The tenor, I take to be the happiest man in the world, or, at least, he ought to be. He is the individual whom all the operatic Elviras love. He loves them, also. He has all the serenades to sing. He alone can indulge in the _ut de poitrine_. Almost invariably, he is allowed to die for the heroine, when he isn't permitted to marry her, and always has a _fortissimo_ death-song given to him, which, like the swan's is the sweetest. What little stage business there is, in the way of kneeling at the feet of the _inamoratas_, kissing of hands, and embracing of languishing Leonoras, belongs exclusively to him. He also can be the melancholy man, and drown susceptible damsels with tears, over his chalky grief and cork-lined wrinkles of woe. The women dote upon the tenor, send him little billets, look at him through the lorgnettes, and adore him in secret, as Heine's pine adored the palm. He finds bouquets upon his mantel, and little perfumed notes upon his dressing-table. If he be a _tenor di grazia_, lovely woman will sigh for him; if a _tenor robusto_, lovely woman will die for him, or wish that Heaven had made her such a man. The amateur tenor enjoys the same advantages as the operatic tenor, on a small scale. He is privileged to sing all the pretty things, and he may sing them as badly as may be, if he is only interesting. He is the idol before which female bread-and-butterhood bends, both Grecian and otherwise. He is usually fragile, _spirituel_ and delicate. He sleeps on the underside of a rose-leaf, drinks Angelica, eats caramels, and catches butterflies. He carries his voice in a lace pocket-handkerchief, when in the open air, and does it up in amber when he retires to sleep upon the rose-leaves. He alone is permitted to wear white kids and vest, and otherwise array himself after the manner of the festive hotel waiter. He knows the secret of immortal youth, and never grows old. All tuneful lays set to the tinkling of flutes, guitars and harps, belong to him. He alone can sing to the moon and address the stars. In his _repertoire_ are all the interesting brigands, the high-born cavaliers, the romantic lovers, and the melancholy artists. And he has nice legs, or, if he hasn't, he had better degenerate into a baritone, and have done with it. A tenor without nice legs is worse off than a soprano who can't sing "With Verdure Clad," if there be such a _rara avis_, or an alto who has to do _Siebel_ and _Maffeo Orsini_ with elephantine ankles, and there never was an alto in the world with whom I wouldn't measure feet, and give them the odds of one or two numbers.