| “Mr. Ledbury’s Hat.” |
“He walks downstairs,” says Mr. Smith, “under the insane expectation of finding his own hat, or madly deeming that the ticket pinned upon it corresponds with the one in his waistcoat pocket.”
Here I take my leave of “The Physiology of Evening Parties” in presenting my reader with this charming little drawing, in which one scarcely knows which to admire most—the bewildered expression of Mr. Ledbury as he ruefully contemplates the rim of his hat, or the sympathetic, half-laughing face of the perfect little maid. The artistic qualities of this illustration are excellent. I say good-bye to “Evening Parties” only to meet Mr. Albert Smith again in a work by him called “Comic Tales and Pictures of Life,” published, I think, about the time of the “Evening Parties,” or perhaps earlier, for the illustrations are, on the whole, inferior to those in the latter production. The work under notice is composed of a series of short stories, in which love, comedy, and deep tragedy play alternate parts. Leech’s attention is mainly devoted to the comic scenes.
We are told of a Mr. Percival Jenks, whose frequent visits to the theatre have led to the loss of his heart to a beauteous ballet-girl. “The third ballet-girl from the left-hand stage-box, with the golden belt and green wreath, in the Pas des Guirlandes, or lyres, or umbrellas, or something of the kind, had enslaved his susceptible affections.”
| “Mr. Percival Jenks.” |
No one knew who Mr. Jenks was, or what he was. Even his landlady’s information about him was confined to the idea that he was “something in a house in the City.” That idea proved to be well founded, for Mr. J. was discovered by the head-clerk at the house in the City, spoiling blotting-paper by drawing little opera-dancers all over it; thus neglecting his accounts, which he had to “stay two hours after time to make up. At half price, nevertheless, he was at the play again, his whole existence centred on an airy compound of clear muslin and white satin that was twirling about the stage.” Mr. Jenks burned to know his enslaver’s name with a view to an introduction; and for that purpose he haunted the stage-door, but utterly failed to recognise, amongst the faded cloaks, and drabby bonnets that issued from that portal, the angelic form of his charmer. He then took to haunting the places where minor actors and other employés of the theatre most do congregate for the purpose of social intercourse and refreshment; here at last he is rewarded.
“Do you know the young lady,” he says to a habitué, “who dances in the ballet with a green wreath round her head?”
“And a gilt belt round her waist?” asked the friend in turn. “Oh, it’s Miss—Miss—I shall forget my own name next.”
Percival was about to suggest Rosière, Céleste, Amadée, and other pretty cognomens, when his companion caught the name, and exclaimed:
“Miss Jukes; I thought I should recollect it.”