I advise travellers never to take servants out of their fatherland into strange countries, especially if they imagine they shall save by it,—now‐a‐days always a prime object. This piece of economy belongs to the class of those, one of which costs more than four pieces of extravagance; besides which, one hangs a load round one’s neck which is burthensome in various ways.

These wise reflections are excited in me by my old valet, who seems inclined to fall into the English spleen because he finds so many daily difficulties here;—above all, in getting soup for his dinner, the thought of which beloved aliment of his home calls tears into his eyes. He reminds me of the Prussian soldiers, who, amid streams of Champagne, beat the French peasants for not setting Stettin beer before them.

True it is that the English of the middle classes, accustomed to substantial flesh diet, are not acquainted with the Northern broths and soups: what goes under that name in England is an expensive extract of all sorts of peppers and spices from both Indies, like that brewed in a witches’ cauldron. The face of my faithful liegeman, at the first spoonful of this compound he put into his mouth, would p. 41 have been worthy to figure in Peregrine Pickle’s antique repast, and turned my anger into loud laughter. Yet I see beforehand that his devotion to me will be wrecked on this rock; for our Germans are, and ever will be, curious beings; holding longer than any others to the accustomed,—be it in faith, love or soup.

In the absence of society, the various Clubs, (to which, contrary to former custom, a stranger can now gain admittance,) are a very agreeable resource. Our ambassador introduced me into two of them,—the United Service Club, into which no foreigners are admitted except ambassadors and military men,—the latter of the rank of staff‐officers: and the Travellers’ Club, into which every foreigner of education, who has good introductions, is admitted; though every three months he is made to undergo the somewhat humiliating ceremony of requesting a fresh permission, to which he is held with almost uncivil severity.

In Germany, people have as little notion of the elegance and comfort of Clubs, as of the rigorous execution of their laws which prevail here.

All that luxury and convenience, without magnificence, demand, is here to be found in as great perfection as in the best private houses. The stairs and rooms are covered with fresh and handsome carpets, and rugs (sheep‐skins with the wool nicely prepared and dyed of bright colours) are laid before the doors to prevent drafts; marble chimney‐pieces, handsome looking‐glasses (always of one piece,—a necessary part of solid English luxury), a profusion of furniture, &c. render every apartment extremely comfortable. Even scales, by which to ascertain one’s weight daily—a strange taste of the English—are not wanting. The numerous servants are never seen but in shoes, and in the neatest livery or plain clothes; and a porter is always at his post to take charge of great‐coats and umbrellas. This latter article in England deserves attention, since umbrellas, which are unfortunately so indispensable, are stolen in the most shameless manner, be it where it may, if you do not take particular care of them. This fact is so notorious that I must translate for your amusement a passage from a newspaper, relating to some Society for the encouragement of virtue, which was to award a prize for the most honourable action. “The choice,” continues the author, “was become extremely difficult; and it was nearly determined to give the prize to an individual who had paid his tailor’s bill punctually for several years; when another was pointed out, who had twice sent home an umbrella left at his house. At this unheard‐of act,” adds the journalist, “the company first fell into mute wonder that so much virtue was still found in Israel; but at length loud and enthusiastic applause left the choice no longer doubtful.”

In the elegant and well‐furnished library there is also a person always at hand to fetch you the books you want. You find all the journals in a well‐arranged reading‐room; and in a small room for maps and charts,2 a choice of the newest and best in their kind. p. 42 This is so arranged that all the maps, rolled up, hang one over another on the wall, thus occupying but a small space; and each is easily drawn down for use by a little loop in the centre. A pull at a loop at the side rolls up the map again by a very simple piece of mechanism. The name of each country is inscribed in such large letters on the mahogany staff on which the map is rolled, that it may be read with ease across the room. By this contrivance a great number of maps may be hung in a very small closet, and when wanted, may be found and inspected in a moment, without the slightest trouble, or derangement of the others.

