HOW TO BEHAVE AT A THEATRE.
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MR. PUNCHINELLO: I take it you are willing to receive useful information. Of course you are—Why? Because, while you may be humorous, you intend also to be sensible. I have in my day been to the theatre not a little. I have seen many plays and many audiences. I know—or, at least, think I do—what is good acting, and—what good manners. Suffer me, then, briefly to give you a few hints as to how an audience should behave. I shall charge nothing for the information, though I am frank to insinuate that it is worth a deal—of the value, perhaps, of a great deal table. First. Always take a lady with you to the play. It will please her, whatever the bother to you. Besides, you will then be talked to. If you make a mess of it in trying to unravel the plot, she will essentially aid you in that direction. Nothing like a woman for a plot—especially if you desire to plunge head foremost into one. Second. If you have any loud conversation to indulge in, do it while the play is going on. Possibly it may disturb your neighbors; but you do not ask them to hear it. Hail Columbia! isn't this a free country? If you have any private and confidential affairs to talk over, the theatre is the place in which to do it. Possibly strangers may not comprehend all the bearings; but that is not your fault. You do your best—who can do better? Third. If you have an overcoat or any other garment, throw it across the adjoining or front seat. Never mind any protests of frown or word. Should not people be willing to accommodate? Of course they should. Prove it by putting your dripping umbrella against the lady with the nice moire antique silk. It may ruffle her temper; but that's her business, not yours; she shouldn't be ridiculous because well dressed. Fourth. Try and drop your opera-glass half a dozen times of an evening. If it makes a great racket—as of course it will—and rolls a score of seats off, hasten at once to obtain possession of the frisky instrument. Let these little episodes be done at a crisis in the play where the finest points are being evolved. Fifth. Of course you carry a cane—a very ponderous cane. What for? To use it, obviously. Contrive to do so when every body is silent. What's the use in being demonstrative in a crowd? It don't pay. Besides, you dog, you know your forte is in being odd. Odd fellow-you. See it in your brain—only half of one. Make a point to bring down your cane when there is none, (point, not cane,) and shout out "Good!" or "Bravo!" when you have reason to believe other people are going to be quiet. Sixth. Never go in till after a play begins, and invariably leave in the middle of an act, and in the most engaging scene. These are but a few hints. However, I trust they are good as far as they go. I may send you a half-dozen more. In the mean time I remain Yours, truly, O. FOGY. |
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V. H. to Punchinello.
The following letter, received by the French cable, explains itself. After the perusal of it, America warms toward France: HAUTEVILLE PARK, March 25,1870. To THE EDITOR OF THE PUNCHINELLO: MONSIEUR: The advance copy of your journal has stormed my heart. I owe it one happy day. Europe trembles. They light their torches sinister, those trans-alpine vacillationists. The church, already less tranquil, dis-segregates itself. We laugh. To your journal there is a future, and there will be a past. The age has its pulsations, and it never forgets. I, too, remember. There is also blood. Upon it already glitters the dust of glory. Monsieur! I salute you and your confreres! Accept my homage and my emotion. VICTOR HUGO. |