Of the Barytone.
THEBarytone of the opera is probably the most inoffensive individual in the world. This is his peculiarity. Even his fierceness on the stage is done with an effort; and when in the course of a piece he is unfortunately called on to massacre somebody, we always fancy that he doesit with the most unfeigned reluctance, and for aught we know, with silent tears. He is generally of a bashful, retiring disposition, and pretty nearly always awkward. This perhaps arises from the anomalous position he occupies in operatical society. He cannot be on good terms with the basso,—they have too much similarity in their voices for that; he is on no more friendly relations with the tenor for the same reason. Besides never daring to aspire to the familiarity with the prima donna which that worthy enjoys, he suffers under the affliction of conscious diffidence in their presence.
The barytone must as surely be the king as the basso must be the tyrant; indeed we have often thought of the startling effect which would be produced by an opera in which this law of nature was reversed. To hear the lover growling his tender feelings in a gutteral E flat, and moaning his hard lot in a series of double D.'s; to listen to the remorseless tyrant ordering his myrmidons to "away with him to the deepest dungeon 'neath the castle moat," in themost soothing and mellifluous of tenor head notes, would produce such a revulsion in operatic taste, as surely to create a deep sensation, if nothing more.
Of the Suggeritore or Prompter.
WEshould be much grieved were we to let a chance of immortality at our hands go by, for our great friend the prompter—the suggeritore of the Italians. Theprompter is to the opera, what the fifth wheel is to a wagon; everything rubs, grates and abrades it, yet the whole concern turns on it. He is the most abused (not hated—that is reserved for the Impresario,) man in the company. But he does not care for it. That is what he is hired for. He is paid to be of a good temper, and he does it. He returns docility for dollars; and suavity for salary. He is the true philosopher; just enough in the company to be part of it, and sufficiently detached to avoid all the squabbles and bickerings. He, however, is the victim of all the caprices of the company, from the prima donna, who in a miff kicks abouthis partitionin a very piano cavatina, to each of the bandy-legged choristers. True, he has his little revenge. This he accomplishes by using his voice too much and too loudly in thesotto voceparts, so that all the duos become trios and the quintettes, choruses. This is little enough to sweeten the embitterments of asuggeritore'slife, but such it is, and he is contented. Thesuggeritoremust be a thin man. It does not require a Paxton to know that a hole in the stage two feet square, will not hold Barnum's obesities. He must also be short and supple-necked,to allow the green fungus which excresces from the stage to cover him; and he must be the fortunate owner of a right arm as untiring as a locomotive crank or the sails of a windmill. It is a prevalent but mistaken idea, that the prompter is an impolite man; we happen to know that it is a matter of the deepest concern with him to be obliged to sit with his back to the audience. But he is like the angels and St. Cecilia, "Il n'avait pas de quoi" to do otherwise. Operas must be, Singers must have, a lead horse—(N. B. How can delicate females and tenors be expected to recollect "les paroles;")—and there he is, with a little hole in the back of his calash for the leader of the orchestra to stir him up when the excitement becomes very strong, and the time is irrecoverably lost. As to the social habits of the suggeritore, the naturalist is at a loss, for he immediately disappears after rehearsal, and remains in close retirement till the performance, after which he is again lost till the next day.
Before the Curtain.
"A neat, snug study on a winter's night;A book, friend, single lady, or a glassOf claret, sandwich, and an appetite,Are things which make an English evening pass,Thoughcertesby no means so grand a sight,As is a theatre, lit up with gas."—Byron.
THE night is a cold one; the snow is falling in large, heavy flakes, and those who are fond of the frigid, but exhilarating amusement of sleighing, are in hopes that by the morrow they will be able to pass like lightning from one part of the city to the other; in a sleigh decked with warm, gaily trimmed furs; filled with a merry company, and drawn by two high-headed, dashing trotters. The gas lights are just discernible from corner to corner. The number of people in the streets issteadily decreasing, and the sound of their foot-fall is muffled in the snow. About the theatres and the opera house, however, crowds of the idle and curious, gaping at those who are entering these buildings, make it necessary for the police to pace to and fro, ordering back the more presumptuous loiterers, who press forward and obstruct the approach to the doors.
Query? Why does the crowd always stare at those who are going into a theatre or opera? The latter are attired somewhat strangely to be sure, but still they don't lookexactlylike Choctaws.