The table,—I mean the eating,—with most men the first thing, and with me not the last,—is generally prepared by a French cook, as well and as cheaply as it is possible to have it in London. As the Club provides the wines, and sells them again to each member, they are very drinkable and reasonable. But ‘gourmands’ must ever miss the finest wines, even at the best tables in London. This arises from the strange habit of the English (and these people, too, stick faster to their habits than an oyster to its shell,) of getting their wines from London wine‐merchants, instead of importing them from the places where they grow, as we do. Now these wine‐merchants adulterate the wine to such a degree, that one who was lately prosecuted for having some thousand bottles of port and claret in his cellars which had not paid duty, proved that all this wine was manufactured by himself in London, and thus escaped the penalty. You may imagine, therefore, what sort of brewage you often get under the high‐sounding names of Champagne, Lafitte, &c. The dealers scarcely ever buy the very best which is to be had in the native lands of the several wines, for the obvious reason that they could make little or no profit of it; at best they only use it to enable them to get off other wine of inferior quality.

Excuse this wine‐digression, which to you, who drink only water, cannot be very interesting; but you know I write for us both, and to me the subject is I confess not unimportant. “Gern führe ich Wein im Munde.”

But let us back to our Clubs.

The peculiarity of English manners may be much better observed here, at the first ‘abord’, than in the great world, which is everywhere more or less alike; whereas the same individuals, of whom it is in part composed, show themselves here with much less restraint. In the first place, the stranger must admire the refinement of convenience with which Englishmen sit: it must be confessed that a man who is ignorant of the ingenious English chairs, of every form, and adapted to every degree of fatigue, indisposition, or constitutional peculiarity, really loses a large share of earthly enjoyment. It is a positive pleasure even to see an Englishman sit, or rather lie, in one of these couch‐like chairs by the fire‐side. A contrivance like a reading‐desk attached to the arm, and furnished with a candlestick, p. 43 is so placed before him, that with the slightest touch he can bring it nearer or further, push it to the right or the left, at pleasure. A curious machine, several of which stand around the large fire‐place, receives one or both of his feet; and the hat on his head completes this enchanting picture of superlative comfort.

This latter circumstance is the most difficult of imitation to a man brought up in the old school. Though he can never refrain from a provincial sort of shudder when he enters the brilliantly lighted saloon of the Club‐house, where dukes, ambassadors and lords, elegantly dressed, are sitting at the card‐tables, yet if he wishes to be ‘fashionable’ he must keep on his hat, advance to a party at whist, nod to one or two of his acquaintances; then carelessly taking up a newspaper, sink down on a sofa, and, not till after some time, ‘nonchalament’ throw down his hat (which perhaps has all the while been a horrid annoyance to him); or, if he stays but a few minutes, not take it off at all.

The practice of half lying instead of sitting; sometimes of lying at full length on the carpet at the feet of ladies; of crossing one leg over the other in such a manner as to hold the foot in the hand; of putting the hands in the arm‐holes of the waistcoat, and so on,—are all things which have obtained in the best company and the most exclusive circles: it is therefore very possible that the keeping on the hat may arrive at the same honour. In this case it will doubtless find its way into Paris society, which, after being formerly aped by all Europe, now disdains not to ape the English,—sometimes grotesquely enough,—and, as is usual in such cases, often outdoes its original.

On the other hand, the English take it very ill of foreigners, if they reprove a waiter who makes them wait, or brings one thing instead of another, or if they give their commands in a loud or lordly tone of voice; though the English themselves often do this in their own country, and much more in ours, and though the dining‐room of the Club is in fact only a more elegant sort of ‘restauration,’ where every man must pay his reckoning after he has dined. It is regarded not only as improper, but as unpleasant and offensive, if any one reads during dinner. It is not the fashion in England; and, as I have this bad habit in a supreme degree, I have sometimes remarked satirical signs of displeasure on the countenances of a few Islanders of the old school, who shook their heads as they passed me. One must be on one’s guard, generally, to do things as little as possible unlike the English, and yet not to try to imitate them servilely in everything, for no race of men can be more intolerant. Most of them see with reluctance the introduction of any foreigner into their more private societies, and all regard it as a distinguished favour and obligation conferred upon us.

