In Consideration of the Extreme Heat of the Weather, the usual strict Dress Regulations of the Opera will be suspended.
AUGUST.
Several Parliamentary reporters will begin to let their moustaches grow, from which the speedy close of the session may be expected.
The metropolis will be threatened with a fearful amount of sickness. Children, hitherto the models of rude health, will be discovered by their anxious mammas to be looking pale. Husbands who never had a day's illness in their lives (and are in the habit of boasting to that effect) will be assured by their better halves that if they continue to stick so closely to business, they will be dead in a month—and with so many depending on them, they should show some regard for their precious healths. They themselves (the poor wives) are used to suffering; but even they would like to be spared for a short time, if only for the sake of their families. It will also be discovered that, being out of town, and having no appearance to keep up, you can live at the seaside for next to nothing; so that it will be a downright saving.
The heat of the weather will increase in intensity. Considerable modifications of the national costume will be found necessary. The fashions of the month (male) will be confined to a gauze shirt and a pair of light crochet inexpressibles.
An astute theatrical manager will pocket a considerable sum by announcing—"Glorious unsuccess! Anything but crowded houses!! Not more than three people in the pit!!!" Large numbers will flock to the establishment in hopes of coolness and ventilation, and will be refused their money back.
SEPTEMBER.
One of our married readers will leave home for a couple of days' shooting, promising faithfully to send his wife some birds.
