COCKTAILS AND CLOUDS. THE GASEOUS EXPERIENCE OF A DRAMATIC CRITIC. O, HOW Sublime! how joyous a feeling it is this floating in Empyrean. Higher higher! higher! Beyond the din of the world. Above even the obscuring mists of the clouds! Earth has no part in my delight. Hours, hours ago, I left it behind me, and swiftly I pursue my heavenward path. The gas holds good, the oilsilk is strong, and like so many young colts at their first burden, the connecting ropes tug on the wicker basket. O, my bonny balloon, I love you! And now I see the celestial floor inlaid with patines of purest gold, and I see them far better than Lorenzo, for he sat under a weeping-willow, and I am twenty-seven thousand miles above all frugiferous growth! But Lorenzo had company-sweet Jessica and I am oppressed with an exalted loneliness. how 44 44 "Sit, Jessica," I murmur in my solitude, see Beg pardon, sir; folks 'round here call me Stella." Dumbfounded I look around. There, seated on the side of the basket, and balancing herself by the suspending cords, I beheld some angelic being attired in a small fleecy cloud, which became her well, smiling cordially upon me. at once. "O, Miss Stella, take care, take care! I fairly screamed, perceiving the danger of her situation You will fall and hurt yourself, I know it, Miss Stella! Get into the balloon quickly! For my sake! For my sake!' The strange sidereal being smiled contemptuously at me for a moment, and then, as she drew the fleecy cloud more tightly about her throat : “I guess you ain't much acquainted round these here parts; we have passed the line." What line?" I inquired, eagerly. to be sure," Why, the Infra-planetic line,' was the nonchalant reply. I sat still for a moment, and gazed at the enigmatical creature. Then she continued: "Where do you think your shoes would land if you was to take them off and chuck 'em out of the balloon? "In Harlem, from where I started," I replied, firmly. "No, they wouldn't, you big goosey," said Stella pityingly, "they'd follow us bang up to Thespia. What's Thespia? blurted out angrily. Where's Thespia?" I That's our private constellation, young man, where we daughters of the stars live. Only firstclass shows 'lowed inside, and you can bet your week's salary -no managers." 64 No managers?" I repeated, merely to gain time in which to collect demoralized senses. my "Well, there is one,' confessed Stella with some reluctance, but he's a regular brick, and got broke from paying us girls big salaries. Last season the poor old fel' came to smash, and had to walk all the way back from 'Frisco, in muddy weather, too, and so we let him in." For some moments we floated upward serenely. At last I turned to the strange aërial creature who had so mysteriously joined me, and said: "Well, Miss Stella! That was a pretty good joke of yours about the shoes, ha, ha, ha! But I hope you don't think you have mystified me, ha, ha, ha!" Chuck 'em out and see for yourself, then," she said, angrily. On the impulse of the moment, I stooped down and had already unlaced one shoe, when suddenly the impropriety of my conduct occurred to me, and with a flush mantling to my face, I said: "O, I beg pardon, Miss Stella, I forgot" No bluffing," said Stella, somewhat sternly; then, doubtless mollified by my deprecating gestures, with a simper : "Got a hole in your sock? Don't mind me, I'll look the other way." In another moment I had divested myself of my shoes, and somewhat conscience stung at my extravagance, I threw them out of the balloon. Anxiously I gazed after them. For some seconds they fell steadily, then they seemed to stop, and a few moments later as I craned my head well over the basket I saw them sailing up steadily behind us. "Well!" I could say no more, and took my seat wiping the beads of perspiration from my forehead, while Stella laughed immoderately. Suddenly the balloon came to a standstill, and Stella was thrown from her nicely poised position against my double-breasted coat. 'O, I beg pardon," she exclaimed, and then with a blush, rearranging her somewhat disheveled cloud: "O, I hope no one was looking." "Well, where are we now?" I inquired, hoping by changing the subject to relieve her embarrassment. This," said she, "is the junction of the Melpomene and Thalia Air Lines; we must get out.' "Get out?" I exclaimed, aghast. Get out? And on what, pray?" I followed the direction of her willowy index-finger and was surprised to find that my balloon was now snugly moored to what appeared to be a railway platform. Above it, traced in cerulean blue lettering, I read the word "Thespia." A little on the right there was still another sign which read "Sic itur ad Astra," and in immediate juxtaposition to it was drawn a huge human hand pointing to the right, from which led