But of all offences against English manners which a man can commit, the three following are the greatest:—to put his knife to his mouth instead of his fork; to take up sugar or asparagus with his fingers; or, above all, to spit anywhere in a room. These are certainly laudable prohibitions, and well‐bred people of all countries p. 44 avoid such practices,—though even on these points manners alter greatly; for Marshal Richelieu detected an adventurer who passed himself off for a man of rank, by the single circumstance of his taking up olives with his fork and not with his fingers. The ridiculous thing is the amazing importance which is here attached to them. The last‐named crime is so pedantically proscribed in England, that you might seek through all London in vain to find such a piece of furniture as a spitting‐box. A Dutchman, who was very uncomfortable for the want of one, declared with great indignation, that an Englishman’s only spitting‐box was his stomach. These things are, I repeat, more than trivial, but the most important rules of behaviour in foreign countries almost always regard trivialities. Had I, for example, to give a few universal rules to a young traveller, I should seriously counsel him thus:—In Naples, treat the people brutally; in Rome, be natural; in Austria, don’t talk politics; in France, give yourself no airs; in Germany, a great many; and in England, don’t spit. With these rules, the young man would get on very well. What one must justly admire is the well‐adapted arrangement of everything belonging to the economy of life and of all public establishments in England, as well as the systematical rigour with which what has once been determined on is unalterably followed up. In Germany, all good institutions soon fall asleep, and new brooms alone sweep clean; here it is quite otherwise. On the other hand, everything is not required of the same person, but exactly so much, and no more, as falls within his department. The treatment of servants is as excellent as their performance of their duties. Each has his prescribed field of activity; in which, however, the strictest and most punctual execution of orders is required of him, and in any case of neglect the master knows whom he has to call to account. At the same time, the servants enjoy a reasonable freedom, and have certain portions of time allotted to them, which their master carefully respects. The whole treatment of the serving classes is much more decorous, and combined with more ‘égards,’ than with us; but then they are so entirely excluded from all familiarity, and such profound respect is exacted from them, that they appear to be considered rather as machines than as beings of the same order. This, and their high wages, are no doubt the causes that the servants really possess more external dignity than any other class in England, relatively to their station.

In many cases it would be a very pardonable blunder in a foreigner to take the valet for the lord, especially if he happened to imagine that courtesy and a good address were the distinguishing marks of a man of quality. This test would be by no means applicable in England, where these advantages are not to be found among the majority of persons of the higher classes; though there are some brilliant exceptions, and their absence is often redeemed by admirable and solid qualities.

In the men, indeed, their arrogance, often amounting to rudeness, and their high opinion of themselves, do not sit so ill; but in the p. 45 women, it is as disgusting and repulsive, as, in some other of their countrywomen, the vain effort to ape continental grace and vivacity.

I once before praised the admirable spirit of adaptation and arrangement which pervades all establishments here. As a sample, I will give you the organization of the card‐room in the Travellers’ Club‐house. This is not properly a gaming club, but, as its name denotes, one expressly for travellers. Such only can become actual members of it as have travelled a certain prescribed number of miles on the Continent, or have made yet more distant expeditions. In spite of this, one does not perceive that they are become less English, which, however, I do not quarrel with. At the Travellers’ Club, then, short whist and ecarté are played very high, but no hazard.

In our Casinos, ‘Ressources,’ and so on, a man who wishes to play must first laboriously seek out a party; and if the tables are full, may have to wait hours till one is vacant. Here it is a law that every one who comes may take his seat at any table at which a rubber has just ended, when he who has played two consecutive rubbers must give up his place. It is pleasant, too, to a man who has lost, and fancies that the luck goes with the place, to quit it and seek better fortune in another.

