[Illustration]
After considerable calculation as to re-imbursement for present outlay
by a consistent course of future economy, I took a six-guinea stall
for the EMPEROR's state visit to the Opera. "Court dress" being
"indispensable," I decided to summon to my aid the well-known amateur
theatrical costumier, DATHAN & Co. DATHAN sees at a glance what I
want. He measures me with his eye. "Co." in waiting is dispatched to
bring down two or three Court suits. In less than ten minutes I am
perfectly fitted, that is, in DATHAN's not entirely disinterested but
still highly artistic opinion, with which "Co." unhesitatingly agrees.
For my own part, as a mere lay-figure, I should have preferred the
continuations being a trifle less tight round the knee; also if the
coat were a little easier about the shoulders, and not quite so baggy
in the back I should breathe more freely; and, while we are on the
subject, the collar might be lower, as it is in close proximity
to the lobes of my ears and irritatingly tickles me. The white
waistcoat--"well," as "Co.," in the absence of DATHAN, rapturously
observes, "might ha' been made for yer!" "It might," true: but it
certainly wasn't, as it is somewhat long, and there's a little shyness
on the part of the last button but one in meeting the button-hole with
which it ought to be on the best possible terms. But sharp-eyed little
"Co." sees his way out of the difficulty; he hoists up the collar,
he adjusts pins in the back, and, in a second, button and hole are
in each other's embrace. The coat-collar can be taken in and done
for--"nothing easier," says the undaunted Co.--and the part across my
manly chest can be let out,--of course not a difficulty, as the whole
suit, will be "let out" for the evening.
I am generally satisfied with my appearance in the glass as a portrait
of a gentleman in repose, but I feel that any display of emotion, even
of irrepressible loyalty, would probably be disastrous to some portion
of my attire. The Court sword, too, is rather embarrassing, and,
though Co. has adroitly fixed it for me by some mysterious process
of invisible arrangement, yet, when I shall be left alone with the
sheathed weapon, and have to do all this buckling and hitching for
myself, I feel sure that that sword, which is only worn on the left to
defend the right, will give me no inconsiderable trouble. Fortunately
our washerwoman's husband, who comes late on a Wednesday for the
linen, is a retired sergeant, and knows how this sort of thing should
be done. He will assist in arming me for the operatic fray. _Tout va
bien._
_At Opera, Wednesday Night, July 8_.--Grand sight. Very grand;
not only that, but beautiful. Costumes, uniforms, military,
diplomatic,--all sorts, the real article and the Dathanic,--impossible
to tell one from the other, taking them as a lot; but still, I feel
that it is better to remain in my Stall, where only the upper part
of me is visible to the unclothed eye. The consciousness that I am
here, not as myself, but in disguise as somebody else, name unknown,
rather oppresses me; only at first, however, as very soon I recognise
a number of familiar faces and figures all in strange array. A
stockbroker or two, a few journalists, several ordinary people
belonging to various callings and professions, some others noble, some
gentle, some simple, but most of us eyeing each other furtively, and
wondering where the deuce the other fellow got his costume from, and
what right he has to wear it.
Every moment I expect some gaily attired person to come up and say to
me confidentially, "I know that suit; I wore it last so-and-so. Isn't
it a trifle tight about the shoulders? Beware! when I wore it, it
went a bit in the back." Man in gorgeous uniform makes his way to
the vacant Stall next to me. I am a bit flustered until he salutes me
heartily with--"How d'ye do? How are you?" Why, it's--well, no matter
who it is. I have met him everywhere for years; we are the best of
friends. I knew he is something; somewhere in the City, but not much
anywhere else, and at all events he is no more a military man than I
am a courtier, but when he confides to me that he was once upon a time
in the Dampshire Yeomanry, and that this uniform has served him for
years, and looks uncommonly well at night though it wouldn't bear the
light of day, I begin to comprehend the entire scene.