The cab and chaise-men muffled up in their cold-defying great-coats and woolen comforters, are opening the doors of their several vehicles, out of which ladies enveloped in cloaks and hoods are dismounting under cover of umbrellas, held probably by the "best of brothers," but more probably by gentlemen in no way related to them. In the opera house all is bustle and commotion. The officials are selling tickets, receiving tickets, and directing to their places bevies of ladies and gentlemen bewildered in a maze of passages. The audience is impatiently preparing itself for a delightful evening's entertainment. The dandies,who are so unfortunate as not to have accompanied ladies have already brought themselves up to the attack, and have levelled their opera-glasses on all the points where they know well-established objects of admiration are likely to be found. Now and then they bow their recognition in a reserved inclination, or in a careless smiling way that bespeaks the freedom of familiar intimacy.
The fast-men are standing at the doors in knots of three and four, talking over the last trot of Suffolk, or the probable chance of victory in the next day's dog-fight, and making a few, no doubtvery fast, but not very proper allusions to the shoulders of some rather sparingly habitedbelles. The Cubans in the parquette, who, by the by, during their sojourn in this country will best preserve their liberty by remaining north of Mason and Dixon's line, are clearing their voices in very doubtful Spanish, for those animated bravos, which we must admit they always administer in the very best taste, both as to time and quantity. Here and there, some lone young man, desolate in a crowd, who has seldom before been exposed to the full blaze of the all-discovering gas light, not exactly knowing what to do with himself, is endeavouring,with a fictitious indifference, to fill up the vacancies of attention by smoothing down the stubborn folds of badly selected whitekids. Five collegians just escaped from the studious universities for a high week in town, have established themselves all together, and commenced a running commentary, carried on chiefly in the Virginia dialect, on men, women, and things, much to the annoyance of a very foreign gentleman behind them—so foreign that he is almost black—who looks stilettos at his cheerful but over-loquacious neighbours. One youth in an excessively white, though unpleasantly stiff cravat, is assisting an equally stiff old chaperon into her place, at the expense of great physical efforts, till his cheeks are thereby suffused with a tint strongly resembling the color of a juvenile beet, while the distended veins of his forehead would make a fine anatomical study for the laborious medical student, if that fabulous biped were still extant. The chaperon being disposed of, four young ladies under hersurveillance, two in opera cloaks and hoods, and two in antediluvian mantles and pre-adamitic head-gear, assuring the existence of rural cousinship, by four minor efforts of the samegentleman, are at length safely landed in their places. But now commences a new round of confusion. Each of the four young ladies discovers that she has placed herself on some article of clothing belonging to her companion. Whereupon she half rises, and having drawn forth the disturbing habiliment, resumes her former position: and as this movement is performed by each one of them without regard to the order in which they have placed themselves, and is repeated half a dozen times in as many minutes, the unconscious fair ones become the subjects of the allusions of the fast-men, who immediately institute comparisons between them and various animate and inanimate objects. One of these gentlemen observing that their motions remind him of a flock of aquatic fowl, known by the name of divers, a facetious friend replies that probably he means diving bells; which being considered an extremely happy pun, it meets with a hearty laugh of approbation. But an ambitious fast wit, fearing that his reputation is likely to be lost forever, if he remain silent, says that the whole group of uneasy females recalls the line of Coleman,
"For what is so gay as a bag full of fleas."
This being regarded as the acme of brilliancy, there is no telling what might be the consequences if their attention were not drawn into another channel by the entrance of a distinguished belle, who is immediately pronounced to be a "stunner" and the question is raised as to who the man is who acts as "bottle holder," reference thereby being had to the gentleman who is so polite as to hand the lady to her place, and aid her in disposing of her divers little appliances of operatic necessity. Thebellescarcely takes her seat before she commences to hum snatches of Italian airs, in a very careless indifferent way, just to show how much she is at home in such a place, and probably to attract a little more attention.
Query? Why do the handsomest women at an operaalwaystalk and laugh the loudest?
That portion of the audience comprised in the gentler sex is here in all the attraction of natural loveliness and adventitious ornament, putting to flight a notion once prevalent, that beauty when unadorned is then adorned the most.
