The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, February 1844

‘A friend of mine connected with the Stock Exchange on one occasion pointed out to me the great advantage of occasionally purchasing five thousand consuls on time, knowing that I had capital unemployed; the certain profits were placed before me in such an agreeable point of view, that I could not resist the bait. In the course of two days I received a check for fifty pounds, a sum by no means unpleasant, considering that I had not advanced one farthing. The natural consequence was that I repeated the dose with various success until I was ultimately well plucked. I sustained a loss of one thousand pounds. I then began to be very uneasy, until I fortunately discovered that by one coup I had made two hundred pounds. My broker had waddled of course, without being able to make up his differences. The parties of whom I had purchased, through my agent, refused to pay me, as they had no knowledge of a third person, and were themselves considerable sufferers by the aforesaid broker. I could not understand the justice of this measure, for I had always paid my losses to the moment; so I walked to Temple-Bar, pulled off my hat most gracefully to that venerable arch, and vowed never again to pass it in the pursuit of ill-gotten wealth. I had always a perfect horror of gambling, and little imagined I was pursuing it in a wholesale manner. To satisfy my inordinate curiosity, for sight-seeing, I have twice or thrice in my life passed the threshhold of a gambling-house in London, but never felt the least personal desire to embark the smallest sum, although keenly alive to the dangerous excitement in others. On one of these occasions it fell to my lot to witness a most affecting and trying scene. The names of the parties came to my knowledge afterward, which from delicacy I of course suppress. A gentleman had for some years been separated from his wife, in consequence of infidelity on her part with a man of high fashion, an officer of the Guards. An action and divorce ensued; but two children whom he had previous to this unfortunate event, he refused to acknowledge, thus endeavoring to put the stain of illegitimacy upon them. Years rolled on, and the father and son never met. Rouge-et-Noir was the fashionable game of the day, and Pall-Mall and St. James-street swarmed with gambling-houses. Two gentlemen were quarrelling upon a point, each accusing the other of taking the stake. The younger man was the officer on guard that day, and consequently in uniform. High words ensued; cards were exchanged; and in one moment, from the most ungovernable rage, they became motionless as statues. The silence was at length interrupted by an explanation of ‘By Heaven! my son!’ This remark was made from the impulse of the moment, and probably struck a chord in the parent’s heart that let loose all his affections. They retired to another apartment; explanations ensued; and a reconciliation was the result.’

Elsewhere Mr. Abbott describes the gambling-houses of Paris, ‘those dens of iniquity,’ as he terms them. ‘The varied scenes of frantic joy and human debasement,’ he writes, ‘which I witnessed at Frascati’s, were truly appalling. The extremes of excitement were as powerfully exhibited in the loser of twenty francs as in the man who had lost his twenty thousand.’ The annexed sketch of the lamented career of poor Conway, who will be ‘freshly remembered’ by many of our readers in the Atlantic cities, is authentic in every particular. It is not without its lesson, in more regards than one:

