is also general jollity, in which some of the
ladies distinguish themselves.

Up strikes the band, every man playing on
his own hook. The leader has evidently seen
a picture of Strauss. He imitates his position
and bearing. His wristbands are turned up;
they are not quite clean. He does not appear
to have the smallest idea of his business. I
mention this to my companion: he laughs.
People in the next box laugh because we
laugh. The curtain rises on a dance. It
is awkward and hobbly, but I am told it
is characteristic. The peasant boy has of
course cut out the schoolmaster, who
expresses his grief in several more comic songs.
Audience join in one which appears to be a
favourite. There is something interesting in
this scene, because I learn that the actors are
dressed in the old Wallachian peasant costume,
which is now fast disappearing. The men wear
long white things like calico braided bed-
gowns, turn-over boots, and comical woollen
caps. The girls are one blaze of spangles and
tinsel. There is a pretty scene in which the
peasant fetches his bride from her parents,
while his best friends offer bread and wine as
a symbol of plenty. There is also some gun-
firing, a custom probably borrowed from the
Turks, but the sulphurous smell of the powder,
added to the smoke of the lamps, and the
pent-up atmosphere of the theatre, which is
crowded to suffocation, are almost insupportable.

I was not sorry when the whole
concluded with a dance and a chorus by the
whole strength of the company, and we were
free to go. I never remember to have seen
theatre, play, acting, actors and actresses, so
irredeemably bad.

Below there was, of course, a complete
regiment of gallants drawn up in line. Every
lady coming down had to run the gauntlet.
This appeared to me the real reason why
most of the company in the boxes had gone
to the theatre, and a very good reason too.
Perhaps there are here and there a few
people in proper London who would not go to
the opera if it were not for the pleasures of
the crush-room, while Mrs. Lackadaisy's
carriage is stopping the way.

THE TERRIBLE OFFICER.

THERE is an Austrian officer quartered in
the house of a pleasant Wallachian family.
He is an under-lieutenant, or what we should
call an ensign, and he is a very great man in
consequence. It is a powerful thing to hear
his sabre clanking along the passage when he
comes home at night from the hotel or casino.
It is more overwhelming still to hear him in
energetic conversation with his man servant
of a morning. He treats the pleasant
Wallachian family as if they were his born serfs
and servants. They keep out of his way,
therefore, as much as it is convenient to do
so— perhaps more. His footfall is a signal
for the prompt flight of all within hearing of
it. When he clears his throat the
maidservant trembles. If he coughs in the night
the whole house is thrown into a state
of alarm.

It is not unnatural under these
circumstances that when the pleasant Wallachian
family gave a ball on New Year's Eve the
terrible officer is not invited. He is not invited
because there is not a lady who would
dance with him; because his presence would
be insupportable—his very entry into the
room would cause the guests to quake and
fear.

The Austrian ensign, however, does not
appear to appreciate these reasons at a
sufficient value. He is huffed at being forgotten
on a festival day, as most people are who
have rendered themselves disagreeable
previously. He makes these sentiments known
to the family on his return home between
nine and ten o'clock, by sending them an
abrupt order to leave off making a noise,
which is likely to disturb his rest. The
servant who delivers this message creates much
astonishment, also some laughter. He is
generally supposed to be the harmless agent
of rather a far-fetched practical joke. The
guests converse together agreeably about
him in little groups for a few minutes, and
then the subject is forgotten.

Forgotten: for this night is one of the
greatest festivals of the Greek Church, and
every good Christian is bound to be merry
accordingly. Our guests are merry, and the
ball goes on. Now, a Wallachian ball is by
no means the milk-and-water affair of a ball
in Eaton Place West. There are few
wallflowers who sit in steady silence throughout
the evening, looking as unhappy as possible;
there are no long-faced gentlemen who
stand about exasperatingly in doorways, and
will not be comforted; there are no shy
people who won't dance, or can't dance. The
guests assemble at about seven o'clock in the
evening with a fixed determination to amuse
themselves. They dance in the most vigorous
manner till midnight. Then they have a
solid sit-down supper, seasoned with a very
considerable condiment of flirtation. Then
they begin again, and see each other home
in the morning, just as you and I should
like to see home Miss Brown and Mrs.
Fairly.

Such is the highly ornamental design for an
evening's entertainment marked out on the
present occasion. So the polka succeeds the
waltz, and the quadrille is followed by the
mazurka, and all prudent people who love to
talk together in corners have long ago
entered into arrangements for the cotillon.
That fascinating dance is, indeed, at its
height. The performers are whirling in
mazy but pretty confusion, picking up
handkerchiefs, pulling crackers, presenting
bouquets and gay ribbons to each other, after the
fashion ot the thing. Then the door opens
suddenly, and a fearful apparition appears in the