The noise of conversation which now lulls, now swells out in gentle crescendos, is chiefly the productionof this taciturn part of the audience. All at once the gas is let on in a gush of light, the buzz of voices, which up to this time has been carried on in a subdued tone, bursts out into full force, with a suddenness that seems to render it probable that the conversation has been issuing all the while from the gas jets. The augmented light brings down another volley from the foci of a thousandlorgnettes. At this moment the musicians begin to enter the orchestra which has been void of occupants all the evening, with the exception of one meaningless old fellow, who has been attempting to restore order among the stands, seats, and books, but whose laudable efforts have ended in what every single gentleman at lodgings knows all endeavours to "set things to rights," are sure to effect—a state of affairs in which confusion is considerably worse confounded. But after all a music-stand must be adjusted by the performer himself; no one can put the hat of another on the head of the latter so as to be comfortable to him. The latter must pose it for himself. This law applies with peculiar force to music-stands.
The violinists proceed to tighten or slacken the hair of their bows, to throw back the coat collar,or stuff a white handkerchief under it, in order to adjust the violin to the peculiar crook of each neck, with as much apparent anxiety as if they had not been doing the same thing for the last thirty years, and some of their heads had not become bald over the sound-post. In the meantime, the other members of this well-bearded corps are streaming in with their instruments under the arm, and are placing their music books and lamps at the proper elevation on the stands, all the while talking, nodding, and smiling as if rehearsing half the day, and playing half the night, were a mighty good joke.
And then ascend to the highest parts of the house—to the regions of the operatic "paradise," those most singular of all instrumental sounds, those fifty or sixty antagonistic voluntaries with which all the audience would voluntarily dispense, consisting of chromatics in twenty different keys, violin octaves, harmonics, thirds and fifths, clarionet shakes, flute staccatos, horn growlings, ophicleide rumblings, triangular vibrations, and drum concussions.
"See to their desks Apollo's sons repair—Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair!In unison their various tones to tune,Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon.In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute,Twang goes the harpsicord, too too the flute,Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling harp."
About the time that the observer has made up in his mind an answer to the following mental queries—how many nights the first violinist could play without getting a crick in the neck—whether the flutist may not sometime blow his eyes so far out of his head that he may never be able to get them back again—how long it would take the operator on thecornet à pistonto learn to play on the magnetic telegraph—why such a small man should be suffered to perform on such a big thing as an ophicleide, and how a person with such a huge moustache can get the piccola up to lips defended by such a bulwark of hair, a fermentation is observable in the midst of this musical whirlpool, which indicates the presence of some higher power. Place is given by the humble members of the orchestra, and the director is seen to stand forth in the attitude of mounting the tribunalfrom whence he guides his submissive subjects with despotic sway. He is a neat figured little man, with a profusion of methodically adjusted curls, a moustache that would render his physiognomy excessively ferocious, if an occasional smile playing over the distinguishable parts of his face, did not modify this expression. He is attired in the costume of the ball room, bearing in his button hole the most delicate rosebud of the conservatory, and in his perfectly gloved hand, an amber headed baton, the sceptre of command. At his appearance a wave of applause floats up from the audience, and the head and breast of the director bend down to meet it in a graceful and reverential bow, accompanied by a smile expressing the highest possible amount of inward gratification. This little acknowledgment of a becoming respect for the good opinion of the house is repeated once or twice, and then with the air of a man who has important business on hand, he mounts his elevated seat. He gives one or two magical taps on the stand, and the chaos of sounds is annihilated with the exception of the lamentations of one refractory violin, over which the owner has been for the last half hour repeatedly,first inclining his head in a horizontal position, and then tugging away at the screws. At this the director seems to be much annoyed, and the poor violinist, more annoyed, mutters to a companion that he wishes himself anunspeakablylong way hence—probably in Italy where he could procure some good strings.