In the centre of the room stands a ‘bureau’ at which is posted a clerk, who rings whenever a waiter is wanted; brings the bill;3 and, if any contested point occur, fetches the classical authorities on whist; for never is the slightest offence against the rules of the game suffered to pass without the infliction of the annexed punishment. This is rather annoying to a man who plays only for amusement; but yet it is a wise plan, and forms good players. The same clerk distributes the markers to the players. To obviate the great annoyance of meeting with a bad payer, the Club is the universal payer. Actual money does not make its appearance, but every man who sits down to play receives a little basket of markers of various forms, the value of which is inscribed upon them, and which the clerk enters in his book; as often as he loses, he asks for more. Each player reckons with the clerk, and either proves his loss, or, if he has won, delivers up the markers. In either case he receives a card containing a statement of the result, and the duplicate of the reckoning in the account‐book.

As soon as any one is indebted more than a hundred pounds, he must pay it in the following morning to the clerk; and every man who has any demands can claim his money at any time.

None but a nation so entirely commercial as the English can be expected to attain to this perfection of methodizing and arrangement. In no other country are what are here emphatically called ‘habits of business’ carried so extensively into social and domestic life; the value of time, of order, of despatch, of inflexible routine, nowhere so well understood. This is the great key to the most striking national p. 46 characteristics. The quantity of material objects produced and accomplished—the work done—in England, exceeds all that man ever effected. The causes and the qualities which have produced these results have as certainly given birth to the dullness, the contracted views, the routine habits of thought as well as of action, the inveterate prejudices, the unbounded desire for, and deference to, wealth, which characterize the mass of Englishmen.

It were much to be wished that in our German cities we imitated the organization of English Clubs, which would be very practicable as to the essentials, though our poverty would compel us to dispense with many of their luxuries. In this case we ought to repay the English like for like, and not prostrate ourselves in puerile slavish admiration before their money and their name; but while we treated them with all civility, and even with more courtesy than they show to us, yet let them see that Germans are masters of their own house, particularly as many of them only come among us either to economize, or to form connexions with people of rank, from which their own station at home excluded them, or to have the satisfaction of showing us that in all arrangements for physical comfort we are still barbarians compared with them.4

It is indeed inconceivable, and a proof that it is only necessary to treat us contemptuously in order to obtain our reverence, that, as I have remarked, the mere name of Englishman is, with us, equivalent to the highest title. Many a person, who would scarcely get admission into very inferior circles in England, where the whole of society, down to the very lowest classes, is so stiffly aristocratical, in the various states of Germany is received at Court and fêté by the first nobility; every act of coarseness and ill‐breeding is set down as a trait of charming English originality, till perhaps, by some accident, a really respectable Englishman comes to the place, and people learn with astonishment that they have been doing all this honour to an ensign ‘on half pay,’ or a rich tailor or shoemaker. An individual of this rank is, however, generally, at least civil, but the impertinence of some of the higher classes surpasses all belief.

I know that in one of the largest towns of Germany, a prince of the royal house, distinguished for his frank, chivalrous courtesy, and his amiable character, invited an English Viscount, who was but just arrived, and had not yet been presented to him, to a hunting‐party; to which His Lordship replied, that he could not accept the invitation, as the prince was perfectly unknown to him.

It is true, that no foreigner will ever have it in his power so to requite a similar civility in England, where a grandee considers an invitation to dinner (they are very liberal of invitations to routs and soirées, for the sake of filling their rooms) as the most signal honour p. 47 he can confer upon even a distinguished foreigner,—an honour only to be obtained by long acquaintance, or by very powerful letters of introduction. But if by any miracle such a ready attention were to be paid in England, it would be impossible to find a single man of any pretensions to breeding, on the whole Continent, who would make such a return as this boorish lord did.5