an alluring pathway sodded with fragrant violets and rest-breathing hearts-ease. While I was re-lacing my shoes- - which had now overtaken us - Stella skipped up the flowery way leading into Cloud-Land. "Come on! Hurry up! or we'll be late for supper," she shouted back to me. But how about my balloon?" I called out. "You see, it isn't really my balloon, and the fellow I hired it of has my governor's watch as security." "O, the balloon's all right enough," said Stella, in reassuring tones; then, somewhat dubiously, That is, if it don't break loose and go up to the Top of the Heap.' We had walked along the flowery way in silence for some minutes, when I propounded a question which I would never had the courage to put, had not Stella in a way broached the subject already: "You said something about supper a little while ago, Miss Stella. I guess you have ambrosia and nectar every day up here." "No," answered Stella, snappishly, "only on holidays; for every-day board we have dramatic critics' kidneys-deviled " I shuddered and staggered in my walk. Had I, Sam Sniggins, of the Gotham Sunrise, been entrapped; had those tender glances which I had detected in Stella's eyes been solely directed with avidious longing toward my meaner part — my kidneys? I trembled with apprehension. Yes, I, Sam Sniggins, had been entrapped! I was a prisoner in the land of the Critophagi. And yet, as I gazed searchingly into Stella's face, I saw but an expression of perfect innocence in which there was- there could be no guile. "These critics' kidneys must be tough," I ventured to remark, with, I fear, a very vain attempt at being calm and unconcerned. "Tough? Well, I should say so! Some of us get mighty tired of black meat, too, and I sometimes think that revenge ain't half as sweet as it is cracked up to be." Believe me, Miss Stella, I am glad to hear you say that. The prevalent impression that revenge is sweet, is one by which the devil ensnares many a soul.' With an unusual weakness in my knees, and my heart oppressed with horrible forebodings, I staggered along the fragrant path - alas for me! now fragrant in vain. How much farther?" wearily. I at last inquired, What "Only about two blocks." On! on! Upward and onward! sweetness there was in the atmosphere! What loveliness in the landscape! Intoxicated with the beauty of the sidereal scene, I almost swooned. "I guess you ain't used to such high-falutin' things," remarked Stella, sympathetically. "No," I confessed sadly, and then the sweet creature perceiving the weakness which oppressed me, with pity in her eyes, gave me her arm and kindly support to aid me on our upward journey. Suddenly I stopped, and leaning against a stalwart dandelion, gave free reign to my passionate longings, which I could now no longer restrain. "O, Stella, say! Mayn't I stop up here some time?" "I'm afraid not, that is, unless you can show papers proving that you made a big hit,' and were 'slated.' How I cursed my modesty which years before had restrained me from venturing into the radiance Splendid! Splendid!" ejaculated Stella, clapping her hands. Maybe after all the Ursa Major will let you board up here with us a couple of weeks. Leastwise, you can always count on my best wishes." There ensued another pause, and then Stella exclaimed again, with a charming blush, “O, I hope no one was looking.' 46 "Why?" I inquired, with an idiotic grin. Why? Ursa Major would dismiss me immediately if she had seen it-though the way she herself is carrying on with the Big Dipper is simply shocking.' For some minutes we continued our way in silence. Though perfectly confident that in the morning my kidneys would be deviled and served up at the table of those upon whom in former days I had poured the vials of my captious criticism, no thought of flight suggested itself. Something detained me. Perhaps it was Stella. Soon we emerged upon a wide plateau where soft, sweet voices filled the air with rhythmic sound. In a moment I found myself surrounded by some fifty young ladies, all nicely attired, like Stella, in loosely fitting clouds. down, down, down!! With the wild energy of despair I grasped about me for a saving straw, and awoke ! embracing convulsively my bedpost!! But even after I had rubbed my eyes and my sight rested gratefully upon the familiar scenes of my room, the peals of thunder continued; and my synthetic powers being now at rest, I was able to devote my undivided attention to an analysis of the situation. The tonitrant knocks came from my door. Of that there could be no reasonable doubt. The oaken panels shivered perceptibly from the impact of a sturdy fist. I know a good deal about knocks. I have experienced not a few, and many thousands I have heard. Was this my washerwoman's knock? No, assuredly not. For