The resisting violin having been brought to subjection, the director casts an eye over the whole body of musicians, and having thrown back his head and lifted up both arms, very much in the supposed attitude of Ajax defying the thunder, he remains perfectly motionless for an instant, and then brings forward the whole of his body from the hips upwards, with a rapid and powerful jerk, which introduces his forehead into close proximity with the musical score which he pretends to be reading, the baton strikes the stand with a loud clap, and one old drummer proceeds to touch the drum, but in so gentle a manner, that it sounds as if, instead of using the sticks he were tossing some grains of shot on it. You now tremble for the safety of the director, and you enter into an arithmetical calculation with yourself, the basis of which is, that if the director bysuch a dangerous inclination of the person can only bring one poor drummer into movement, what amount of bodily labour he will be compelled to undergo, in order to operate on all that concourse of musicians. But your fears are dissipated in a few moments, for you discover that great sounds and little sounds are accompanied with about the same degree of gesticulatory emphasis. In the meantime some horns have commenced to blow on a very small scale, not hard enough, you would suppose, to drive the dust out of them, and if the piston of the cornet did not rattle so, you would pronounce its playing all a sham. The violins and flutes begin to be audible and the violinists are suddenly struck with a simultaneous desire to pick the strings, just as if that would make any music. All the other instruments are now doing duty in very feeble tones, and you take a look round the house to see who are there; and you wonder why that particular family of Smiths, with whom you have the pleasure of an acquaintance has not yet appeared. You think Miss Julia Brown's hair arranged with the usual want of elegance, and then call to mind the fact that at Newport, the previous summer,you complimented her so many times on the peculiar taste which her coiffure always displayed. The aforesaid drummer is now giving the drum considerable ill usage, and then for the first time, you observe that he has two of them which he appears to beat alternately. The director is casting his head from one side to the other, flashes of disapprobation dart from his eyes upon the dilatory violinists, who from time to time, stop as it were, to catch breath, and fail to "come to the scratch" in due season. Every now and then a frown, dark as Erebus, spreads over his brow, as some poor laggard is astray in the mazes of sound, and can't find his place, or turns two pages instead of one, and consequently loses the thread of his harmonious discourse. The music grows so powerful that the conversation of the most enthusiastic and vociferous fast man no longer meets the ear. The orchestra is going as if they were riding an instrumental steeple chase, and the director looks more and more involved in doubt, as to which of his followers is to be left most in the rear.
At length when you have concluded that every musician has exhausted his last resource in thegeneral attempt to make a noise, you are knocked into a start of astonishment by the introduction of acorps de reserve, in the clash of cymbals, which sounds as if a careless servant had stumbled in coming up stairs and mashed an entire set of Sevres china. In the midst of this carnage of crotchets and quavers, the director is obviously the controlling spirit who "rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm." There he sits producing no one sound except an occasional rap of his baton on the desk, and yet rousing to frenzy or lulling into tranquillity the instruments of all this tumult, every now and then, as Mr. Macaulay would say, "hurling foul scorn" at the heaps of little black dots that are crowded over the leaves of his score.
When the intensity of the tones has been diminished and augmented some half dozen times, the overture is concluded in four grand crashes, in which the cymbals make the most conspicuous figure. During the overture, however, there seems to be occasional seasons when there is a cessation of hostilities, and a soft plaintive air is taken up by one clarionet, violincello or oboe, with which air the audience must be verymuch delighted, for they laugh and talk with the greatest earnestness, and never turn their eyes towards the orchestra.
And now there is a new commotion among the musicians, while arranging every thing for the more serious undertaking, the opera itself. The director goes about like a general on the eve of battle, reconnoitres his forces, and marshals them for the attack. He mounts the elevated seat, gives another contortion to his frame, similar to that which was necessary to put the overture in movement, and then the curtain rises. Heads are slightly projected from the boxes at this movement, and many an alabaster neck is curved forward till the lowered drapery reveals the snowy bosom. The noise of conversation ceases, and the opera commences in earnest.
Of the Opera in the Concrete.
"Lord! said my mother, what is all this story about?
"A cock and a bull, said Yorick—and one of the best of its kind I ever heard."—Tristram Shandy.
Prince Henry."'Wilt thou rob this leather-jerkin, crystal-button, nott-pated, agate-ring, puke stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch,—"
Francis."O Lord, sir, who do you mean?"
P. Hen."Why then, your brown bastard is your only drink: for, look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully; in Barbary, sir, it cannot come to so much."First Part of King Henry IV.
"If this were played upon a stage, now, I would condemn it as an improbable fiction."Twelfth Night.
WHEN the curtain rises the scene represents a dark forest, where some quite well dressed, but desperate, foreign-looking gentlemen are engaged at a game of cards, which, from the abandoned appearance of the players, we are warranted to believe, must be some such low pastime as "all fours," or a hand at poker. The desperate gentlemencantatorially inform the audience that their profession is that of outlaws, and remark that having no particular business then to engage them, they are staking quite extravagant sums on some cards, which the curious observer will discover to have a very unctuous appearance. How the outlaws ever came to be reduced to such straightened circumstances as to put up with these "lodgings upon the cold ground," or how they ever fell into such an improper course of life, we are not told, but we remember once hearing a fast man suggest that they were evidently "nobs who had overdrawn the badger by driving fast cattle, and going it high"—the exact signification of which words we did not understand, but supposed them to refer to scions of nobility who had squandered their patrimonies in riotous living. That these men are lost beyond the hope of redemption, is clear from the fact that they express their determination to employ themselves in no more useful or moral way; and how long they would persist in this pernicious amusement is rendered uncertain, by the entrance of their leader or chieftain—who, it is needless to say, is the tenor. From, the first moment that the spectatorcasts his eye on this obviously unfortunate individual, he is at once interested in his case, observing to himself, that if the fellow is somewhat addicted to low company, still he's a very gentlemanly character, and to all appearance
"The mildest manner'd manThat ever sculled ship or cut a throat."
