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!
[Illustration: "Our Hamp-phitryon."]
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'oeuvres_: 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.
[Illustration: "Up I came with my little lot!!"]
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