The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1867-05-20

Il
ing TO buy an H. M. ship. Those unfortunate
| girls have been taught that to be amused is to
| be vulgar. See how oOntemptuOusly they look
at their poor governess who, seated in
the darkest corner Of the box where she can
| see least, cannot restrain her laughter every
| now and then when any comic business is
| going ON upon the stage. Poor thing
| Heaven knows, her laughing hours are few
| and far between, and yet | doubt not, Mrs.
| Memo would grudge her this little merriment.
But, then, you see, she is only the daughter ofa
| brave officer who died in fighting his country's
! battles, while Mr.. Memo, remaining at home.
made worthless hot-water bottles, which he
| sold at treble their value to too confding
administration. Little Miss Victoria Memo IS
| attired in the most expensive manner and is
| dressed and Strengthened, and stiffened to a
| dangerous extent: yet / have no hesitation in
saying, Miss Adegtha Sittyman is ten times
happier and merrier.
/ am not preaching, my dear Lounger,
that poverty is better than wealth, or that
happiness is to be more easily found in
grey alpaca than in embroidered muslin
but l confess it does excite my indigna-
ton, to see those who should be merry little
girls, trimmed and drilled into prim little
women, discussing the fashions when they
ought to be nursing their dolls, and consult
ing the proprieties when they should be
enjoying the fresh, hearty, pleasant laugh of
childhood.
See there, my dear LOunger, in the next box
but one, is sight which does me infinitely
more good to look upon than the prim face
and careful toilet of Miss Victoria Memo. If
you are an observing man, my shrewd com
panion, and tolerably well acquainted with
London, you cannot fail to know Zero's
Joseph Zero is by profession a grocer, but by
taste theatrical critic. You must know his
shop, in which the many-colored posters
of the various theatres completely hide
II, 81. L.,
there, in the box before you, you see the man
himself with his family. 'irst night at
any one of the theatres would be incom-
plete without Zero, but the treasury is never
one penny the richer for his attendance. His
acquaintance with gentlemen of the theatrical
profession is sufficiently large to enable him,
at any time, to secure gratuitous seats for
himself and friends however crowded the
house. If you like to lurk tomorrow morn
ing in front of his shop, you will doubtless
see Harlequin (now so nimbly capering on
the stage) enter it, not by flying leap through
the window, but by the door, like an ordinary
mortal; and if you are patient at your
post, you may have the fortune later in the
day to see Clown, in the costume of the nine
teenth century, emerge from the same door
with few sausages, neatly wrapped in paper
in his hand, instead of hanging in long string
from the capacious pocket of his professional
| dress. In his own neighborhood, Mr.. Zero is
loo led upon with awe and respect; for it is not
| every one who possesses the privilege of call
ing actors familiarity by their Christian names;
and, l can assure you, in the profession his
opinion is valued not a little--for hardly ever
has he been known to prophesy incorrectly the
| success or failure of new piece.
Look at him now as he stands at the back of
| the box, his good-natured face beaming with
| laughter, at one of the stalest of stale panto-
mime tricks. He knows how it is done, he
| knows the man who does it, and he has seen
| it a hundred times before; but yet he laughs
| and enjoys it as much either of the chill
dren in front of him. His heart, mind, and
time are entirely given to theatrical matters.
Contrast him for moment with that middle
aged gentleman alone in the box beneath, who,
after listening and looking for some half-hour,
has allowed the curtain to fall so as to
! shade his face, and is sleeping calmly
| and peacefully at the back, despite
the noise Of the harlequinade. That
| guntleman is a professional dramatic critic
and you will probably read half a column to-
morrow morning, in your newspaper, written
| by him, eulogizing Harlequin King Canute,"
and declaring it to be far superior to the pan
| tomime of the previous year.
see your glass is already pointed to
another box, ana by the smile upon your face
l also see that you recognize some friends.
| The Honorable Charlie Astersk is it have
! seen him in the Park, and, if mistake not, in
! the Burlington Arcade; l have met him in
| Paris have spied him on drag on Ascot
Heath; fell in with him once at petit Souper;
! | have noticed him in the stalls at the Opera;
| - well, perhaps, as you say, am mis-
| taken but you, my dear Lounger, must
allow that this type of the British
"swell" is so common that unless one has
the advantage OF moving in his circle, it is no
easy matter to distinguish him from his
friend. They both trim their whiskers to the
same pattern; they both wear coats of the
same make; and they both pronounce every
thing ga baw," in precisely the same tone.
Observe him now, if you please, as he fingers
! his moustache, and gazes so pertinaciously
! into space, disdaining to be amused by the
stage performance, and give me your
| candid opinion respecting him. Perhaps
you are right, my friend. 1t may be
| an exemplitication of the fable of
" The Fox and the Grapes )" for
| certainly have not the honor of the acquaint-
ance of the Honorable Charlie Asterisk, nor of
| the lady in the box with him; but at the same
| time would observe that see no reason why
gentleman should be ashamed to enjoy him
| self. Look there on the other side of the
house is General Blankdash, with his chill
dren. You remember how he fought and led
his men to victory. You know how he was
| hOnored by his queen, and publicly thanked
since, the stage policeman tumbled over the
basket of crocleTy, his laugh was as loud as
that of any one in the theatre; yet no one
considers him the less an officer and gentle
man for it.
AT that small box, high up, you may well
stare, for | see you recognize another friend,
and in STRANGE pOTnnauV. Ii is SVter. |