Nature aud Art, December 1, 18G6.] 
MUSIC AT HOME. 
245 
by phlegmatic Londoners, who, as a sarcastic Gaul once 
observed, “ have no ripe fruit at command but ‘ baked 
apples;’” who are illuminated by a sun as dull as a red 
wafer ; and who habitually avoid the inevitable fogs by 
various ingenuities in self-slaughter. Pollio — that Roman 
pro-consul, so heartily despised by the sympathetic public, 
and so thoroughly hated by all tenors — was the Signor’s 
second ; and Rodolfo, in Der Freisclmtz, his third character. 
In the latter he was simply out of place, but in Manrico the 
case was reversed. His Basilio in the immortal Nozze di 
Figaro, given on 10th November, is an admirable performance. 
Signor Morini is not so dull and lifeless as the Basilio at j 
the Royal Italian Opera ; while, by abstaining from exaggera- 
tion, he shows himself wiser in his generation than his 
predecessor here. He is really a happy medium between 
the two Italians, and (spiritually speaking) between Mozart 
in the Elysian, and the British public in what was once 
St. Martin’s Fields. The new Cherubino, Mdlle. Wiziak, is 
overweighted in the part. She is very young, and has a 
clear, fresh voice ; but as yet is neither the actress nor 
singer to realize Mozart’s amorous little “ knave of hearts.” 
Signor Foli, good as a vocalist, and indifferent, to say the 
least, as an actor, played Bartolo in place of Signor Bassi. 
The great ones of the cast were all old friends. That 
mysterious moral pressure known as “general desire” 
necessitated a morning performance on the 14th of the 
month. It was rendered memorable by Mr. Santley’s 
perfectly safe descent from master to man — from Don Gio- 
vanni to Leporello. As a genuine comic performance, it is 
equal to his Fapageno, and this is saying- much. 
Mr. Tully was to be pitied for being called upon to select, 
arrange, pervert, and convert music to that sermon in five 
acts, the Faust of Drury Lane. Gounod not being available, 
the musical director naturally bethought him of Louis 
Spohr’s Faust, which was found too heavy for the sub- 
scribers of the Royal Italian Opera. Mr. Tully, moreover, 
raked from the ashes of the past a few not very interesting 
fragments by Sir Henry Bishop. These musical illustra- 
tions to an adaptation of Goethe’s play, brought out at 
this theatre in 1826, could never have procured for Sir 
Henry his complimentary appellation, “ the English Mozart.” 
Mendelssohn is the third, and Weber the fourth composer 
pressed into this service. The four musicians have nothing- 
in common ; and in the pasticcio compiled from their works 
there is exactly the unsatisfactory effect that was to be 
anticipated. All Spohr would have been too rich and heavy, 
and all Bishop decidedly too light and unsatisfying ; there- 
fore did the Drury Lane conductor select from both, and 
attempt to leaven the incongruous mass with Mendelssohn’s 
superb chorus, “ Lo, what crowding, whirling, crushing!” 
from the Walpurgisnacht. Great composer as Spohr was, 
and as Mendelssohn considered him, he loses by comparisons 
of this kind. The grand old Capellmeister’s opera is 
principally made use of. The overture (one of his best), 
two choruses of witches, one of students, the Festival 
Chorus and Polonaise, and the twilight song in G Minor, 
were pressed into the service. One of Mr. Tally’s choral 
conversions is that of a trio for equal voices into a choral 
“ Hymn to the Virgin.” Poor Sir Henry’s intentions are 
likewise flouted by a certain song made popular by Miss 
Stephens, the Marguerite of 1826, being transformed into a 
“Chorus of Seraphs.” Miss Poole sings the romance in G 
Minor ; and Mr. W. Harrison appears as Valentine, “ with a 
song,” as they used to say in ancient playbills. The song 
is Weber’s, from Fu/ryanthe, and Mr. Harrison sings it as 
tunefully as he can, and finds the complacent public still 
kind and compassionate. The choral and instrumental 
music, considering that Drury Lane is not an operatic 
theatre, is very creditably performed. 
Saturday is once more an interesting day at the Sydenham 
Academy of the Fine Arts, otherwise the “ People’s Palace.” 