I called yesterday morning on L—— to execute your commission, but did not find him at home. Instead of him, I found to my great joy a letter from you, which I was so impatient to read, that I set myself down in his room, and read it attentively two or three times. Your affection, which strives to spare me everything disagreeable, and dwells only upon those subjects which can give me pleasure, I acknowledge most gratefully. But you must not spare me more than you are convinced you can do without detriment to our common interests. You estimate my letters far more highly than they deserve; but you may imagine that, in my eyes, it is a very amiable fault in you to overvalue me thus. Love paints the smallest merit in magic colours. I will, however, do myself the justice to believe that you, who have had such ample opportunities of knowing me, may find in me qualities which shrink from the rude touch of the world. This consoled me,—but your expression “that all you wrote appeared to you so incoherent, that you thought the grief of parting had weakened your intellects,” gave me great pain. Do I then want phrases? How much more delightful is that natural, confidential talk, which flows on without constraint and without effort, and therefore expresses itself admirably. I am particularly delighted at your sentiments concerning what I tell you; they are ever exactly such as I expect and share.

Accompany your friend to the capital:—it will amuse you, and at the same time you will find many opportunities of promoting our interests. ‘Les absens ont tort;’ never forget that. I must disapprove B——’s levity. He who has no solicitude about his reputation, though he be in fact an angel of virtue and benevolence; he who cares not what is said of him,—perhaps even laughs at it,—will soon find that the malignity of men has left him in the same condition as to reputation as Peter Schlemil was with regard to his shadow. At first he thought it nothing to forego a thing so unsubstantial; but in the end he could scarcely endure existence without it. Only in the deepest solitude, far from all the world, striding restlessly with his seven‐league boots from the north pole to the south, and living for science alone, did he find some tranquillity and peace. At the conclusion of your letter I see but too clearly that melancholy gains the upper hand,—and I could say something on that subject too,—‘mais p. 48 il faut du courage.’ In every life there are periods of trial, moments when the bitterest drops in the cup must be drained. If the sun do but illumine the evening, we will not murmur at the noon‐tide heat.

But enough of these serious subjects: let me now turn your attention from them, by leading you to the Haymarket Theatre, which I lately visited, when the celebrated Liston enchanted the public for the hundred‐and‐second time in Paul Pry, a sort of foolish lout. The actor, who is said to have made a fortune of six thousand a‐year, is one of those whom I should call natural comic actors, of the same class as were Unzelmann and Wurm in Berlin, and Bösenberg and Döring in Dresden; men who, without any profound study of their art, excite laughter by a certain drollery of manner peculiar to themselves, an inexhaustible humour, ‘qui coule de source;’ though frequently in private life they are hypochondriacal, as is said to be the case with Liston.

The notorious Madame Vestris, who formerly made ‘furore,’ was also there. She is somewhat ‘passée,’ but still very fascinating on the stage. She is an excellent singer, and still better actor, and a greater favourite of the English public even than Liston. Her great celebrity, however, rests on the beauty of her legs, which are become a standing article in the theatrical criticisms of the newspapers, and are often displayed by her in man’s attire. The grace and the exhaustless spirit and wit of her acting are also truly enchanting, though she sometimes disgusts one by her want of modesty, and coquettes too much with the audience. It may truly be said in every sense of the words, that Madame Vestris belongs to all Europe. Her father was an Italian; her mother a German and a good pianoforte player; her husband, of the illustrious dancing family of France, and herself an Englishwoman: any chasms in her connexion with other European nations are more than filled up by hundreds of the most ‘marquant’ lovers. She also speaks several languages with the utmost fluency. In the character of the German ‘broom girl’ she sings

“Ach, du lieber Augustin”

with a perfect pronunciation, and with a very ‘piquant’ air of assurance.

To‐day I dined with our ambassador. This prevented my visiting the theatre, which I have too much neglected. I have resolved to attend it with more constancy, in order that I may gradually give you a tolerably perfect report of it, though in detached descriptions.

