Punch: Punch (101.1891)

July 18, 1891.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

33

IMPERIAL AND OPERATIC.

After considerable calculation as to re-imbursenient for present
outlay bra 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
Ids eye. " Co." in waiting is dispatched to
i bring down two or three Court suits. In less
•than ten minutes I am perfectly fitted, that
*j 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. Fortu-
nately 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 hten.

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

a Prussian officer, but is Deputy Jones, in the gorgeous uniform
of the Old Buckshire Yeomanry ; and when he's in the City, where lie
began in the usual way that milLionnaires always do begin, by sweep-
ing 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 Dunnoter for Lady Elizabeth
Martin, he goes off at a tangent, and picks out several other
distinguished-
looking person-
ages, numbering
them as " first to
right," "second
to left," and so
forth, as if in a
collection of
wax-works, giv-
ing to each one of
them a name and
a history. His
acq uai nt ance
with the private
life of the aris-
tocracy and the
plutocracy is so
extensive that I
can only wonder
at his knowledge,
or marvel at his
wondrous powers
of ready inven-
tion.

So it goes on.
Then enter the
chief characters.
All rise ; the ?
orchestra plays _. , '
the " \ational -ljln's that can sing, but wouldn't sin?, and couldn't be
Anthem " in ma^e to smS> at Covent Garden. Wednesday, July 8.
German, I suppose, out of compliment to our !Imperial visitors;
and afterwards in English (translated, and, I fancy, " trans-

to tell one from the other, taking them as a lot; but still, I feel j posed "), in honour of H.R.H. the Prince and Princess. All the
that it is better to remain in my Stall, where only the upper part of j wax-work figures form in a row, under the direction of Lord
me is visible to the unclothed" eye. The consciousness that I am j Chamberlain Lathom ; the machinery is put in motion ; they all
here, not as myself, but in disguise as somebody else, name un- ' bow to the audience; glasses are riveted on them; everybody is
known, rather oppresses me; only at first, however, as very soon I j craning and straining to get a good view; the people in the gallery and
recognise a number of familiar faces and figures all in strange array, i just over the Royal Box loyally enjoy the scene, being quite unable

' to see any of the distinguished persons who are, in this instance,

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 fur-
tively, 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 know he is something some-
where 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 weU at night though it wouldn't bear the light
of day, I begin to comprehend the entire scene.

My friend—we wiU 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 Mer-
chant Firm; that the man in blue and silver, supposed to be a Hun-

farian attache, is the junior partner in Bunkums &Co., the Big Cake
urveyor ; and that the warlike person, with a jingling sabre, is not

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 ejghteenpenny fare in a han-
som), 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.

Men in Possession.

The Manager of Covent Garden is Sheriff Harris. Can all his
operatic officials all over the house be correctly termed

Officers"?