BORDERLAND.*
The man with the slide trombone squeezed out
a few sonorous bellows; the operator on the bass
viol breaks two strings in his violent efforts to
put a graceful twirl on the finale ; while the first
cornet, who has been strugglirg vainly to get
ahead of the rest of the orchestra during the whole
production, succeeds in making himself heard by
coming out bravely on a few plaintive notes after
all others have ceased ; the last touching strains of
"Maggie Murphy" die away in the rafters above;
the curtain rises and Banker Lester treads the
stage.
Let us, however, before we turn our attention
to the opening soliloquoy of that down trodden
person take a hurried glance over
. the audience.
There in the manager's box we see a fair lady
besparkling with diamonds and holding in one
hand a beautiful baguet of artificial flowers. At
her side sits a portly gentleman with a long flow
ing mustache, who beams complacently upon the
assembled company, and who cheers tremendously
at the well timed sallies of his bosom frien I, Senor
Pickle, who is starring this evening. It is the
distinguished horseman Agustus Read, and that
dainty creature at his side is Miss 'Herr, the belle
of our Four Hundred. And those other boxes,
who do they contain ? Those are persons not so
well known to us—the elite of Sourstown, Pud.
dingtown, Boalsburg and their suburbs.
We will seek the peanut gallery then. Mr.
Hildebrand is thete, in all his glory, with his friend
Cartwright. He has had his head shaved for the
occasion, and in the dim light of the tallow can
dles it looks so much like a cake of cheese that
Baron Harefoot, the villain, (who when off the
stage is in the grocery line,) is observed to cast
his eyes continually in that direction. Mr. Cart
right, too, is in hiselement, for he atoncesucceeds
in starting, a dog fight in the gallery just as the
baron comes to the finest part of his love scene
with Banker Lester's daughter, thus attracting
•Played at the opening of Snyder's Opera House, Feb. 22.
`THE FREE* LANCE.
the attention of the audience from the fine acting
of that personage. William Brown is there also,
but he is despondent this evening—he has failed
to catch the eye of that fair one, who looks like
the pictures of ladies on cigar boxes, sitting next
sport Haas in the parquet. Mr. Haas, though, is
as usual invincible and through the whole per
formance is longing for the moment when the
lights would go out, and the whole opera house
sink into the store below, as had been predicted
it would by the wiseacres of the . village.
In vain—the brawny farmer in the next seat
but one from him acts upon his nerves like a skele
ton in the closet.
And down there in the orchestra circle; who,
green with envy apparently, are those gentlemen
leveling their opera glasses made of beer bottles at
the box which contains Mr. Read and his fair
companion. They are Messrs. Pond, Crawford
and Rumberger. Beside them sits Mr. Dale in a
foot ball suit. He expects a riot tonight and'
has come prepared to meet any emergency, and if
any thing does happen, we may expect brilliant
work from him. Back under the balcony are
three others we know—Messrs. Aull, Kessler and
Williamson. The delights of the drama have
proved too great a temptation for even that last
stable minded man, for he has stolen .from the
sick bed of a dear friend to spend a few hours be
fore yon tallow footlights. Yet the beauties on
the stage seem not to interest him. • Surely his
thoughts are not here. Oh no—they are at Pine
Grove,
See up there, in that box on the second tier, a
man with a butter colored mustache who sits alone
in his grandeur. Already the glasses of all the .
ladies in the house are leveled at him ; he is 'used
to that, evidently, from the way with which he
carries himself. That is Colonel J. Frank Shields,
and doubtless the Athletic Association is paying
for that box, as well as for the refreshments with
which he is served after each act.
But what means this strange hush that has come
over the assemblage? Ah—l see. Yonder in