I am generally satisfied with my appearance in the glass as a portrait of a gentleman in repose, but I feel that any display of emotion, even of irrepressible loyalty, would probably be disastrous to some portion of my attire.  The Court sword, too, is rather embarrassing, and, though Co. has adroitly fixed it for me by some mysterious process of invisible arrangement, yet, when I shall be left alone with the sheathed weapon, and have to do all this buckling and hitching for myself, I feel sure that that sword, which is only worn on the left to defend the right, will give me no inconsiderable trouble.  Fortunately our washerwoman’s husband, who comes late on a Wednesday for the linen, is a retired sergeant, and knows how this sort of thing should be done.  He will assist in arming me for the operatic fray. Tout va bien.

At Opera, Wednesday Night, July 8.—­Grand sight.  Very grand; not only that, but beautiful.  Costumes, uniforms, military, diplomatic,—­all sorts, the real article and the Dathanic,—­impossible to tell one from the other, taking them as a lot; but still, I feel that it is better to remain in my Stall, where only the upper part of me is visible to the unclothed eye.  The consciousness that I am here, not as myself, but in disguise as somebody else, name unknown, rather oppresses me; only at first, however, as very soon I recognise a number of familiar faces and figures all in strange array.  A stockbroker or two, a few journalists, several ordinary people belonging to various callings and professions, some others noble, some gentle, some simple, but most of us eyeing each other furtively, and wondering where the deuce the other fellow got his costume from, and what right he has to wear it.

Every moment I expect some gaily attired person to come up and say to me confidentially, “I know that suit; I wore it last so-and-so.  Isn’t it a trifle tight about the shoulders?  Beware! when I wore it, it went a bit in the back.”  Man in gorgeous uniform makes his way to the vacant Stall next to me.  I am a bit flustered until he salutes me heartily with—­“How d’ye do?  How are you?” Why, it’s—­well, no matter who it is.  I have met him everywhere for years; we are the best of friends.  I knew he is something; somewhere in the City, but not much anywhere else, and at all events he is no more a military man than I am a courtier, but when he confides to me that he was once upon a time in the Dampshire Yeomanry, and that this uniform has served him for years, and looks uncommonly well at night though it wouldn’t bear the light of day, I begin to comprehend the entire scene.