“Oh, yes! she acts beautifully,” says our friend his Excellency, who along with Baron von Punter and Tagrag, used very seldom to miss coming to our box.

“She may act very beautifully, Munseer, but she don’t dress so; and I am very glad they threw that orange-peel and all those things at her, and that the people waved to her to get off.”

Here his Excellency, and the Baron and Tag, set up a roar of laughter.

“My dear Mrs. Coxe,” says Tag, “those are the most famous dancers in the world; and we throw myrtle, geraniums, and lilies and roses at them, in token of our immense admiration!”

“Well, I never!” said my wife; and poor Jemimarann slunk behind the curtain, and looked as red as it almost.  After the one had done the next begun; but when, all of a sudden, a somebody came skipping and bounding in, like an Indian-rubber ball, flinging itself up, at least six feet from the stage, and there shaking about its legs like mad, we were more astonished than ever!

“That’s Anatole,” says one of the gentlemen.

“Anna who?” says my wife; and she might well be mistaken:  for this person had a hat and feathers, a bare neck and arms, great black ringlets, and a little calico frock, which came down to the knees.

“Anatole.  You would not think he was sixty-three years old, he’s as active as a man of twenty.”

“He!” shrieked out my wife; “what, is that there a man?  For shame!  Munseer.  Jemimarann, dear, get your cloak, and come along; and I’ll thank you, my dear, to call our people, and let us go home.”

You wouldn’t think, after this, that my Jemmy, who had shown such a horror at the bally, as they call it, should ever grow accustomed to it; but she liked to hear her name shouted out in the crush-room, and so would stop till the end of everything; and, law bless you! in three weeks from that time, she could look at the ballet as she would at a dancing-dog in the streets, and would bring her double-barrelled opera-glass up to her eyes as coolly as if she had been a born duchess.  As for me, I did at Rome as Rome does; and precious fun it used to be, sometimes.

My friend the Baron insisted one night on my going behind the scenes; where, being a subscriber, he said I had what they call my ONTRAY.  Behind, then, I went; and such a place you never saw nor heard of!  Fancy lots of young and old gents of the fashion crowding round and staring at the actresses practising their steps.  Fancy yellow snuffy foreigners, chattering always, and smelling fearfully of tobacco.  Fancy scores of Jews, with hooked-noses and black muzzles, covered with rings, chains, sham diamonds, and gold waistcoats.  Fancy old men dressed in old nightgowns, with knock-knees, and dirty flesh-colored cotton stockings, and dabs of brick-dust on their wrinkled old chops, and tow-wigs (such wigs!) for the bald ones, and great tin spears in their hands mayhap, or else shepherds’ crooks, and fusty garlands of flowers made of red and green baize.  Fancy troops of girls giggling, chattering, pushing to and fro, amidst old black canvas, Gothic halls, thrones, pasteboard Cupids, dragons, and such like.  Such dirt, darkness, crowd, confusion and gabble of all conceivable languages was never known!