‘I find I have neglected to mention an actor, who stood sufficiently forward, both by his position and his misfortunes, to be entitled to a respectful notice; I mean Mr. Conway. He was said to be the illegitimate offspring of a distinguished nobleman; but whether his own pride prevented his making advances, and he was resolved to lay the foundation of his own fame and fortune, or whether he met with a check upon his natural feelings from one who was bound to support him, I know not; but, gifted as he was with a commanding person, a most gentlemanlike deportment, and advantages peculiarly adapted for the stage, it is no wonder that the histrionic art held forth inducements and hopes of obtaining a brighter position than any other career open to him, without the aid of pecuniary means, and the patronage which was withheld from him. He made his appearance in 1813, the season previous to Kean, in the character of ‘Alexander the Great.’ He met with a very flattering reception, and produced a great effect upon the fair sex. Indeed, the actors, who are upon these occasions lynx-eyed, could not avoid their remarks upon a certain Duchess, who never missed one of his performances, and appeared to take the deepest interest in his success. Conway was upward of six feet in height. He was deficient in strong intellectual expression, yet he had the reputation of being very handsome. His head was too small for his frame, and his complexion too light and sanguine for the profound and varied emotions of deep tragedy. There was a tinge of affectation in his deportment, which had the effect of creating among many a strong feeling of prejudice against him. His bearing was always gentlemanly, and with the exception of a slight superciliousness of manner, amiable to every body; and his talent, though not of the highest order, was still sufficiently prominent to enable him to maintain a distinguished position. And yet this man, with so little to justify spleen, was literally, from an unaccountable prejudice, driven from the stage by one of the leading weekly journals, edited by a gentleman whose biting satire was death to those who had the misfortune to come under his lash. In complete disgust, he retired from the boards, and filled the humble situation of prompter at the Haymarket-Theatre, but afterward left for the United States, where he became a great favorite. But the canker was at his heart. He again quitted the stage, and prepared himself for the Church; but there again he was foiled. The ministers of our holy religion refused to receive him, not from any moral stain upon his character, but because he had been an actor! What is to become of the priesthood, who in the early periods were the only actors, and selected scriptural subjects for representation? He left in a packet for Savannah, overwhelmed with misery and disappointment. ‘Ushered into the world by a parent who would not acknowledge him; driven out of it in the belief that he was the proscribed of Heaven!’ At the moment they were passing the bar at Charleston, he threw himself overboard. Efforts were made to save him; a settee was thrown over for him to cling to until they could adopt more decisive measures for his rescue. He saw the object; but his resolution was taken. He waved his hand, and sunk to rise no more. I have reason to believe, that the gentleman to whom I have alluded as having made such fearful use of his editorial powers, felt deep remorse when the news of his ill-timed death arrived. He also is now no more! Poor Conway! Had he possessed more nerve, he might still have triumphed over the unkindness of his fate:

 
‘Who has not known ill fortune, never knew
Himself or his own virtue.’
 

In the same chapter we find a bit of artistical grouping in a historical picture, which the reader will agree with us is well worthy of preservation:

‘The world never witnessed such powerful scenes of exciting interest as took possession of Great Britain about this period. The people were drunk with enthusiasm. One victory followed so rapidly on the heels of another, that they had not time to sober down. The peninsular campaign had closed, and the hitherto sacred soil of France was invaded. The restoration of legitimacy, and the momentary enthusiasm of the French in favor of their exiled monarch, disturbed the intellects of half mankind. The magnificent entrée of Louis the Eighteenth into London from Heartwell Park, where he had resided for some years, almost conveyed the idea that it was his own capital he was entering, after his long and weary exile. The silken banner with the fleur de lis flaunting from the walls of Devonshire-House and all the neighboring mansions in Piccadilly; immense cavalcades of gentlemen superbly mounted, all wearing the white cockade; the affectionate sympathy and profound respect shown by all classes toward the illustrious representative of the Bourbons, was touching in the extreme. On his route from Heartwell, and through Stanmore, troops of yeomanry turned out to give him an honorable escort; and what could be more honorable than the voluntary attendance of the farmers who represented the very bone and sinew of the country? The large portly figure of the King perfectly disabused John Bull of the long-cherished idea that Frenchmen lived entirely upon frogs. Even that particular fact interested them, and repeated huzzas greeted him throughout the whole of his route to London. On his arrival at Guillon’s Hotel in Albermarle-street, which had been most splendidly prepared for his reception, His Royal Highness the Prince Regent received him with that delicate attention so worthy of his high and gallant bearing; and there Louis must have met with one of the most touching scenes that ever thrilled the human heart. One hundred and fifty of the ancient noblesse were waiting, after years of hopeless expectation, to greet the head of that illustrious house, the recollection of whose sufferings awakened the most painful feelings. Not one of them but had shared in the horrors of that bloody revolution; and not one of them but truly felt that the happiness of that moment repaid them for all their sufferings.’

A rich specimen of the pompous ignorance sometimes exhibited by theatrical managers is afforded in the following anecdote, which has appeared in England, but which we are sure will be relished by our readers. It may seem extraordinary that a manager should be such an ignoramus; but ‘half the actors on the English stage,’ says a recent writer, ‘dare not address a gentleman a note, lest they should ‘show their hands:’’

