kindle was submitted to a wet blanket on the spot. 'Good heavens!' would exclaim some venerable philosopher of the Cynic and Epicurean schools, 'there is no opera now, nor ballet neither. My good sir, the thing is done; it's over. We haven't an artist left. Ah! you should have seen Taglioni dance; you should have heard Grisi sing; you should have lived when Plancus was consul. In short, you should be as old as I am, and as disgusted, and as gouty, and as disagreeable!'
"Or I walked into the smoking-room of that same resort, full of some athletic gathering at Holland Park, some 'Varsity hurdle-race, some trial of strength or skill amongst those lively boys the subalterns of the Household Brigade; and ere I could articulate 'brandy and soda' I had Captain Barclay thrown body and bones in my face. Walk, sir! You talk of walking?' (I