We were quite ‘en petit comité,’ and the company unusually animated and merry. We had a certain great ‘gourmand’ among us, who took a great deal of joking, ‘sans en perdre un coup de dent.’ At last Prince E—— told him that whenever he went to purgatory his punishment would undoubtedly be to see the blessed eat, while he was kept fasting.          *         *         *         *         *         *

Lord —— was there too. He treats me in the most friendly manner to my face, but, I am told, loses no opportunity of injuring me in society.          *         *         *         *         *         *         *

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A man of warmer heart would have spoken to me face to face of this supposed wrong. ‘Diplomates,’ however, have too much fishes’ blood in their organization.       *         *         *         *

Happily, I can laugh at all such ‘menées:’ for a man who seeks nothing and fears little, who interests himself in the great world only in so far as it affords him opportunities for making experimental observations on himself and others; who is, as to necessaries at least, independent, and has a few but faithful friends,—such a man it is difficult seriously to injure. Experience too has cooled me;—my blood no longer flows with such uncontrollable impetuosity; while my lightheartedness has not deserted me, still less the capacity of loving intensely. I therefore enjoy life better than in the bloom of youth, and would not exchange my present feelings for that early tumultuous vehemence. Nay, in such a frame of mind, I feel not the least dread of old age, and am persuaded that when that period of life arrives, it will turn to us many a bright and beautiful side whose existence we suspect not, and which those only never find who want to remain youthful for ever.

I lately met with some pretty English verses which I translated, after my fashion, with a thought of you, my best friend, who too often regret departing youth. These are the delightful lines: *

Ist gleich bie trübe Wange bleich, Das Auge nicht mehr hell, Und nahet schon das ernste Reich, Wo Jugend fliehet schnell! Doch lächelt Dir die Wange noch, Das Auge kennt die Thräne noch, Das Herz schlägt noch so warm und frei Als in des Lebens grünstem Mai. So denk’ denn nicht, dass nur die Jugend Und Schönheit Segen leiht— Zeit lehrt die Seele schönre Tugend, In Jahren treuer Zärtlichkeit. Und selbst wenn einst die Nacht von oben Verdunkelnd Deine Brust umfängt, Wird noch durch Liebeshand gehoben Dein Haupt zur ew’gen Ruh’ gesenkt. O, so auch blinkt der Abendstern, Ist gleich dahin der Sonne Licht, Noch sanft und warm aus hoher Fern’, Und Tages‐Glanz entbehrst Du nicht.—6

Yes, my beloved Julia, thus has time taught us, in years of tenderness, that nothing can have so genuine a value as that. We have now before us an evening star, whose mild light is far more delightful than that mid‐day sun which often rather scorches than warms.

I drove home with L——, and we had a long conversation by the snug fireside on the affairs of our country.            *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *     L—— is very kind to me, and I am doubly attached to him; first, for his own amiable and honourable character; secondly, for the sake p. 50 of his excellent father, to whom we owe more real gratitude than to ——, though he had no other motive than his own impartial love of justice.

A strange custom in England is the continual intrusion of the newspapers into the affairs of private life. A man of any distinction not only sees the most absurd details concerning him dragged before the public,—such as where he dined, what evening party he attended, and so forth, (which many foreigners read with the greatest self‐complacency,)—but if anything really worth telling happens to him, it is immediately made public without shame or scruple. Personal hostility has thus ‘beau jeu,’ as well as the desire of making profitable friends. Many use the newspapers for the publication of articles to their own advantage, which they send themselves. The foreign embassies cultivate this branch with great assiduity. It is easy to see what formidable weapons the press thus furnishes. Fortunately, however, the poison brings its antidote with it. This consists in the indifference with which the public receives such communications. An article in a newspaper after which a Continental would not show himself for three months, here excites at most a momentary laugh, and the next day is forgotten.

About a month ago the papers made themselves extremely merry about the duel of a noble lord here; who, according to their representation of the matter, had not cut a very heroic figure. They made the most offensive remarks, and drew the most mortifying inferences as to the calibre of his valour; and all this had not the smallest perceptible effect in disabling him from presenting himself in society with as much ease and unconcern as ever. They have tried to give me too a ‘coup fourré.’            *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *     But I have served under an old soldier, and learned from him always to have the first and loudest laugh at myself, and not to spare an inoffensive jest at myself and others. This is the only safe way of meeting ridicule in the world: if you appear sensitive or embarrassed, then indeed the poison works; otherwise it evaporates like cold water on a red‐hot stone. This the English understand to perfection.