‘When I first became a member of Covent-Garden, Mr. Fawcett held the reins of management, in consequence of the retirement of Mr. Kemble from that position. He had experience to guide him, but he unfortunately possessed a dictatorial manner, and a want of that refinement and education which had so distinguished his great predecessor. In speaking of his public position, however, let me pay homage to his private virtues. He was a tender husband, an affectionate father, and a warm friend. During my first season a play was produced called the ‘Students of Salamanca.’ The author was Mr. Jamieson, a member of the bar, who had been particularly successful in several light pieces produced at the Haymarket. Mr. Jones and myself were ‘The Students,’ and it occurred to me in my character to say, ‘My danger was imminent.’ These words had scarcely passed my lips, when a dark and lowering look dimmed the countenance of the manager. I saw that something was wrong, but was quite at a loss to guess the cause. At the end of the scene, unwilling to mortify me in the presence of the company, he beckoned me aside, and said: ‘Young man, do you know what you said?’ I changed color, feeling that something fearful had occurred. I replied, very much agitated, that I was not aware of any error. ‘I thought so! Do you know where you are? You are in London, not in Bath!’ The fact was so self-evident that I did not attempt to disprove it. ‘You will be delivered up to scorn and contempt; the critics will immolate you; the eyes of this great metropolis are fixed upon you. I thought you were a well-educated young man, but I have been deceived—grossly deceived!’ The effect of this tirade may be more easily conceived than described. My face flushed, my heart beat, and I at length mustered courage to say, ‘For heaven’s sake, Sir, pray tell me; I am extremely sorry—deeply regret—but pray tell me!’ The kindness of his disposition got the better of his pedantry, and seeing the agitation under which I was really suffering, he replied: ‘Do you remember that you said your danger was imminent’? Now, Sir, there is no such word in the English language: it is eminent!!’ Need I mention the unbounded relief this explanation gave me? I quietly suggested the difference of their significations, and was never after troubled with any corrections. He was a man of sterling qualities, somewhat like a melon, as his friend Colman said; ‘rough without, smooth within.’’

In the way of a hoax, we remember nothing more cleverly performed, than the rather cruel one whose execution is pleasantly recorded below:

‘There was a lady attached to the Worthing Theatre, (mark me, reader, I did not say attached to me,) who was very eccentric, and who was, ‘small blame to her,’ as the Irishman says, also very susceptible. I was on very intimate terms with Mr. Harley, who was then at Worthing; and one day, while quietly dining together, we mutually agreed that there was a fickleness about this lady which deserved some reproof. We were really liberal in our feelings, and would not have objected to her shooting an extra dart occasionally; but it was not to be borne that she should let fly a whole quiver at once. We had observed that by way of having two or more strings to her bow, she had got up a flirtation with the leader of the band, a most respectable man by the way, and of considerable talent. After giving the affair all due consideration, we decided upon a mock-duel, in which I was to personate one of the heroes, my rival being the aforesaid leader. We carefully and ostentatiously avoided all appearance of communication, and in such a way that it always reached her knowledge. Thus by gentle innuendoes she discovered that something serious was in contemplation, and of course she was not a little flattered, as she was the object of dispute. Our duelling-pistols were one day ostentatiously paraded, and evident anxiety took possession of the company, who were carefully excluded from the secret. The following morning at five o’clock we each left our lodgings, accompanied by our seconds, the rain pouring in torrents. Harley then went to the lodgings of the frail or rather fair one, knocked at the door most violently, and at length she appeared at the window, in evident alarm. He urged her if she had the feelings of a woman immediately to accompany him, and prevent murder; briefly stating, that her ‘beauties were the cause and most accursed effect.’ In a state of real excitement, mixed up with woman’s vanity, she rushed out of the house, and accompanied that wag of wags. A white beaver hat, sweet emblem of her purity, was on her head, and partially concealed her disordered ringlets, hastily gathered together. We arranged with Harley always to keep ourselves a certain distance in advance on the pathway bordering the sands. The first thing that occurred was a sudden gust of wind which swept the white beaver a considerable distance and covered it with mud; her flowing locks then fell upon her alabaster neck, and her romantic appearance was perfect. We most cruelly led her on a distance of at least two miles, and took our station near some lime-kilns, close to the sea. When she was sufficiently near, one of the seconds stepped forward and gave the signal by dropping a blood-stained handkerchief, prepared for the occasion. Bang! bang! went the pistols; when she gracefully sank into the arms of Harley, who held her in a fine melo-dramatic attitude. The report was soon over all the town, and of course in the newspapers. My adversary put his arm in a sling, and whenever I happened to be near her, in a perfect state of despair I vowed that I could never forgive myself for having shot my friend. We mutually repulsed her by severe looks whenever she approached us; and she soon left the Worthing Theatre to seek for victims of less sensibility in other places.’

