The old tyrant--the
basso--chuckles like a wretch over the success of his successful plot,
declares it a revenge worthy of a demon; you concur in his sentiments,
and the curtain falls.

Gentle reader, are you wearied out with this insufferable nonsense? Do
not say that you are, or you will have established a reputation for want
of taste, beyond all controversy. Not to admire what we have written in
this chapter, is to condemn what we know you have often declared was a
"love of an opera." We have merely explained the plot of a well known
operatic _chef d'oeuvre_, which, goodness knows, required an
explanation.

Now do not be petulant, and _very satirically_ exclaim,--"I wish he
would explain his explanation," thereby showing, both that you can be
excessively severe, and that you have read Byron. We do not intend to
endeavour to render luminous that which is so very clear and evident in
its meaning; it would be to "gild refined gold," and all that sort of
thing, and therefore we spare you the infliction.

CHAPTER IX.

Apres.

I'm fond of fire and crickets, and all that,
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.

BYRON.

From this genteel place the reader must not be surprised, if I should
convey him to a cellar, or a common porter-house.

CONNOISSEUR. No. 1.

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.

BYRON.

The curtain falls, much to the delight of those gentlemen whose sole
motive for frequenting the opera, is to have an opportunity of what they
term "chaffing" with some fair lady friend, whilst repairing thither,
and returning from thence, as well as during the enchanting moments
when the "drop" displays one of those accommodating landscapes, which
the audience, at their option, may convert either into the lake of Como,
or the ruins of Palmyra. If we may trust the assertion of many fair
mouths, we must infer that the curtain has fallen, much to the regret of
certain young ladies who declare that they could sit and hear Bosio
forever--a period of time which we have always been taught to regard as
very long indeed.

But the curtain _has_ fallen, and the gentlemen who have been foolish
enough to send _bouquets_ to the prima donna in the morning, all seem
suddenly to be struck with the bright idea, that by giving a few knocks
of a cane, or a few taps of a gloved hand, they can "call out" that
divine woman, and by some adroit manoeuvre render themselves
disting