The news and herald. (Winnsboro, S.C.) 1877-1900, 1878-01-19
From App'etou's Journal.

The theatre was small and bnro,
with tiers of dingy whito~and~ gold
boxes rising to tho ceiling, draped
with curtains of faded crimson silk.
The floor was covered with rough
wooden benches Tho drop curtain
represented an old Venetian noble
accepting the doge's cap at the
hands of a deputation of senators in
red, whilo knights in armor, red
robed councillors, fair women and
young pages stood around him.
Into tho boxes came young girls
with faces tremulous with tho FORE
thought Of the music, and matrons
with towers Of hair and higll-col-
orcd silks flashing about them, and
great waving fans in their hands.
On the benches about me sat tired
work women with black veils drop
ping over their shoulders sturdy
peasant girls with handkerchiefs
knotted across their brows, or bare-
headed, with silver pins fastening
their braids. Whole families came
trooping in-lind-eyed fathers and
mothers, with oranges tied up in
their blue handllerchiefs children
who were sure to fall asleep between
the acts, and, perchance, with their
drowsy cries, take all the pathos
out Of tho "Miserere" itself.
Groups of young men sauntored
1n-the pale artisans of tho town,
the swarthy sailors from the lagoons,
the wondering~eycd peasants from
the mainland. They stamped their
feet and cried out for the curtain to
rise. Betw ,n-whilcs they hummed
the airs Of the opera. It was to
them an old, loved friend No need
of libretti for that audience. Not s.
gondolier but had piled his ear to
the measure of Di Luna's love notes.
Not a girl bending over her Mco
cushion high up in a garrot window,
but had dreamed herself romance
out of Leonora's passion cry. Not
q lad from the inland vines but car
ried his homesickncss about his
work in tho gypsy womans vision
Of her mountains.
In front of mo sat the cheerful,
smiling, woman, bareheadod. with
long, gold earnings, of whom I was
wont to buy old books, rare classics,
for my intellectual recreation, and
second hand iron saucepans for the
concoction of my dinner. Behind
mo rose tho shaggy gray head of
the old man who sold salad at the
doorway of the house; in which I
lodged. [ had many timo hoard
his mellow baritone ringing tho
length of the street in tho "Con-
spirators' Chorus" of "Ernani," md
the "Liberta" of "I Puritani."
I knew that on the morrow
the dingy passage would be glorifed
with the melodies of that evening.
Near him sat the old woman who
sewed mattresses for her living in
tho courtyard next door to me.
God pity these poor souls The
curse of ideality was on them all.
They hal come from their dark
shops and sordid homes, drawn by
the hope Of something bettor and
purer than they could know in tho
dull round Of their daily toll. They
were waiting but for the signal to
go out of their own weary lives into
the old, sweet, thrilling romance of
tho troubadour.
The members of the orchestra
crept, one after the other, through
tho little door under the stage
shabby old men, struggling for life
and bread haggard young men,
with genius written on their faces |;
little lads with precocious foreheads
and dark, wild eyes.
A familiar face appeared in the
stage-box on the right. I recogni-
zed tho old maestro, Grimani.
The curtain rose, and soon the
troubadour appeared, lifted his he'll
met, and cast from him his floating
white mantle. What did it matter
that he was old, and worn, and gray,
and had lines of pain on his face,
under all the rcd and white of youth
that had nought to do with his
separation from Leonora When