We once more take our leave of Mr. Abbott’s agreeable manuscript volume; by no means certain, however, that its entertaining pages may not again tempt us to share with our readers the enjoyment they have afforded us.

Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—Will the author of ‘Public Concert-Singing’ favor us with his address? We are desirous of communicating with him, although he does not ‘find his hastily-jotted thoughts in the pages of the Knickerbocker,’ for reasons which perhaps he can partly divine from the present number, and which we could impart more directly in a private note. We agree with him entirely in his views; and if he will permit us, we will here quote a passage from an article which we penned upon a subject collateral to his general theme, many years ago, before we were hampered with the professional ‘we,’ and could write out of our ‘company dress.’ It is a little sketch of the first public singing, save that of the church, to which we had ever listened: ‘How well do I remember it! It was at the theatre of a country village; a rough, barn-like edifice, at which several Stentor-lunged Thespians ‘from the New-York and Philadelphia Theatres’ split the ears of the groundlings, and murdered Shakspeare’s heroes and the King’s English. I had been watching with boyish curiosity the play which had just concluded: the mottled, patched, yellowish-green curtain had descended upon the personages whose sorrows were my own; and I was gazing vacantly at the long row of tallow candles placed in holes bored for the purpose in the stage, and at the two fiddlers who composed ‘the orchestra,’ and who were reconnoitering the house. Presently a small bell was rung, with a jerk. There was a flourish or two from ‘the orchestra;’ another tinkle of the bell; and up rose the faded drapery. An interval of a moment succeeded, during which half of a large mountain was removed from the scenery, and a piece of forest shoved up to the ambitious wood that had been aspiring to overtop the Alps. At length a young lady, whom I had just seen butchered in a most horrid manner by a villain, came from the side of the stage with a smile, which, while it displayed her white teeth, wrought the rouge upon her face into very perceptible corrugations, and made a lowly courtesy. She walked with measured step three or four times across the stage, in the full blaze of the flaring candles, smiling again, and hemming, to clear her voice. Presently a perfect stillness prevailed; ‘awed Consumption checked his chided cough;’ every urchin suspended his cat-call; and ‘the boldest held his breath for a time.’ Our vocalist looked at the leader of the orchestra and his fellow-fiddlers, and commenced, in harmony with their instruments. How touching was that song! I shall never have my soul so enrapt again. That freshness of young admiration possessed my spirit which can come but once. The air was ‘The Braes of Balquither,’ a charming melody, meetly wedded to the noble lines of Tannehill; and enthusiasm was at its height when the singer had concluded the following stanza, almost sublime in its picturesque beauty:

 
‘When the rude wintry wind wildly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the lion on the night-breeze is swelling,
Then so merrily we’ll sing, while the storm rattles o’er us,
Till the dear shealing ring with the light-lilting chorus!’
 

The air was old as the hills, but like all Scottish melodies, as lasting too. To every body the songs of Scotland are grateful; and the universal attachment to them arises from their beautiful simplicity, deep pathos, and unaffected, untrammelled melody. The romantic sway of the songs of Scotland over her sons when ‘far awa’ is to me no marvel. If they possess the power to thrill or to subdue the hearts of those who have never stepped upon the soil of that glorious country, is it at all surprising that they should exert a powerful influence over the native-born, who associate those airs with the purple heath, the blue loch, the hazy mountain-top, and the valley sleeping below?

 
‘What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,
    What wild vows falter on the tongue,
When ‘Scots wha ha’ wi’ Wallace bled,’
    Or ‘Auld Lang Syne’ is sung!’
 

