(Excerpt from My Son Diana: A Farce in One Act Yesterday ...)
Excerpt from My Son Diana: A Farce in One Act Yesterday I did my utmost to induce you to try your hand at snipe shooting, but it was of no use. Louisa. My dear uncle, I confess I'm afraid of fire-arms. Cul. Weak-minded female, how do you ever expect to get a husband? Louisa. But, my dear uncle,everybody hasn't had the peculiar education you have thought proper to give my cousin Di'. Cul. Aha! a god sound heart gymnastic education - no nonsense about it! My military predilection made me to long for a son - Fate though proper to bestow on me a daughter - I have, therefore, done my best to make up for the disappointment by rendering my daughter as like a son as possible. My poor wife made me promise never to allow Di' to leave home until she was married - I determined therefore, to superintend her education myself; and so, the moment she had attained her fifth year, I popped my son Diana into pantaloons, and there she has remained ever since. (Report of a gun heard without L. H. U. E.) Do you hear that? - the young rascal's out shooting. Louisa. She's a first rate shot, I know; but she's utterly incapable of hemming a pocket handkerchief. Cul. I know she can't hem, but she swims like a dolphin, she can leap a four barred, and as shooting, why she'll split a wafer at forty paces! What a soldier she would have made to be sure. Louisa. There's one of her accomplishments that you've forgotten to mention; she's apt to use remarkably emphatic language at times. Yesterday, I distinctly heard her say - Cul. What? Louisa. Crikey! Cul. A very mild and lady-like expression. The man who marries Di' will have something like a wife in her - she'll be as good as a husband to him. I've chosen for her a man, when I say a man I mean a man; none of your smooth faced exquisites, but the son of my old friend, Major Smith, who, if he is at all like his father, must be a thorough fire-eater. Enter Mr. Septimus Smith, C. D. L. H., dressed in a very fast costume - a neat little black leather sack in his hand. Smith. (speaking as he enters.) It's too bad - it's a great deal too bad to be letting of guns in this promiscuous manner. (perceiving Culpepper) I beg pardon. (intoducing himself.) Mr. Semptimus Smith. Cul.(L. H.) What, my future son-in-law? Smith, my boy, come to my arms. (embraces him.) Smith. (c.) Gently - don't squeeze. Cul. Why, what's the matter? Smith. Well, I'll tell you; I was just now walking alongside of a hedge voluptuously inhaling the morning breeze, and indulging in appropriate quotations from "Thompson's Seasons," when suddenly the report of a gun meets my ear, and straightway I receive a volley of small shot. Cul. Where? About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.
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(This is a reproduction of a book published before 1923. T...)
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Born in Naples, Italy, in 1825 he was the son of Joseph Glossop, first manager of the Royal Coburg Theatre (now known as the Victoria Theatre or the Old Vic), and opera singer Mme Féron (aka Fearon), a former prima donna assoluta at Louisiana Scala in Milan.
His early career saw limited success as a comedian in London and Augustus Glossop was imprisoned for bankruptcy in June 1848. By 1851 he had adopted the name Augustus Harris. He became a leading manager of opera and ballet, notably at Covent Garden, London, but also in Paris, Berlin and Saint St. Petersburg.
He wrote the libretto, with Edmund Falconer, for the opera The Rose of Castille.
With music by Michael William Balfe, it was produced on Broadway in 1867. In the last four years of his life, he put on Christmas spectacles at Covent Garden.
He died in 1873 and is buried in Brompton Cemetery, London.
(This book was originally published prior to 1923, and rep...)
(Excerpt from My Son Diana: A Farce in One Act Yesterday ...)
(This is a reproduction of a book published before 1923. T...)