This evening I spent, true to my determination, in Drury Lane, where, to my infinite astonishment, old Braham appeared, still as first singer, with the same applause with which I saw him, even then an old man, perform the same part for his own benefit the day before my departure from England, twelve years ago. I found little difference in his singing, except that he shouted rather more violently, and made rather more ‘roulades’ in order to conceal the decline of his voice. He is a Jew, and I am firmly convinced the everlasting one,7 for he does not seem to grow old at all. ‘Au reste,’ he is the p. 51 genuine representative of the English style of singing, and, in popular songs especially, the enthusiastically adored idol of the public. One cannot deny to him great power of voice and rapidity of execution, and he is said to have a thorough knowledge of music: but a more abominable style it is impossible to conceive.

The Prima Donna was Miss Paton, a very agreeable, but not a first‐rate singer. She is well‐made, and not ugly, and is a great favourite with the public. What would appear extraordinary among us,—she is married to Lord W—— L——, whose name she bears in her own family and in private.8 On the stage, however, she is Miss Paton again, and paid as such, which is not unacceptable to her lord.

The most striking thing to a foreigner in English theatres is the unheard‐of coarseness and brutality of the audiences. The consequence of this is that the higher and more civilized classes go only to the Italian Opera, and very rarely visit their national theatre. Whether this be unfavourable or otherwise to the stage, I leave others to determine.

English freedom here degenerates into the rudest license, and it is not uncommon in the midst of the most affecting part of a tragedy, or the most charming ‘cadenza’ of a singer, to hear some coarse expression shouted from the galleries in stentor voice. This is followed, according to the taste of the bystanders, either by loud laughter and approbation, or by the castigation and expulsion of the offender.

Whichever turn the thing takes, you can hear no more of what is passing on the stage, where actors and singers, according to ancient usage, do not suffer themselves to be interrupted by such occurrences, but declaim or warble away, ‘comme si rien n’était.’ And such things happen not once, but sometimes twenty times, in the course of a performance, and amuse many of the audience more than that does. It is also no rarity for some one to throw the fragments of his ‘gouté,’ which do not always consist of orange‐peels alone, without the smallest ceremony on the heads of the people in the pit, or to shail them with singular dexterity into the boxes; while others hang their coats and waistcoats over the railing of the gallery, and sit in shirt‐sleeves; in short, all that could be devised for the better excitement of a phlegmatic Harmonie Society of the workmen in Berlin, under the renowned Wisotsky, is to be found in the national theatre of Britain.

Another cause for the absence of respectable families is the resort of hundreds of those unhappy women with whom London swarms. They are to be seen of every degree, from the lady who spends a splendid income, and has her own box, to the wretched beings who wander houseless in the streets. Between the acts they fill the large and handsome ‘foyers,’ and exhibit their boundless effrontery in the most revolting manner.

p. 52

It is most strange that in no country on earth is this afflicting and humiliating spectacle so openly exhibited as in the religious and decorous England. The evil goes to such an extent, that in the theatres it is often difficult to keep off these repulsive beings, especially when they are drunk, which is not seldom the case. They beg in the most shameless manner, and a pretty, elegantly dressed girl does not disdain to take a shilling or a sixpence, which she instantly spends in a glass of rum, like the meanest beggar. And these are the scenes, I repeat, which are exhibited in the national theatre of England, where the highest dramatic talent of the country should be developed; where immortal artists like Garrick, Mrs. Siddons, Miss O’Neil, have enraptured the public by their genius, and where such actors as Kean, Kemble, and Young still adorn the stage.

Is not this—to say nothing of the immorality—in the highest degree low and undignified? It is wholly inconsistent with any real love of art, or conception of its office and dignity. The turbulent scenes I have described above scarcely ever arise out of anything connected with the performance, but have almost always some source quite foreign to it, and no way relating to the stage.

Farewell!