Physiology of the Opera

by Scrici

The outlaw is, however, obliged to run and hide himself, because he hears the king knocking to come in, and he fears that he'll be killed if he is discovered. The king enters, and with a very "fee, fi, fo, fum" air, asks for the body of the outlaw. The tyrant tells a most bare-faced falsehood, swears the outlaw is not in his house, and so, the king, after considerable use of the word wretch, traitor, menditore, &c., carries off the bride as a hostage, to the great chagrin of the tyrant. As soon as the king has departed with his fair companion, the tyrant runs to the outlaw's hiding place, and dragging him forth by the collar, declares that he'll kill him himself. The outlaw, under great excitement, seizes his head in both hands in a manner so terrible, that self-decapitation would seem to be inevitable, which so alarms the aforesaid boarding school misses, that two of them go off into hysterics, and they are carried into the lobby, where the cutting of their laces is attended with an explosion similar to that of "popping" a champagne cork. The outlaw prays the tyrant not to kill him just now, and says he will give him permission to do so at any future period. "Here, sir," adds he, still addressing himself to the tyrant, "is a very fine cornet à piston, allow me to present it to you with the assurance, that whenever you wish to obtain my presence for the purpose of exterminating me, you will merely be obliged to sound the note of B flat, and I will unhesitatingly comply with your wishes." In the words of the poet Tennyson,

"Leave me here, and when you want me,
Sound upon the bugle horn."

The tyrant accepts the present upon the accompanying condition, but having no great confidence in the word of a man who has been associating so long a time with bad company, he requires him to make oath to that effect; which being done, both gentlemen call upon the chorus to follow them immediately in pursuit of the king and his captive lady. These cowardly rascals stand some five minutes and sing about their readiness to depart, instead of marching off instantly, as they are requested to do.

In the third act, the king hides himself in a grave-yard during the election for emperor, probably out of fear that he may be defeated. While wandering among the grave-stones he overhears some of his political enemies, (among whom is the outlaw chieftain,) plotting his assassination. The conspirators cast lots for the office of assassin, and the lot very naturally falls on the outlaw. The next moment the report of cannon is heard, and the king's retinue come in, bringing with them the heroine—who, we must confess, seems to have no real business there,—and state that the polls have closed, and that the king has been elected emperor. Thereupon the new emperor calls the conspirators up and is about to have them killed, just as it might be expected an emperor would do.

The heroine begs for the life of the miserable offenders, telling the emperor that if he wishes to be considered a sovereign of respectability, and not conduct himself like one who had "stolen a precious diadem and put it in his pocket," he must pardon the delinquents. The emperor relents, and pronounces a pardon for the conspirators. He calls up the robber chieftain and the heroine, and uniting their hands, expresses an ardent wish that they may, as the libretto says, "love forever." The pleasure of the two lovers is indescribable, and the whole company begin to sing the praises of such a trump of an emperor. The air, which is chosen as the vehicle to carry all this adulation to royal ears, is apparently one of those crashing, clashing passages in the overture; and if the emperor does not hear the voice of flattery, it is because the gentlemen who preside over the kettle-drum and cymbals, seem to have entered into a conspiracy to prevent it. The more zealous the chorus is in its efforts to make an agreeable impression on their sovereign, and the louder the voice is raised for this object, the more that irritable old drummer seems anxious to defeat their sycophantic purposes. If you are one of those excitable persons who are prone to take a side in every contest that comes under their observation, whether it be two gentlemen ranging for the presidency, or two bull-terriers "punishing" each other for the possession of a bone, you immediately determine who you hope may carry their point. In your admiration of the dogged perseverance of the old drummer, you take part in favour of the instruments, and when you hear that sudden and awful clash of the cymbals, which causes you to start till you dig your elbow into an elderly gentleman on one side, and tread on some corny toes on the other, you felicitate yourself upon the victory of parchment and brass over throats; but the next moment your pleasure is extinguished, for the tenor and soprano give their voices an extra lift, and away they go up like rockets, far aloft above the din of horns, cymbals and kettle drums.

The fourth and last act represents the terrace of a highly illuminated palace, which may be seen in the back ground. Some masked gentlemen, very bandy-legged and knock-kneed, dressed in tight hose, well calculated to exhibit these deformities, are observed flirting with some of the before mentioned thick-ankled ladies, who likewise rejoice in dominos. Every thing indicates that this is a place, where people are in the habit of being extremely jolly, and from which such stupid things as parties to which a few friends are invited "very sociably", or family re-unions, are entirely abolished. Presently all the company break out with the expression of one general wish for the unbounded prosperity of the outlaw chief and the heroine whom we saw betrothed in the last act, and who have just been married. They make their exit shortly afterward in great precipitation, having been frightened from the stage by the appearance of a great, horrible-looking figure, clothed in black, which seems to be a species of bug-bear, sent to scare such naughty people who do nothing but dance, sing and make merry. The bug-bear exits shortly after.

Again the highly profligate chorus enter, in no wise corrected by the visitation of the gloomy looking gentleman, and assure the audience what a pleasant thing it is for one man to flirt with another's wife from behind a mask, or for an innocent young lady "going her first winter" to whisper in a corner with a man about town; but getting weary of this occupation, they at last retire, and the newly married couple—the outlaw and his bride—again show themselves.

The outlaw seems to be struck with a highly poetic vein, for he tells the lady that the noise of the polka in the palace has ceased, that the gas has been stopped off, and that the stars are amusing themselves by smiling on their happy union, "because they've nothing else to do." Thereupon they indulge in a gentle embrace, and start off simultaneously in a duo, declaratory of the union of their two hearts in such an anti-anatomical manner, that henceforth until their latest breath, one cardiacal organ will suffice to perform the functions of two separate bodies. Scarcely have they made this declaration of their abnormal heart-union, before the sound of a horn falls on the ears of the o'er happy couple. At this moment the outlaw forgets all good breeding, and still influenced by his former brigand habits, swears a most horrible oath in the presence of his young bride, and seems to be overcome by great depression of spirits. The poor woman, observing nothing singular about the blast of the horn—in all probability fancying that it is only the tooting of a lazy post boy somewhat behind time, prays him to cheer up, and let her see him smile. Before the outlaw can comply with this small request the horn sounds again. "Behold," shrieks the young husband, "the tiger seeks his prey." The bride surveys the apartment, but observing no tiger or other ferocious animal, takes it for granted that he has the mania à potu, induced by imbibing too much champagne at the wedding feast. She immediately runs out into the bridal chamber, with the intention of putting on those indefinite garments denominated "things," and going to call up the court physician. The outlaw chieftain stands a moment listening with breathless attention, and hearing no more of the horn, comes to the conclusion that he has no just ground for fear, and that it was only a dreadful ringing in the ears with which he is sometimes afflicted. He thereupon rushes in pursuit of his bride, but just as he arrives at the door of the bridal chamber, his progress is arrested by the same black hob-goblin gentlemen who frighted the dissipated chorus, as before related. This gentleman is recognized by the outlaw in spite of his black clothes and mask, as the hateful old tyrant who persecuted him to such an extent some time previously. The outlaw groans a few times, and then the tyrant asks his victim if he calls to mind his promise, and the words of the poet Tennyson,

"Leave me here, and when you want me
Sound upon the bugle horn."

The poor outlaw begs for his life; but the old tyrant remains inexorable, and tells him that he must die.