His looks are sad and melancholy, and would indicate that he is either suffering from a cold in the head, or that his outlaws had been a little more successful at "all fours" than himself. The "dejected haviour of his visage" seems to touch the audience, for they immediately give him several rounds of applause, no doubt with the intention of raising his spirits. This kind manifestation of their feelings is responded to by one or two low bows, and then he turns towards his outlaws to obtain a becoming reception from them.
He is greeted by his followers with the greatest enthusiasm; though, to their inquiries after his health, he makes no reply, but walks languidly down to the foot-lights, and relates to both audience and outlaws, how deplorable will be his condition unless he receive the assistance of thelatter in carrying out his designs. He goes on to state that the "voice of a certain damsel of Arragon has slid into his heart like dew upon a parched flower"—a simile which the reader will observe to be equally felicitous as novel. He adds, however, that a great old villain and tyrant (who of course must be the basso,) has carried off the Spanish maiden, and is about to compel her to marry him. The bandits become at once highly indignant, and with one accord seize their arms and declare that they will follow their chief to the castle of the old phylogynist, andboulverséall his designs by some insinuating digs of the poignard. The despondent chief seems comforted by this assurance of their "most distinguished consideration," and remarks that the young lady will no doubt be a consoling angel amidst the griefs of exile.
While he has been informing the audience and his friends of the state of his feelings, he has from time to time indulged in gestures about as strong as we can well conceive of, but now and then when an extraordinarily deep sentiment, and a very high note, choose the same moment for their expression, he is obliged topoise himself on one foot, extend the other behind him, elevating the heel and depressing the toe, fold his hands over his breast, throw back the head and shake his body like a newfoundland dog just issuing from the water—the refractory note and the hidden emotion are always brought to light by these gesticulatory expedients.
Immediately after this, the scene having changed to the castle of the tyrant, the "Aragonese vergine" (the prima donna), is discovered reclining on an old box covered with green baize, which long-continued acquaintance with theatrical properties, enables the audience to recognize as a velvetlounge. This lady seems to be in great affliction, for which, however, wecan discover no adequate cause, except that she is in such an unbecoming place for an unprotected female. The applause of the audience is overwhelming, and three very low, but extremely graceful and lady-like curtsies which she rises "to do," are the consequence.
The beaux are now in all the excitement that dandies dare permit themselves to yield to, alternately exclaiming, "how grand she is! how beautiful! heavens, but isn't she beautiful!" and then bringing down the focus of the opera-glass on the peerless woman.
The distressed female now launches off into a recitative, in which she expresses, in no measured terms, her utter aversion to the hateful old tyrant, and then, falling on one knee, strikes into a cavatina, in which she says she hopes her lover, who necessarily must be the outlaw chief, (who again must necessarily be the tenor), will come immediately and run off with her—a wish that is probably often entertained by young ladies in reference to their particular lovers, but which is seldom avowed in this public way.
During the cavatina, she has been doing some very high singing, and making a great many of the newfoundland dog shakes, the lady part of the audience sitting wrapt in admiration, with the eyes fastened on the stage as intently as if they were witnessing a marriage ceremony, gently murmuring their approbation in detached sentences, such as "sweet, lovely, charming, exquisite;" while the fast men by the door, utter the words "knocker, fast nag," and declare that her time is "two thirty."
One of these very sporting young gentlemen asserts his readiness to "back her against thefield." Just as the prima donna makes a very steep raise in the scale with a dreadful velocity of utterance, the same individual expresses his desire to withdraw the offer, observing that she is making her "brushes" too soon, and that he fears "she'll be too distressed to come home handsome."
A troupe of maidens with very plethoric ancles, now make their appearance, encumbered by large gilt paste-board caskets, containing some exceedingly brilliant paste-jewelry, intended as bridal presents for the unprotected female. They have, however, the strangest mode of offering these tokens of friendship that we have ever seen.
