University of Virginia Library

AFTER THE OPERA.

(Supper in 184's room at the Astor—the brigadier here
“on business”—a poulet pique, and a bottle of champagne
in silver tissue paper, also here “on business”—Eleven
O'clock, Esq., just parting from the
bell of St. Paul's, with a promise to be “round in the
morning.”)

Brig. (nodding, and taking up his glass).—Mi-boy!

184 (laying his hand on the general's arm).—Not in
such profane haste, my prompt sodger! That glass
of wine is the contemporary of bliss—sent to us to be
drank to the health of a bride, now three hours past
the irrevocable gate.

Brig. Married at eight? Do you say that? God
bless her, in a bumper! (gazes abstractedly into the
bottom of the glass, and speaks musingly.)—Ten minutes
past eleven!—Well, who's the lady, and who the
happy man?

184. One of our parish, who, though he does not
personally know us, wishes us to be made aware of
his happiness. We have written ourselves into his
bosom. God bless him for the loving door in his
eye—isn't so, my tree-sparer! So may all men take
us in! Try a bit of chicken now, general, or that
tear in your eye will fall back on an empty stomach!

Brig. And what a difference it makes—what it falls
back upon, mi-boy! The salt in a tear is not natural,
depend on it, or the in'ards would take to it more
kindly. What an etiquette of mercy it would be,
now, to make pathos and bad news matters of full-dress—never
to be alluded to in good society, till a
man has ceased, as Menenius says, “to pout upon the
morning!” What's your to-morrow's leader?

184. Not coming to business at the second glass, I
hope? Fie on you for a disrespect to the bride.
(The brigadier blushes, and covers his confusion by
reading the label on the bottle.) How enchantingly
old Belisario and his captive sung their vows of friendship
to-night! Ah, music and lights!—things are so
much finer for embellishing! Our small friendship
now, general—brought forward to the prompter's cupboard
and foot-lights—do you think it would be encored,
like that?

Brig. As you don't ask for information, mi-boy,
let's proceed to business. Can you give me an idea
of your to-morrow's editorial?

184. No!

Brig. And the boy is to come for it at seven!

184 (seizing a pen). What shall it be?

Brig. Why, there's the mud in the streets—and
the Bohemian Girl—and the wretched weather—and
the menagerie—and Vandenhoff—and Stuart's candy-shop—and
Mrs. Coles—

184. By—the—by!—a discovery!—Tryon ought
to head his play-bills with the Marsellois war-cry—
“to arms!—to arms!” I never saw a pair in my life
more exquisitely moulded and polished than Mrs.
Coles's, of the Bowery circus—as shown after her
third undoing on horseback! It takes a symmetrical
woman, of course, to stand tiptoe upon a flying horse,
and strip, from a jacketed Cracovienne to a short
sleeved evening dress—but ladies of this vocation, well
made in all other respects, are usually thin from the
elbow to the shoulder. Shall I make a “leader” of
Mrs. Coles?

Brig. Certainly not, mi-boy! nor a follower either!
Just indicate, as it were—call attention mysteriously
—hint somehow—that there is a part of the equestrian
performance that reminds you of things you saw in
Italy—statuary or something—delicately, mi-boy—
very delicately! What else have you got down there
in your memorandum-book?

184. Half a dozen topics. Here's a note that
smells of “above Bleecker,” requesting us to implore
of Japonica-dom not to give parties on opera-nights!
Really, they should not! The opera is a rare luxury,
without which a metropolis is like a saloon without a
mirror, and there should be a little combination,
among refined people—if not to give it extra support,
at least to throw no hinderance in its way. They do
this in London—(where, by the way, there are but
two operas a week, and it would be quite enough here)
—Lady Blessington, for one, never “at home” on
opera-nights, and dinner-parties are given at an earlier
hour to release people in time. The quality of the
opera depends, of course, on its enthusiastic support,
and those who can appreciate it can do no less, I
think, than to go in full dress, and go habitually. It
is far pleasanter than a party, is over at bearable bedtime,
and, just now, the company at Palmo's is too
good to be slighted. And, by the way, have you
thought how gloriously Pico has beggared the loud
trumpet we blew for her on her first appearance!
“Ants,” says the old proverb, “live safely till they
have gotten wings, and juniper is not thrown away till
it hath gotten a high top.” She is neither your ant
nor your juniper-blossom—is she general?

