town: the
tailor’s, the haberdasher’s, the bootmaker’s, and trinket-maker’s, young
man; the dancing and ‘hell’-frequenting young man; the young man of the
‘Cider Cellars’ and Piccadilly saloons; the valiant dove-slayer, the
park-lounger, the young lady’s young man—who puts his hat into mourning,
and turns up his trousers because—because the other young man does ditto,
ditto.
I had a share in the Guards’ omnibus box at Covent Garden, with the
privilege attached of going behind the scenes. Ah! that was a real
pleasure. To listen night after night to Grisi and Mario, Alboni and
Lablache, Viardot and Ronconi, Persiani and Tamburini,—and Jenny Lind
too, though she was at the other house. And what an orchestra was
Costa’s—with Sainton leader, and Lindley and old Dragonetti, who together
but alone, accompanied the _recitative_ with their harmonious chords on
’cello and double-bass. Is singing a lost art? Or is that but a
_temporis acti_ question? We who heard those now silent voices fancy
there are none to match them nowadays. Certainly there are no dancers
like Taglioni, and Cerito, and Fanny Elsler, and Carlotta Grisi.
After the opera and the ball, one finished the night at Vauxhall or
Ranelagh; then as gay, and exactly the same, as they were when Miss Becky
Sharpe and fat Jos supped there only five-and-thirty years before.
Except at the Opera, and the Philharmonic, and Exeter Hall, one rarely
heard good music. Monsieur Jullien, that prince of musical
mountebanks—the ‘Prince of Waterloo,’ as John Ella called him, was the
first to popularise classical music at his promenade concerts, by
tentatively introducing a single movement of a symphony here and there in
the programme of his quadrilles and waltzes and music-hall songs.
Mr. Ella, too, furthered the movement with his Musical Union and quartett
parties at Willis’s Rooms, where Sainton and Cooper led alternately, and
the incomparable Piatti and Hill made up the four. Here Ernst, Sivori,
Vieuxtemps, and Bottesini, and Mesdames Schumann, Dulcken, Arabella
Goddard, and all the famous virtuosi played their solos.
Great was the stimulus thus given by Ella’s energy and enthusiasm. As a
proof of what he had to contend with, and what he triumphed over, Hallé’s
‘Life’ may be quoted, where it says: ‘When Mr. Ella asked me [this was in
1848] what I wished to play, and heard that it was one of Beethoven’s
pianoforte sonatas, he exclaimed “Impossible!” and endeavoured to
demonstrate that they were not works to be played in public.’ What
seven-league boots the world has stridden in within the memory of living
men!
John Ella himself led the second violins in Costa’s band, and had begun
life (so I have been told) as a pastry-cook. I knew both him and the
wonderful little Frenchman ‘at home.’ According to both, in their
different ways, Beethoven and Mozart would have been lost to fame but for
their heroic efforts to save them.
I used occasionally to play with Ella at the house of a lady who gave
musical parties. He was always attuned to the highest pitch,—most
good-natured, but most excitable where music was to the fore. We were
rehearsing a quintett, the pianoforte part of which was played by the
young lady of the house—a very pretty girl, and not a bad musician, but
nervous to the point of hysteria. Ella himself was in a hypercritical
state; nothing would go smoothly; and the piano was always (according to
him) the peccant instrument. Again and again he made us restart the
movement. There were a good many friends of the family invited to this
last rehearsal, which made it worse for the poor girl, who was obviously
on the brink of a breakdown. Presently Ella again jumped off his chair,
and shouted: ‘Not E flat! There’s no E flat there; E natural! E
natural! I never in my life knew a young lady so prolific of flats as
you.’ There was a pause, then a giggle, then an explosion; and then the
poor girl, bursting into tears, rushed out of the room.
It was at Ella’s house that I first heard Joachim, then about sixteen, I
suppose. He had not yet performed in London. All the musical
celebrities were present to hear the youthful prodigy. Two quartetts
were played, Ernst leading one and Joachim the other. After it was over,
everyone was enraptured, but no one more so than Ernst, who
unhesitatingly predicted the fame which the great artist has so eminently
achieved.
One more amusing little story belongs to my experiences of these days.
Having two brothers and a brother-in-law in the Guards, I used to dine
often at the Tower, or the Bank, or St. James’s. At the Bank of England
there is always at night an officer’s guard. There is no mess, as the
officer is alone. But the Bank provides dinner for two, in case the
officer should invite a friend. On the occasion I speak of, my
brother-in-law, Sir Archibald Macdonald, was on duty. The soup and fish
were excellent, but we were young and hungry, and the usual leg of mutton
was always a dish to be looked forward to.
When its cover was removed by the waiter we looked in vain; there was
plenty of gravy, but no mutton. Our surprise was even greater than our
dismay, for the waiter swore ‘So ’elp his gawd’ that he saw the cook put
the leg on the dish, and that he himself put the cover on the leg. ‘And
what did you do with it then?’ questioned my host. ‘Nothing,
S’Archibald. Brought it straight in ’ere.’ ‘Do you mean to tell me it
was never out of your hands between this and the kitchen?’ ‘Never, but
for the moment I put it down outside the door to change the plates.’
‘And was there nobody in the passage?’ ‘Not a soul, except the sentry.’
‘I see,’ said my host, who was a quick-witted man. ‘Send the sergeant
here.’ The sergeant came. The facts were related, and the order given
to parade the entire guard, sentry included, in the passage.
The sentry was interrogated first. ‘No, he had not seen nobody in the
passage.’ ‘No one had touched the dish?’ ‘Nobody as ever he seed.’
Then came the orders: ‘Attention. Ground arms. Take off your
bear-skins.’ And the truth—_i.e._, the missing leg—was at once revealed;
the sentry had popped it into his shako. For long after that day, when
the guard either for the Tower or Bank marched through the streets, the
little blackguard boys used to run beside it and cry, ‘Who stole the leg
o’ mutton?’