"I think it must be 'Hotel,'" says Captain Grigg of the Life Guards;
there is a general laugh at the Captain's cleverness. He is not very
far from the mark.
While the third syllable is in preparation, the band begins a nautical
medley--"All in the Downs," "Cease Rude Boreas," "Rule Britannia," "In
the Bay of Biscay O!"--some maritime event is about to take place. A
ben is heard ringing as the curtain draws aside. "Now, gents, for the
shore!" a voice exclaims. People take leave of each other. They point
anxiously as if towards the clouds, which are represented by a dark
curtain, and they nod their heads in fear. Lady Squeams (the Right
Honourable Lord Southdown), her lap-dog, her bags, reticules, and
husband sit down, and cling hold of some ropes. It is evidently a ship.
The Captain (Colonel Crawley, C.B.), with a cocked hat and a telescope,
comes in, holding his hat on his head, and looks out; his coat tails
fly about as if in the wind. When he leaves go of his hat to use his
telescope, his hat flies off, with immense applause. It is blowing
fresh. The music rises and whistles louder and louder; the mariners go
across the stage staggering, as if the ship was in severe motion. The
Steward (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes reeling by, holding six
basins. He puts one rapidly by Lord Squeams--Lady Squeams, giving a
pinch to her dog, which begins to howl piteously, puts her
pocket-handkerchief to her face, and rushes away as for the cabin. The
music rises up to the wildest pitch of stormy excitement, and the third
syllable is concluded.
There was a little ballet, "Le Rossignol," in which Montessu and Noblet
used to be famous in those days, and which Mr. Wagg transferred to the
English stage as an opera, putting his verse, of which he was a skilful
writer, to the pretty airs of the ballet. It was dressed in old French
costume, and little Lord Southdown now appeared admirably attired in
the disguise of an old woman hobbling about the stage with a faultless
crooked stick.
Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, and gurgling from a
sweet pasteboard cottage covered with roses and trellis work.
"Philomele, Philomele," cries the old woman, and Philomele comes out.
More applause--it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powder and patches, the
most ravissante little Marquise in the world.
She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about the stage with all the
innocence of theatrical youth--she makes a curtsey. Mamma says "Why,
child, you are always laughing and singing," and away she goes, with-THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming
Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring;
You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is blooming,
It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.