and dress the hair of the former class.

Our simile need not be carried further, it being apparent to the most inconsiderate reader, that it is quite as truthful as that hatched by the swan of Avon. We shall now commence our observations upon the most interesting members of a troupe; those best known to the community before whom they nightly appear; and leave unnoticed those disagreeable but influential ones who raise the price of tickets, or stand in a little box near the door and palm off all the back seats upon the uninitiated.

CHAPTER II.

"In short, I may, I am sure, with truth assert, that whether in the allegro or in the piano, the adagio, the largo or the forte, he never had his equal."—Connoisseur. No. 130.

"Famed for the even tenor of his conduct, and his conduct as a tenor."—Knickerbocker.

THE Tenor is a small man, seldom exceeding the medium height. His voice is, comparatively speaking, a small voice, and consequently not likely to issue from over-grown lungs. His proportions are, or at least ought to be, as symmetrical as possible. His hair, nine times out of ten, is black, and always curls. His beard is reasonably bushy; but his moustache is the most artistically cultivated and carefully nurtured collection of hair that ever adorned the superior lip of man. His features are likely to be handsome, sometimes, however, effeminately so. His dress is a little extravagant; not extravagant in the mode and manner of a fast man or a dandy—for it is not punctiliously fashionable like that of the latter, without any deviation from tailor's plates; neither does it resemble that of the former in the gentlemanly roughness of its appearance; consequently he rejoices not in entire suits of grey or plaid, those very sporting coats, those English country-gentleman's shoes, those amply bowed cravats, and those shirts that are so resplendent with the well executed heads of terrier dogs. No! the primo tenore has a passion, first, for satin,—secondly, for jewelry,—and lastly, for hats, boots and gloves. He dotes on satin scarfs, cravats and ties, and his gorgeous satin vests, of all the hues of the rainbow, astound the saunterer on the morning promenade. His love for pins, studs, rings and chains is almost enough to lead us to believe that his blood is mingled with that of the Mohawks. Boots that fit like gloves, and gloves that fit like the skin, render him the envy of dandies. His hat is smooth and glossy to an excess, and its peculiar formation makes it considered "un peu trop fort," even by the most daring of hat-fanciers.

The tenor rises late; partly because he is naturally indolent; partly because the prime basso drank him slightly exhilarated the evening previous; and partly out of affectation and the desire to appear a very fine gentleman. Having spent a long time in making a negligée toilette, he orders his breakfast. Seated in his comprehensive arm chair, and attired in all the splendor of a well-tinselled satin or velvet calotte, a dazzling robe de chambre, and slippers of the most brilliant colors, he takes his matutinal repast. And now we begin to discover some of the thousand vexations and annoyances that harass the life of this poor object of popular support. His breakfast is but the skeleton of that useful and nourishing repast. No rich beef-steaks! no tender chops! no fragrant ham nor well-seasoned omelettes, transfer their nutritive properties through his system. Any indulgence in these wholesome articles of food is considered direct destruction to the tender organ of the tenor. A hunting breakfast every day, or a glass of wine at an improper hour, if persisted in for any length of time, it is supposed would ruin the most delightful voice that ever sung an aria. A large cup of café au lait, with an egg beaten in it, is all the morning meal of which the poor artiste (as he styles himself,) is permitted to partake. This feat accomplished, he takes up the newspaper in which he spells out the puff which he paid the reporter to insert, and after satisfying himself that he has received his quid pro quo, he lounges away the morning until a sufficient space of time has elapsed to render the use of the voice no longer deleterious, as it is immediately after eating. And then come two or three hours of study that is no trifle. The tenor is a man; and it seems to be a great moral law, that whether it come in the form of labor, disease, ennui or indigestion, suffering shall be the badge of all our tribe. Even prima donnas, who defy gods and men with more temerity than all living creatures, are constrained to concede the obligation of this universal moral edict. The tenor then yields homage to human nature and the public, in the labor of climbing stubborn scales, rehearsing new operas, and sometimes, though not often, in receiving the impertinence of arrogant prima donnas, during several hours every day. After these fatiguing efforts, he makes his grande toilette, and prepares himself to astound the town no less by his personal attractions than by his song. The chief promenade of the city, where he condescends to mete out to highly favoured audiences the treasures of his organ, is made the day-theatre of his glory. Accompanied by his friend the primo basso, he saunters along very quietly, attracting the gaze of the curious, and calling forth the passionate remarks of enthusiastic young ladies, who feel it would be a pleasure to die, if they could only leave such a gentleman behind on earth to sing "Tu che a Dio," in the event of their being "snatched away in beauty's bloom."

The basso is the chosen male companion of the tenor's walk; firstly, because he is no rival, and secondly, because the gross physical endowments of the former are such as to bring out the latter's symmetrical proportions in such strong relief.

Sometimes the tenor is seen riding out with the prima donna, with whom he is nearly always a favorite. He is the gentleman who makes himself useful in assisting her to destroy time; he performs for her those thousand and one little delicate attentions for which all women are so truly grateful; and then he sings with her every night those sentimental duos, that necessarily produce their effect upon the feminine bosom.

Whether walking with his gigantic friend, or riding with his fair one, the tenor behaves himself with the greatest propriety and gentleman-like bearing, excepting always a certain air which leads us to believe that he thinks "too curious old port" of himself. He is more grave, but apparently more vain when on foot, than when seated in the carriage with the prima donna; at which time his gesticulation becomes very animated, sometimes very extravagant; though we must always accord it the attraction of gracefulness.

The time is thus agreeably walked, ridden and "chaffed" away, until the hour for the substantial dinner comes to fortify mankind against the slings and arrows of hunger and tedium. Then the tenor does dare to partake of a few, of what are technically called "the delicacies of the season." But still a restraint is put upon the appetite, for in a few hours more he must go through labours for which the "fulness of satiety" would little prepare him. A very worthy and elderly clergyman of the Church of England once made known to the writer his