They arrange themselves in a line on one side ofthe stage, apparently measuring their proximity to or distance from the foot-lights, with reference to the relative thickness of their ankles, until the lady nearest the audience seems to be the subject of a violent attack of elephantiasis. This done, they repeatedly sing five bars, and stretch out the right hand containing the present, in a line, forming, with the body, an angle of about ninety degrees.
A certain king of Castile in disguise, who is another of the many admirers of the heroine, breaks in on this little ceremony, expresses a strong wish to see her, and is told by one of the maidens, that the subject of his admirations is very much depressed in spirits, being considerably smitten with the afore-mentioned outlaw chieftain. The king is shocked at his adored one's want of taste in making a preference so little flattering to himself, and endeavours to force her to escape with him; but the young lady being highly indignant, draws a dagger, and threatens "to go into him," if he don't cease taking such liberties—thereby attracting considerable applause from some gentlemen in a back box, who have a strong penchant for dog-fighting. The outlawhappens to come in at the very nick of time, and after some quite serious altercation between him and the disguised king, at the moment when the "fancy" part of the audience are expecting a "set to," and admiring the courage of the little tenor (the outlaw), which they technically denominate the "game" of the "light weight," the heroine rushes between them with a drawn sword, threatening to destroy herself if they do not desist, and calling upon them to remember the honour of her mansion—thereby, no doubt, alluding to the possibility of an indictment for keeping a disorderly house.
The old tyrant, of whom we have heard a great deal, but have not as yet seen, returns home late at night to his castle, and finding two unknown gentlemen in his house without an invitation, conversing with his shut-up lady, he charges them with the impropriety of their behaviour. The strange gentlemen (the outlaw chief and the king in disguise), not particularly relishing these observations, beg him not to be so violent in his language. This seems only to incense the old fellow the more, who has just suggested "coffee and pistols," when the aforesaid king's followersentering, make the tyrant acquainted with the fact that he's been blowing up a king. The parasitical old tyrant immediately endeavours to excuse himself for the mistake he has made; says he hopes his royal highness will not be offended, that he had not the pleasure of his acquaintance, and all that sort of thing. The king rejoins that he is perfectly excuseable; that no offence has been done—that the cause of his own unlooked-for presence arises from the fact that he is out for the emperorship—that he is about doing a little electioneering, and that he just stopped in to learn the state of public feeling in his district, and solicit his (the tyrant's) vote. The tyrant being a good deal flattered by this appeal to his chief weak point—namely, his own fancied knowledge of party politics—says that the king does him great honour—"supreme honour"—and invites him to spend the night in the castle; which kind invitation his majesty graciously accepts.
In the meantime, the outlaw, having observed how much more cordially the tyrant is received than himself, has made his exit. The king's followers all draw up in line and conclude the actby a song, the burden of which is that their master's nomination is the only one "fit to be made."
The next act discovers the tyrant awaiting the arrival of the unfortunate heroine, to whom he is going to be married in a few minutes. All is jollity in the castle, till a gentleman clothed as a pilgrim, interrupts the general hilarity; for when the bride enters, he throws off the dreadful black cloak and reveals the outlaw chieftain. He pitches himself into a variety of passionate attitudes, to the great terror of a whole boarding school of young ladies, whom their teacher has permitted to visit the opera to improve their style of singing. The bride elect rushes up to him, and so they both step down to the foot-lights. The outlaw gentleman passes his right hand round the waist of the lady, and clasps in his left both of her's, elevating them to a line with the breast. They remain stationary for a moment, whilst the orchestra is playing the symphony, looking as fondly into each other's eyes as a pair of dear little turtle doves, and smiling as sweetly as every gentleman and lady have a right to smile under such pleasant circumstances. There they begin to assure each other simultaneously of thepleasure they would find in immediately dying, placed in the attitude which they are at present enjoying so highly; by a rare and curious accident, both repeating the same words, with the exception of the respective substitution of the pronouns "I, you, my, your, he, she," as often as such substitutions become necessary—as if one should say, for example,
The outlaw is, however, obliged to run and hide himself, because he hears the king knocking to come in, and he fears that he'll be killed if he is discovered. The king enters, and with a very "fee, fi, fo, fum" air, asks for the body of the outlaw. The tyrant tells a most bare-faced falsehood, swears the outlaw is not in his house, and so, the king, after considerable use of the word wretch, traitor, menditore, &c., carries off the bride as a hostage, to the great chagrin of the tyrant. As soon as the king has departed with his fair companion, the tyrant runs to the outlaw's hiding place, and dragging him forth by thecollar, declares that he'll kill him himself. The outlaw, under great excitement, seizes his head in both hands in a manner so terrible, that self-decapitation would seem to be inevitable, which so alarms the aforesaid boarding school misses, that two of them go off into hysterics, and they are carried into the lobby, where the cutting of their laces is attended with an explosion similar to that of "popping" a champagne cork. The outlaw prays the tyrant not to kill him just now, and says he will give him permission to do so at any future period. "Here, sir," adds he, still addressing himself to the tyrant, "is a very finecornet à piston, allow me to present it to you with the assurance, that whenever you wish to obtain my presence for the purpose of exterminating me, you will merely be obliged to sound the note of B flat, and I will unhesitatingly comply with your wishes." In the words of the poet Tennyson,
"Leave me here, and when you want me,Sound upon the bugle horn."