The association however is touching, not alone because it awakens old recollections, but because the music is natural; it is the language of the heart. Affectation has not interpopolated tortuous windings and trills and shakes, to mar its beauty, and to clip the full melodious notes of their fair proportions. It is pleasant to think that fashion, though never so potent, can neither divert nor lessen the popular attachment to the simpler melodies. We have the authority of the Woods, Wilson, Sinclair, Power, and other eminent artists for stating that ‘Black-eyed Susan,’ ‘John Anderson my Jo,’ ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ and kindred airs, could always ‘bring down the house,’ no matter what the antagonistical musical attraction might be. We could wish that the Venerable Taurus, or ‘Old Bull,’ as many persons call him, would take a hint from this. Let him try it once; and we venture to say that no one, however uninitiated, will again retire from his splendid performances as a country friend of ours did lately, assigning as a reason: ‘I waited till about ha’-past nine; and then he hadn’t got done tunin’ his fiddle!’ A touch of ‘music for the general heart’ would have enchained him till morning. Christopher North, we perceive, in the last Blackwood, fully enters into the spirit of our predilection. He has just returned from a concert of fashionable music, where he ‘tried to faint, that he might be carried out, but didn’t know how to do it,’ and was compelled to sit with compressed lips, and listen to ‘sounds from flat shrill signorinas, quavering to distraction,’ for two long hours. When he gets home, however, he ‘feeds fat his grudge’ against modern musical affectations. Let us condense a few of his objurgations:

‘It is a perfect puzzle to us by what process the standard of music has become so lowered, as to make what is ordinarily served up under that name be received as the legitimate descendant of harmony. There is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and this entrancing art, it seems, has taken it; sorely dislocating its graceful limbs, and injuring its goodly proportions in the unseemly escapade. We hate your crashing, clumsy chords, and utterly spit at and defy chromatic passages, from one end of the instrument to the other, and back again; flats, sharps, and most appropriate ‘naturals,’ spattered all over the page. The essential spirit of discord seems to be let loose on our modern music. Music to soothe! the idea is obsolete. There is music to excite, much to irritate one, and much more to drive a really musical soul stark mad; but none to soothe, save that which is drawn from the hiding-places of the past. There is no repose, no refreshment to the mind, in our popular compositions. There is to us more of touching pathos, heart-thrilling expression, in some of the old psalm-tunes, feelingly played, than in a whole batch of modernisms. The strains go home, and the ‘fountains of the great deep are broken up;’ the great deep of unfathomable feeling, that lies far, far below the surface of the world-hardened heart; and as the unwonted yet unchecked tear starts to the eye, the softened spirit yields to their influence, and shakes off the moil of earthly care; rising, purified and spiritualized, into a clearer atmosphere.’

 

We often hear of odd things happening in consequence of mistakes in orthography, but seldom of any benefit accruing therefrom to the orthoöpist. But a friend mentioned to us a little circumstance the other day, which would seem to prove that it does a man good sometimes to spell somewhat at variance with old Johnson. In a village not far hence lived a man known by the name of Broken Jones. He had dissipated a large fortune in various law-suits; had become poor and crazy; and at last, like another Peebles, his sole occupation consisted in haunting the courts, lawyers’ offices, and other scenes of his misfortunes. To judge and attorneys he was a most incorrigible bore; to the latter especially, from whom he was continually soliciting opinions on cases which had long been ‘settled,’ and carried to the law-ledgers, where they were only occasionally hunted up as precedents in the suit of perhaps some other destined victims. As Jones hadn’t a cent of money left, it was of course impossible for him to obtain any more ‘opinions;’ but this didn’t cure him of his law-mania. One morning he entered the office of lawyer D–, in a more excited state than he had exhibited for a long time, and seating himself vis-a-vis with his victim, requested his ‘opinion’ on one of the ‘foregone conclusions’ already mentioned. D– happening at the moment to be very busy, endeavored to get rid of his visiter, and contrived various expedients for that purpose. But Jones was not in a mood to be trifled with. ‘I came, ‘Squire,’ said he, ‘to get your opinion in writing on this case, and I will have it before I leave the room, if I sit here till the day of judgment!’ The lawyer looked upon his visiter, while a thought of forcible ejectment passed through his brain; but the glaring eye and stout athletic frame which met his gaze, told him that such a course would be extremely hazardous. At length the dinner-bell rang. A bright thought struck him; and putting on his coat and hat, he took Jones gently by the arm: ‘Come,’ said he, ‘go and dine with me.’ ‘No!’ said the latter, fiercely; ‘I’ll never dine again until I get what I came for.’ The lawyer was in a quandary, and at length, in very despair, he consented to forego his dinner and give his annoyer the desired opinion. ‘Well, well, Jones,’ said he, soothingly, ‘you shall have it;’ and gathering pens, ink and paper, he was soon seated at the table, while Jones, creeping on tiptoe across the room, stood peeping over his shoulder. The lawyer commenced: ‘My oppinion in the case–’ ‘Humph!’ said the lunatic, suddenly seizing his hat, and turning on his heel, ‘I wouldn’t give a d—n for your opinion with two p’s!’ ••• Many of our public as well as private correspondents seem to have been not a little interested in the articles on Mind and Instinct, in late numbers of this Magazine. A valued friend writing from Maryland, observes: ‘The collection of facts by your contributor is very industrious, their array quite skilful, and the argument very strong. I think, however, that if I had time I could pick several flaws in the reasoning, or rather erect a very good counter-argument, founded principally upon the fact that the intelligence of animals is generally as great in early youth as it is in the prime of their beasthood. The author might have added to his list of facts, an account which I read when a boy, of the practice of the baboons in Caffraria, near the orange-orchards. They arrange themselves in a row from their dens to the orange-trees. One then ascends the tree, plucks the oranges, and throws them to the next baboon, and he to the next, and so on throughout the whole file; they standing some fifty yards apart. In this manner they quickly strip a tree, and at the same time are safe from being all surprised at once. The early French missionaries in Canada, also asserted that the squirrels of that region, having denuded the country on one side of the big lake, of nuts, used to take pieces of birch bark, and hoisting their tails for canvass, float to the other side for their supply.’ We have been struck with a passage in a powerful article upon ‘The Hope that is within Us,’ in a late foreign periodical, wherein the fruitful theme of our correspondent is touched upon. ‘If matter,’ says the writer, ‘be incapable of consciousness, as Johnson so powerfully argues in Rasselas, then the animus of brutes must be an anima, and immaterial; for the dog and the elephant not merely exhibit ‘consciousness,’ but a ‘half-reasoning’ power. And if it be true, as Johnson maintains, that immateriality of necessity produces immortality, then the poor Indian’s conclusion is the most logical,

