God
Bless The Women; They Are Always On The Side Of The Weak And The
Oppressed.
The battle now became general; the dramatis personae ranged on either
side.
The manager interfered in vain. In vain were his spangled black
bonnet and towering white feathers seen whisking about, and nodding,
and bobbing, in the thickest of the fight. Warriors, ladies, priests,
satyrs, kings, queens, gods and goddesses, all joined pell-mell in the
fray. Never, since the conflict under the walls of Troy, had there been
such a chance medley warfare of combatants, human and divine. The
audience applauded, the ladies shrieked and fled from the theatre, and
a scene of discord ensued that baffles all description.
Nothing but the interference of the peace officers restored some degree
of order. The havoc, however, that had been made among dresses and
decorations put an end to all farther acting for that day. The battle
over, the next thing was to inquire why it was begun; a common question
among politicians, after a bloody and unprofitable war; and one not
always easy to be answered. It was soon traced to me, and my
unaccountable transport of passion, which they could only attribute to
my having run a muck. The manager was judge and jury, and plaintiff
in the bargain, and in such cases justice is always speedily
administered. He came out of the fight as sublime a wreck as the
Santissima Trinidada. His gallant plumes, which once towered aloft,
were drooping about his ears.
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