IN A WINTER CITY. Ill
should be a perpetual Kyrie Eleison; instead of
which it is only a chorus of Offenbach's. Not
that society anywhere, now, ever does rise higher
than that; only here it jars on one more than
elsewhere, and seems as profane as if one 'played
ball with Homer's skull.*
" Floralia is a golden Ostensofr filled with
great men's bones, and we choke it up with cigar
ashes and champagne dregs. It cannot be
helped, I suppose. The destiny of the age
seems to be to profane aU that have preceded it.
It creates nothing — it desecrates everytlUng,
Society does not escape from the general influ¬
ence ; its kings are aU kings of Brentford.
" Mila—who is here and happy as a bfrd—■
thinks Jack Cade and the Offenbach chorus the
perfection of deUght at aU times.
" For myself, I confess, neither entertain me;
I faU to see the charm of a drawing-room demo¬
cracy d^collet^ and decousu; and I never did
appreciate ladies who pass thefr Uves in balanc¬
ing themselves awkwardly on the bar of Dumas's
famous Triangle ; but that may be a prejudice—
MUa says that it is.