The tyrant accepts the present upon the accompanying condition, but having no great confidence in the word of a man who has been associating so long a time with bad company, herequires him to make oath to that effect; which being done, both gentlemen call upon the chorus to follow them immediately in pursuit of the king and his captive lady. These cowardly rascals stand some five minutes and sing about their readiness to depart, instead of marching off instantly, as they are requested to do.
In the third act, the king hides himself in a grave-yard during the election for emperor, probably out of fear that he may be defeated. While wandering among the grave-stones he overhears some of his political enemies, (among whom is the outlaw chieftain,) plotting his assassination. The conspirators cast lots for the office of assassin, and the lotvery naturallyfalls on the outlaw. The next moment the report of cannon is heard, and the king's retinue come in, bringing with them the heroine—who, we must confess, seems to have no real business there,—and state that the polls have closed, and that the king has been elected emperor. Thereupon the new emperor calls the conspirators up and is about to have them killed, just as it might be expected an emperor would do.
The heroine begs for the life of the miserableoffenders, telling the emperor that if he wishes to be considered a sovereign of respectability, and not conduct himself like one who had "stolen a precious diadem and put it in his pocket," he must pardon the delinquents. The emperor relents, and pronounces a pardon for the conspirators. He calls up the robber chieftain and the heroine, and uniting their hands, expresses an ardent wish that they may, as the libretto says, "love forever." The pleasure of the two lovers is indescribable, and the whole company begin to sing the praises of such a trump of an emperor. The air, which is chosen as the vehicle to carry all this adulation to royal ears, is apparently one of those crashing, clashing passages in the overture; and if the emperor does not hear the voice of flattery, it is because the gentlemen who preside over the kettle-drum and cymbals, seem to have entered into a conspiracy to prevent it. The more zealous the chorus is in its efforts to make an agreeable impression on their sovereign, and the louder the voice is raised for this object, the more that irritable old drummer seems anxious to defeat their sycophantic purposes. If you are one of those excitable persons who are prone to take aside in every contest that comes under their observation, whether it be two gentlemen ranging for the presidency, or two bull-terriers "punishing" each other for the possession of a bone, you immediately determine who you hope may carry their point. In your admiration of the dogged perseverance of the old drummer, you take part in favour of the instruments, and when you hear that sudden and awful clash of the cymbals, which causes you to start till you dig your elbow into an elderly gentleman on one side, and tread on some corny toes on the other, you felicitate yourself upon the victory of parchment and brass over throats; but the next moment your pleasure is extinguished, for the tenor and soprano give their voices an extra lift, and away they go up like rockets, far aloft above the din of horns, cymbals and kettle drums.
The fourth and last act represents the terrace of a highly illuminated palace, which may be seen in the back ground. Some masked gentlemen, very bandy-legged and knock-kneed, dressed in tight hose, well calculated to exhibit these deformities, are observed flirting with some of the before mentioned thick-ankled ladies, who likewiserejoice in dominos. Every thing indicates that this is a place, where people are in the habit of being extremely jolly, and from which such stupid things as parties to which a few friends are invited "very sociably", or family re-unions, are entirely abolished. Presently all the company break out with the expression of one general wish for the unbounded prosperity of the outlaw chief and the heroine whom we saw betrothed in the last act, and who have just been married. They make their exit shortly afterward in great precipitation, having been frightened from the stage by the appearance of a great, horrible-looking figure, clothed in black, which seems to be a species of bug-bear, sent to scare such naughty people who do nothing but dance, sing and make merry. The bug-bear exits shortly after.
