But the acrobatic exhibition is that which beggars all that our overworked sensibilities have endured at the hands of rope-dancer or equestrian. Blondin himself, Hanlon in the flying trapeze, are less perfect and less terrible. Acrobat No. 1 appears in an athlete's costume of white linen. He binds a stout silken tie around his head—a precaution whose object is later understood. He then gets into a small metal triangle with a running cord attached, and is swung up to the neighborhood of the high, arched ceiling, where various cross-pieces, slight in appearance, are attached. To one of these he directs his venturous flight, and letting his triangle depart, he takes his station with his legs firmly closed upon the cross-piece, his head hanging down, his hands free. Acrobat No. 2 now comes upon the scene. Mounting in a second triangle, he is swung to a certain height at a distance of some twenty or more feet from the first performer. A bamboo pole is here handed him, of which he manages to convey the upper end within the grasp of the latter. And now, swinging loose from his triangle, he hangs at the lower end of the bamboo, his steadfast colleague holding fast the upper end. And this mere straight line, with only the natural jointings of the cane, becomes to him a domain, a palace of ease. Now he clings to it apparently with one finger, throwing out the other hand and both feet. Now he clings by one foot, his head being down, and his hands occupied with a fan. There is, in fact, no name for the singularities with which he amazes us for at least a quarter of an hour. No. 1 always holds on like grim death. No. 2 seems at times to hold on by nothing. All the while one of their number chatters volubly in the Japanese dialect, directing attention to the achievements of the two pendent heroes. Our thoughts recurred forcibly to a dialogue long familiar in our own country:—
"Wat's dat darkening up de hole?" asks Cuffee in the she bear's den to Cuffee without, who is forcibly detaining the returned she bear by one extremity.
"If de tail slips through my fingers, you'll find out," is the curt reply, and end of the story.
But the pole did not slip through, and, finally, the second triangle was swung towards acrobat No. 2, who relinquished his hold of the bamboo, and intwining his legs about it, pleasantly made his descent with his head downwards, afterwards setting himself to rights with one shake. Acrobat No. 1 now condescends to come down from his high position, also with his head down, and a cool and consummate demeanor. But he walks off from the stage as if his late inverted view of it had given him something to think of. And in all this, not one jerk, one hasty snatch, one fall and recovery. All goes with the rounded smoothness of machinery. These gymnasts have perfected the mechanism of the body, but they have given it nothing to do that is worth doing.
SOCIETY.
We bite at the tempting bait of London society a little eagerly. In our case, as veterans, it is like returning to a delicious element from which we have long been weaned. The cheerfulness with which English people respond to the modest presentment of a card well-motived, the cordiality with which they welcome an old friend, once truly a friend, may well offset the reserve with which they respond to advances made at random, and the resolute self-defence of the British Lion in particular against all vague and vagabond enthusiasms. Carlyle's wrath at the Americans who homaged and tormented him prompted a grandiose vengeance. He called them a nation of hyperbores. Not for this do we now vigorously let him alone, but because his spleeny literary utterances these many years attest the precise moment in which bright Apollo left him. The most brilliant genius should beware of the infirmity of the fireside and admiring few, whose friendship applauds his poorest sayings, and, at the utmost, shrugs its shoulders where praise is out of the question.
Our remembrance of the London of twenty-four years ago is, indeed hyperdelightful, and of that description which one does not ask to have repeated, so perfect is it in the first instance. A second visit was less social and more secluded in its opportunities. But now—for what reason it matters not; would it were that of our superior merit—we find the old delightful account reopened, the friendly visits frequent, and the luxurious invitations to dinner occupy every evening of our short week in London, crowding out theatres and opera—the latter now just in the bud. To these dissipations a new one has been added, and the afternoon tea is now a recognized institution. Less formal and expensive than a New York afternoon reception, it answers the same purpose of a final object and rest for the day's visiting. In some instances, it continues through the season; in others, invitations are given for a single occasion only. You go, if invited, in spruce morning dress, with as much or as little display of train and bonnet as may suit with your views. You find a cheerful and broken-up assemblage—people conversing in twos, or, at most, in threes. And here is the Very Reverend the Dean. And here is the Catholic Archbishop, renowned for the rank and number of his proselytes. And here is Sir Charles—not he of the hunting-whip and breeches, but one renowned in science, and making a practical as well as a theoretical approximation to the antiquity of man. And here is Sir Samuel, who has finally discovered those parent lakes of the Nile which have been among the lost arts of geography for so many centuries. In this society, no man sees or shows a full-length portrait. A word is given, a phrase exchanged, and "tout est dit." What it all may amount to must be made out in another book than mine.
Well, having been more or less introduced, you take a cup of tea, with the option of bread and butter or a fragment of sponge cake. Having finished this, you vanish; you have shown yourself, reported yourself; more was not expected of you.
A graver and more important institution is the London dinner, commencing at half past seven, with good evening clothes—a white neckcloth and black vest for gentlemen; for nous autres, evening dress, not resplendent. The dinners we attend have perhaps the edge of state a little taken off, being given at short notice; but we observe female attire to be less showy than in our recollections of twenty-four years previous, and our one evening dress, devised to answer for dinner, evening party, and ball, proves a little over, rather than under, the golden mean of average appearance. As one dinner is like all, the briefest sketch of a single possible occasion may suffice. If you have been at afternoon tea before dinner, your toilet has been perforce a very hurried one. If it is your first appearance, the annonce of a French hair-dresser in the upper floor of your hotel may have inspired you with the insane idea of submitting your precious brain-case to his manipulations. Having you once in his dreadful seat, he imposes upon you at his pleasure. You must accept his hair-string, his pins, his rats, at a price at which angola cats were dear. You are palpitating with haste, he with the conceit of his character and profession. Fain would he add swindle to swindle,