My friend--we will call him TOMMY TUCKER, (for I have frequently
encountered him at supper, and am aware of his capacity)--is full of
information. Some of our neighbours of an inquiring turn are asking
one another who _that_ is, and who _this_ is, and so forth; and when
the answers are incorrect, or even before the answers can be given,
TOMMY TUCKER has replied in a low voice, with a view to imparting
general information gratis, that So-and-So, in scarlet and silver, is
Mr. BLACKSTONE, of BLACKSTONE & SONS, head of the great Coal Merchant
Firm; that the man in blue and silver, supposed to be a Hungarian
_attaché_, is the junior partner in BUNNUMS & Co., the Big Cake
Purveyor; and that the warlike person, with a jingling sabre, is not
a Prussian officer, but is Deputy JONES, in the gorgeous uniform of
the Old Buckshire Yeomanry; and when he's in the City, where he began
in the usual way that millionnaires always do begin, by sweeping out
an office, he is simply JONES, of Messrs. BROWN, JONES, ROBINSON
& Co., Wharfingers. TOMMY TUCKER knows everybody, and everything
about everybody, too. Who is that lady with a splendid tiara of
diamonds?--that is the Duchess of BURLINGTON, "who"--and here, in a
semi-whisper, intended for everybody's information, he tells how those
brilliants come out for "one night only," and how they will be called
for to-morrow morning by a confidential agent from POPSHOPPER's
Establishment in the Great Loan Land. TOM TUCKER is full of these
stories. There isn't a person he doesn't know, until happening to
recognise here a one and there a one, I correct him of my own private
and personal knowledge, when he frankly admits that I am right;
and after casually explaining how he does occasionally mistake the
Countess of DUNNOYER for Lady ELIZABETH MARTIN, he goes off at a
tangent, and picks out several other distinguished-looking personages,
numbering them as "first to right," "second to left," and so forth, as
if in a collection of wax-works, giving to each one of them a name and
a history. His acquaintance with the private life of the aristocracy
and the plutocracy is so extensive that I can only wonder at his
knowledge, his or marvel at wondrous powers of ready invention.
[Illustration: Birds can sing, but wouldn't sing, and couldn't be made
to sing, at Covent Garden, Wednesday, July 8.]
So it goes on. Then enter the chief characters. All rise; the
orchestra plays the "_National Anthem_," in German, suppose, out
of compliment to our Imperial visitors; and afterwards in English
(translated, and, I fancy, "transposed"), in honour of H.R.H. the
Prince and Princess. All the wax-work figures form in a row, under the
direction of Lord Chamberlain LATHOM; the machinery is put in motion;
they all bow to the audience; glasses are riveted on them; everybody
is craning and straining to get a good view; the people in the gallery
and just over the Royal Box loyally enjoy the scene, being quite
unable to see any of the distinguished persons who are, in this
instance, "quite beneath their notice." And then Signor MANCINELLI
turns his back on everybody, and gets to business.
After this, I feel that a buckle, somewhere or other, has turned
traitor, and inventing an excuse with a readiness worthy of TOMMY
TUCKER himself, I suddenly, but cautiously, retire. I descend the
grand staircase between two rows of beefeaters reclining drowsily at
their ease. Fast asleep, some of 'em, after too much beef. Imagine
myself a prisoner, in disguise of course, escaping from the Tower
in the olden time. Then, fearing the collapse of another buckle
or button, or the sudden "giving" of a seam, I steal cautiously
past the Guards--then past serried ranks of soldiers under the
colonnade--then--once more in the street of Bow, and I am free! I
breathe again.
Hie thee home, my gallant steed (an eighteenpenny fare in a hansom),
and let me resume the costume of private life, trifle with a cutlet,
drain the goblet and smoke the mild havannah. _Sic transit gloria_
Wednesday!
(_Signed._) (Mysteriously.) THE DUKE OF DIS GUISE.
P.S.--Although there was more money in the house than on any previous
occasion, yet never did I see so many persons who had "come in with
orders," which they displayed lavishly, wearing them upon their manly
buzzums.
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