The leaves are off the oak, elm, and chestnut trees in the 
Company’s garden, and the winter concerts are “on” in the 
Company’s music-room, which, by the way, requires to be 
enlarged. Mr. Manns will reign supreme until forced to 
abdicate in favour of Christmas festivities, when pantomime 
in the transept is found remunerative, and the nave is trans- 
formed into a huge bazaar of cheap toys, equally inexpensive 
jewellery, and sweetmeats at very reasonable prices. The 
winter concerts are peculiar, and the distinctive marks of 
which they can boast receive full acknowledgment from 
amateurs. Even at the concerts of the most celebrated 
London musical societies something very like monotony is 
the rule. Neither of the Philharmonics can be deemed so 
comprehensive in its scheme of action, nor so effectual in 
diffusing a knowledge of art in its varied branches, as these 
admirably chosen entertainments. Conservatism in music 
is a principle we all honour, and standard Symphonies are 
always welcome to, or, in point of fact, demanded by, 
English connoisseurs. We must have the Pastoral and 
C Minor of Beethoven, the “ Jupiter” and E fiat of Mozart, 
, and the “ Italian” of Mendelssohn. These luxuries are con- 
ceded ; and at the same time are forthcoming less generally 
known works of the same class by the above composers. 
Musical Tories will not give up their revered “ Papa Haydn,” 
with his gems of clear and unaffected melody in their simple 
and elegant setting. The grand old father of Symphony 
shares places of honour with his stalwart sons ; and the 
strong prejudices of obstinate Britons are studiously re- 
spected by Augustus Manns, a real enthusiast, a thorough 
musician, and one of the most hard-working disciples of art 
in the Queen’s dominions. Hero-worship is uncongenial to 
many, but to recognize conscientious efforts for the advance- 
ment of music and the cultivation of pure taste is both a 
privilege and a pleasure. The originator and conductor of 
these concerts chooses a hard and difficult path; but in 
working out his mission so perseveringly, he gains the 
respect, esteem, and confidence of all those capable of dis- 
criminating between good music and a vulgar commonplace 
substitute. The multitude are doubtless content to refresh 
themselves at somewhat turgid streams of melody, but by 
persuasion they may be led upwards towards that sparkling 
fountain into which the fabled Orpheus perhaps dipped his 
lute. 
In addition to the performance of standard works, well — 
and not so well — known, the winter concerts are distin- 
guished by the constant production of absolute novelties, 
not as regards the recent date of their birth, but in that 
refreshing sense of never having been previously given in 
this country. Mr. Manns can point to a voluminous list of 
symphonies, overtures, and other compositions, which have 
been heard for the first time in the Sydenham music-room. 
Modern Germany is frequently represented, and this season 
a certain prominence has been given to Robert Schumann, 
a genius beyond all doubt, and one of the most independent 
composers the world has yet seen. No one would suspect 
Mr. Manns of being a thorough believer in the “ music of 
the future” — a Wagnerite, for instance; but that he has a 
deep sympathy with Schumann’s compositions is evident. 
Three of his symphonies — No. 1 in B flat, No. 2 in C Major, 
and No. 4 in D Minor — are now familiar to the Saturday 
public. In one of the interesting programme-notes signed 
A. M., the representative of those initials predicts that, 
when Schumann’s music is “known” in England, it will as 
a natural consequence be “ loved.” The signs of the times 
hardly point to that sanguine conclusion, and the probability 
is that, ere the composer is thoroughly loved in this country, 
Mr. Manns will have attained a patriarchal age second only 
to that of Methusaleh. We shoirld “ love” Schumann as we 
love the old classics, if we could always follow him as easily. 
It is not our fault that poor Robert Schumann wrote such 
wild and wayward music ; that his lovely subjects are, as a 
rule, held up and thrown away again before we have time to 
revel in their beauty ; that continuity is so seldom and con- 
fusion so frequently forthcoming ; and that the marvellously 
rich stores of his knowledge were so often directed into tor- 
tuous paths whither ordinary perceptions cannot follow him. 
There is no disguising the fact that a certain degree of 
weariness is ordinarily felt by the majority of those who 
listen attentively to Schumann’s symphonies. The Scherzo 
in the “C Major” everyone must “love,” because they can 
follow it as perfectly as any ever written. Scherzos, as a 
matter of course, give composers less opportunity of becom- 
ing vague and indefinite than other movements, but the 
change here from obscurity to distinctness is refreshing as 
that from “ black letter” to gigantic “ posters.” Mr. Manns 