that subtle female had long since learned the idiosyncrasies of my auricular organs, and knew how responsive I was to a soft, hesitating tap, when through a thunderclap I could sleep as oblivious as Jove himself; nor was it the call of my newspaper man, for that business-like gentleman had acquired a sharp quick tattoo which said plainer than words: "Now, look here, Mr. Sniggins, I want my money I ain't a-been-a-carryin' you papers these cold mornings for nothing, and you needn't play 'possum, neither, for your boots is outside the door." No, this was not the newsman, that was certain. Then who could it be? Hastily slipping on some clothes, I opened the door. Sign, sir," and a little messenger boy gave me a book and a message at the same time. In tremulous haste I tore the latter open, and read : Midnight. DEAR SAM,-Brace up on brandy and sodas, and get to Tarrytown in time for the balloon ascension at eleven. Yours, in haste, SNIGGINS. Right glad was I that the messenger boy had gone. If he had seen me a moment later as I lay doubled up on my sofa convulsed with laughter, and in lucid intervals endeavoring to eat my summer hat, he would undoubtedly have called a policeman, and had me lodged in Bloomingdale. Like a memory of long forgotten times it all came back to me now, how on the evening before after winding up one of my caustic criticisms in my usual pyrotechnic way, the managing editor of the Sunrise had come to me, and said: "Hello, Sniggins, I have a nice job for such an adventurous fellow as you. Mr. High Flyer, our aërial reporter, is sick. He broke his arm and four of his ribs on the last trip, and we want you to step into the breach, and make the ascension from Tarrytown to-morrow with Professor Achille Balloon; and Sniggins, old man, make it funny!" But dimly I remembered my subsequent movements; how feeling that this would be in all human probability the last of my noctes ambrosiana, I had visited all my old and predilected haunts, how in my last rational moment I had penciled this admonitory epistle to myself, and left it at the messenger office to be delivered at my rooms, sharp eight o'clock the next morning. Well, I made that balloon ascension, though I believe in so calling it I indulge in the misnomer which Xenophon made classic when he termed his march to the sea, the Anabasis. Mine was, in fact, a balloon descension. No sooner had the unfeeling spectators "cast us off," than with a downward dodge, like that of a crazy kite, the balloon dropped into a duck pond, and when some public-spirited citizens, after great labor, succeeded in extricating us from the mud, that mendacious fellow Wiggins of the Dawn wrote that I looked pale and careworn." I have dreamed more dreams, but I have never seen Stella again; yet, when in a captious mood, dipping my pen into acrid ink, I proceed as was my custom, to score some innocent debutante, I see a form, weird, intangible, evanescent, rise up before me with threatening gesture, and I desist. It is the form of Ursa Major. Then my spirit is transformed, and my relenting pen sets down the most complimentary things I can cull from my "Hand-book of Eulogies; or, the Obituarian's Ready-Helper." Men say that I am written out, that I have lost my trenchant and virile style. But they may continue to say so, and more too. For I would prefer to lose my critical position rather than once again fall into the clutches of the indignant Ursa Major, and once again hear those tonitrant peals of thunder and the weird wails of that steam calliope. JONES. Stephen Bonsall. FOR the past twenty years it has been my custom on Christmas eve to dine with my friend, Jack Heston, and the twenty-fourth of December, 1875, found us again seated at a table in a particularly snug corner of Augustine's, prepared for awhile to forget the clashing world without, and to give our undivided attention to the knowing dinner which the epicurean Heston had ordered. We had proceeded excellently, and were discussing over our sherry a matter of mutual concern, a plan for inducing the ghost to walk with more frequency than had of late been his wont, when I noticed a tall and grave-looking individual enter the room by the lower door, hand his hat and cane to a waiter, and take a seat at a table by the window. Something in his appearance impressed me, and I was thinking what a presence he had for Coriolanus when Heston, seeing the interest I was exhibiting in the stranger, inquired if I knew him, and on my replying in the negative, said: “If I were to ask you to guess at the occupation of our friend yonder, you would probably say at once, of the stage, stagy, and you would be right. Jones, which isn't his name, and therefore we will call him it, some twenty years ago, had two hobbies, the stage