of invisible arrangement, yet, when I shall be left alone with the
sheathed weapon, and have to do all this buckling and hitching for
myself, I feel sure that that sword, which is only worn on the left to
defend the right, will give me no inconsiderable trouble. Fortunately
our washerwoman's husband, who comes late on a Wednesday for the
linen, is a retired sergeant, and knows how this sort of thing should
be done. He will assist in arming me for the operatic fray. _Tout va
bien._

_At Opera, Wednesday Night, July 8_.--Grand sight. Very grand;
not only that, but beautiful. Costumes, uniforms, military,
diplomatic,--all sorts, the real article and the Dathanic,--impossible
to tell one from the other, taking them as a lot; but still, I feel
that it is better to remain in my Stall, where only the upper part
of me is visible to the unclothed eye. The consciousness that I am
here, not as myself, but in disguise as somebody else, name unknown,
rather oppresses me; only at first, however, as very soon I recognise
a number of familiar faces and figures all in strange array. A
stockbroker or two, a few journalists, several ordinary people
belonging to various callings and professions, some others noble, some
gentle, some simple, but most of us eyeing each other furtively, and
wondering where the deuce the other fellow got his costume from, and
what right he has to wear it.

Every moment I expect some gaily attired person to come up and say to
me confidentially, "I know that suit; I wore it last so-and-so. Isn't
it a trifle tight about the shoulders? Beware! when I wore it, it
went a bit in the back." Man in gorgeous uniform makes his way to
the vacant Stall next to me. I am a bit flustered until he salutes me
heartily with--"How d'ye do? How are you?" Why, it's--well, no matter