 
‘Who thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.’
 

The truth is, that we must depend upon revelation for an assurance of immortality; which promises, however, the resurrection of the body, as philosophy is unequal to its demonstration, and modern researches into animal life have rendered the proof more difficult than heretofore.’ By the by, ‘speaking of animals:’ there is a letter from Lemuel Gulliver in the last number of Blackwood, describing a meeting of ‘delegates from the different classes of consumers of oats, held at the Nag’s-Head inn at Horsham.’ The business of the meeting was opened by a young Racer, who expressed his desire to promote the interests of the horse-community, and to promote any measure which might contribute to the increase of the consumption of oats, and improve the condition of his fellow quadrupeds. He considered the horse-interest greatly promoted by the practice of sowing wild oats, which he warmly commended. A Hackney-coach Horse declared himself in favor of the sliding-scale, which he understood to mean the wooden pavement. Things went much more smoothly wherever it was established. He contended for the abolition of nose-bags, which he designated as an intolerable nuisance; urged the prohibition of chaff with oats, as unfit for the use of able-bodied horses; and indeed evinced the truth of his professions, that he ‘yielded to no horse in an anxious desire to promote the true interests of the horse-community.’ An Old English Hunter impressed upon the young delegates the good old adage of ‘Look before you leap,’ and urged them to go for ‘measures, not men.’ A Stage Horse ‘congratulated the community upon the abolition of bearing-reins, those grievous burdens upon the necks of all free-going horses; and he trusted the time would soon arrive when the blinkers would also be taken off, every corn-bin thrown open, and every horse his own leader.’ Several other steeds, in the various ranks of horse-society, addressed the meeting. ‘Resolutions, drawn by two Dray-Horses, embodying the supposed grievances of the community, were finally agreed upon, and a petition, under the hoof of the president, founded upon them, having been prepared and ordered to be presented to the House of Commons by the members for Horsham, the meeting separated, and the delegates returned to their respective stables.’ ••• What habitual theatre or opera-goer has not been tempted a thousand times to laugh outright, and quite in the wrong place, at the incongruities, the inconsistencies, the mental and physical catachreses of the stage, which defy illusion and destroy all vraisemblance? A London sufferer in this kind has hit off some of the salient points of these absurdities in a few ‘Recollections of the Opera:’