Brig. (who has been dozing). Not my aunt, mi-boy,
whoever you're talking of. I never had one—
hope I never shall!

184. What's that note falling out of your pocket,
meantime?

Brig. Well thought of—I brought it to you for a
paragraph. What do you think it is? A complaint
from the ladies that the young men waylay them on
the staircases!

184. Heavens and Sabines! wait till I dip my pen
in the thunder-stand! Who? How? When? How
many?

Brig. At parties—at parties—my dear boy—don't
be violent! This lady declares (brigadier opens the
note) that it is a “perfect nuisance, the mere descent
from the dressing-room to the ball-room”—“a pretty
girl has to come down a perfect ladder of boys—every
stair an engagement to dance”—“no chance for a

pick”—“her mind fatigued with the effort to remember
her partners”—“no hope of dancing with a grown-up
man from Christmas to April”—“green talk altogether”—“dreadful
sense of unripeness”—“no subject
but Pico and Polka”—“begs we will write the
boys off the staircase,” etc., etc. You see your subject.

184. Shall I tell you why that was not written by a
woman? Don't you see that if this system of long
lists of engagements were done away, a lady would
have no escape from a disagreeable partner—no plea
of too many engagements—no chance for a lie whiter
than many a truth? Don't you see, that (now duelling
is laughed at) a lady can leave out an early partner
on the list, or slip a tardy one in, with perfect
ease and comfort—distressing nobody's mamma with
fears of Hoboken! Leave the ladies alone for putting
down troublesome usages! Your letter was
written by some old coxcomb going out of fashion,
who can get nobody to dance with him, and lays it to
the boys on the staircase! Tut!

Brig. Twelve o'clock, and where's your leader?
Oh, mi-boy, think of to-morrow's paper!

184. Hang the leader! Let's go without it—once
in a way!

Brig. Gracious! no! What will the public say?
There goes one o'clock! Bed-time (for me—not for
you)—and nothing from you for the boy in the morning!
Oh, mi-boy, sit up! Go and wash your face,
and feel fresh! Write a paragraph requesting the
Mirror brides to send their champagne, hereafter, exclusively
to the talking partner! Where's my hat?
Get inspired, mi-boy, get inspired! Good night!

184. Stay—stay—stay! Listen to this! (184 reads
the foregoing dialogue to the brigadier, whose face
gradually reassumes its usual serenc placidity. He
lays down his hat and picks another wing of the
chicken.)

Brig. And you have been writing this down, all the
time, with your hand deep in that old cabinet! Bless
me, what a boy you are for expedients! I thought
you was scratching autographs, or writing “Pico,”
or sketching Glenmary, or something! But you
haven't mentioned the weekly?

184. Poh! it doesn't want mentioning.

Brig. Not more than the sun and moon, and other
periodicals—but you trust the world's memory too
much, my worky! They'd forget the sun shone if it
wasn't down in the almanac! Say something!

184. Well, let's see! It's our diary of the world's
goings-on and what we think of it—published every
seventh day. It is a week's corn, ground, sifted, and
bagged, for those who can't go to mill every day. It
is a newspaper without the advertisements and other
trumpery—at half price, in consequence of lumber
left out and one postage instead of seven. It is edited
every day, and other weeklies are edited once a week.
It gives the news, the fashions, the fun, the accidents,
the operas, and our all-spice to make it keep, in a
handsome, preservable shape—bindable for reference
and re-reading—“the time” as it were, “boned and
potted.” Shall I say any more?

Brig. Three dollars a year—

184. Mum, man! Never mention money after
midnight! What will the angels say! Go to bed!
go to bed! (Exit brigadier, after a silent embrace.)