and ancient Rome, and was thoroughly conversant with both subjects, and by a practical application of his knowledge, made his greatest successes in such rôles as Julius Cæsar and Coriolanus. For some years he ranked among our leading tragedians, but there came that change which is too often seen in our most brilliant and talented men. He gradually allowed a passion for drink to master him, and guiding himself by the rule laid down by Artemus Ward, "when you drink, never allow business to interfere with it," he went in deeper and harder, until one Christmas eve he broke down in his lines entirely, and was taken from the stage in a fit of delirium tremens which nearly killed him and left his memory and brain both impaired. His friends, in accordance with a time-honored custom of the genus, gave him the cold shoulder, until he was forced to save himself from starving by driving a night car on a street railway line in Washington. currence. "A more dilapidated personage than Jones at this period, may probably have existed, but the chances are infinitely against such an ocThe ancient and tattered apology for a suit of clothes which he wore, were supported by an exceedingly blasé and unkempt countenance; a judicious combination of Beppo from 'Fra Diavolo,' and Old Hoss from Parlor Match,' would have resulted in Jones. A clouding of his mental faculties had accompanied his social and physical collapse, and only when Rome was mentioned would his shattered intellect betray any traces of its former power. "On Christmas eve, ten years succeeding the night which marked his fall, Jones left the depot with his car about midnight, starting on his first trip. He had been drinking heavier than usual, and as he gathered the lines together his hands were shaking. It was cold and clear, and under the moonlight he could see the gleaming rails stretching out in silvery lines which met in the distance. Something sent his thoughts wandering back along the past; farther and farther his fancy carried him, until from the gates of Rome he could catch glimpses of the circular walls of the Colosseum. The street lamps faded away, a strange mist dimmed his eyes, and when he looked again, the dasher of the car had rounded curiously, the horses had gained new spirit, and their harness had been replaced by gilded trappings which glittered and sparkled in the frosty light. The old street car had vanished, and he found himself standing erect against the decorated breast of a chariot. Stretching out on either side were two long lines of applauding spectators, and he could hear the striking hoofs of horses sounding by him. His competitor in the race must be near. No time for thought now; down came the whip, the horses plunged forward, and dashed away along the frozen track, and the old car rocked and rolled like a ship in a gale; the horses seemed to have caught the infection from their driver, and tore madly down the street, and in turning sharp round a corner, the car upset and shot Jones head foremost to the pavement, striking his head against the curb, and he lay there in a heap, motionless. Some hours after, a passing policeman found him where he had fallen, and had him conveyed to a hospital. At first, his injuries were thought to be fatal, and for a time he wavered between life and death, but, finally, with careful nursing, he was brought around again, and in a few months was discharged as entirely recovered. On leaving the hospital he went directly to a manager who was collecting a company to start on the road, and applied for a position; he was given a small part, which he accepted gratefully and satisfactorily filled, and during the past few years has risen to a position among his fellow artists which, although not as responsible as his former work, is an important one. his book of life there are ten blank chapters, and he never plays on Christmas eve." Norman Jefferies. NIPPED IN THE BUD. IN the hush of a soft summer twilight, I grew sentimental and told her A LITTLE ACCIDENT. But in A GIRL, whose regal beauty was the essence of perfection, Was dancing the cotillon with a youth of graceful mien, When suddenly she ceased and dropped a frightened interjection, While a look of mortal terror drove away her smile serene. Her attitude of limpness had a helpless indication; Her eyes bespoke a longing for unutterable things; Her bosom fluttered wildly in the throes of palpitation, As birds that are imprisoned tremble on their timid wings Before her compagnon de danse could formulate a query, The mother of the maiden had espied her trembling child, And with maternal ardor shrieked a shrill, falsetto "Dearie, Then swooped upon her offspring and cried out in accents wild: "Bring water; she is fainting. O, my da ling, what's the matter? 3, |