Again the highly profligate chorus enter, in no wise corrected by the visitation of the gloomy looking gentleman, and assure the audience what a pleasant thing it is for one man to flirt with another's wife from behind a mask, or for an innocent young lady "going her first winter" to whisper in a corner with a man about town; butgetting weary of this occupation, they at last retire, and the newly married couple—the outlaw and his bride—again show themselves.
The outlaw seems to be struck with a highly poetic vein, for he tells the lady that the noise of the polka in the palace has ceased, that the gas has been stopped off, and that the stars are amusing themselves by smiling on their happy union, "because they've nothing else to do." Thereupon they indulge in a gentle embrace, and start off simultaneously in a duo, declaratory of the union of their two hearts in such an anti-anatomical manner, that henceforth until their latest breath, one cardiacal organ will suffice to perform the functions of two separate bodies. Scarcely have they made this declaration of their abnormal heart-union, before the sound of a horn falls on the ears of the o'er happy couple. At this moment the outlaw forgets all good breeding, and still influenced by his former brigand habits, swears a most horrible oath in the presence of his young bride, and seems to be overcome by great depression of spirits. The poor woman, observing nothing singular about the blast of the horn—in all probability fancying that it is only the tootingof a lazy post boy somewhat behind time, prays him to cheer up, and let her see him smile. Before the outlaw can comply with this small request the horn sounds again. "Behold," shrieks the young husband, "the tiger seeks his prey." The bride surveys the apartment, but observing no tiger or other ferocious animal, takes it for granted that he has the mania à potu, induced by imbibing too much champagne at the wedding feast. She immediately runs out into the bridal chamber, with the intention of putting on those indefinite garments denominated "things," and going to call up the court physician. The outlaw chieftain stands a moment listening with breathless attention, and hearing no more of the horn, comes to the conclusion that he has no just ground for fear, and that it was only a dreadful ringing in the ears with which he is sometimes afflicted. He thereupon rushes in pursuit of his bride, but just as he arrives at the door of the bridal chamber, his progress is arrested by the same black hob-goblin gentlemen who frighted the dissipated chorus, as before related. This gentleman is recognized by the outlaw in spite of his black clothes and mask, as the hateful old tyrant whopersecuted him to such an extent some time previously. The outlaw groans a few times, and then the tyrant asks his victim if he calls to mind his promise, and the words of the poet Tennyson,
"Leave me here, and when you want meSound upon the bugle horn."
The poor outlaw begs for his life; but the old tyrant remains inexorable, and tells him that he must die.
The unhappy bride returns, and hearing her husband entreating the old tyrant so fervently for a respite, unites her supplications with those of her husband. To this the tyrant makes no direct answer, but merely presents a poignard to the trembling outlaw, with a repetition of the words of the poet Tennyson.
"Leave me here, and when you want meSound upon the bugle horn."
The outlaw perceiving no mode of escaping from thishornof the dilemma, seizes the poignard, drives it in his breast, and sinks mortally wounded. The poor bride shrieks, and falls upon his body. Now succeeds a scene of pulling anddragging on the floor. The wounded tenor is called upon to struggle and writhe in all the agonies of death, and the prima donna to follow him up in order to raise his head on her knee, and thus give him an opportunity of singing his dying solo. To do this in such a manner as not to render the whole thing ridiculous and farcical, instead of tragic and touching, requires all the grace and ease imaginable. When well done it is impressive; when badly it is laughable; but whether touching or laughable, it is sure to be relished by a large part of the audience, for it always discloses who has done most for the prima donna's bust, dame nature or the mantua maker.
The tenor's head being elevated to the proper height, he expresses it as his dying wish that the prima donna will continue to live and cherish his memory. They then lament their unhappy fate in a short duo. The tenor dies; the prima donna appears to do the same, but the libretto consoles you by declaring that she only swoons. The old tyrant—the basso—chuckles like a wretch over the success of his successful plot, declares it a revenge worthy of a demon; you concur in his sentiments, and the curtain falls.
Gentle reader, are you wearied out with this insufferable nonsense? Do not say that you are, or you will have established a reputation for want of taste, beyond all controversy. Not to admire what we have written in this chapter, is to condemn what we know you have often declared was a "love of an opera." We have merely explained the plot of a well known operaticchef d'œuvre, which, goodness knows, required an explanation.
Now do not be petulant, andvery satiricallyexclaim,—"I wish he would explain his explanation," thereby showing, both that you can be excessively severe, and that you have read Byron. We do not intend to endeavour to render luminous that which is so very clear and evident in its meaning; it would be to "gild refined gold," and all that sort of thing, and therefore we spare you the infliction.