Chapter I: Down the Thames (6)

"That is enough. That is all I desire to know. _Enfin!_" and M. Gueronnay, shrugging his shoulders in a crushing manner, turns his back upon the Doctor.

This scene created a general confusion at the dining-table. Everybody was silent. The lady of the house, whose profound knowledge of the "_Dictionnaire de l'Academie_" commands M. Gueronnay's special respect, has taken him to the window, and tries to soothe his feelings, by assuring him that Dr. Keif is certainly wrong-headed in the true Germanic style; but that he is, after all, a good-natured eccentric person, and nobody's enemy but his own. Dr. Keif, meanwhile, with a forced smile on his lips, and green and yellow with rage, promenades the room. He is evidently not satisfied with himself. Sir John alone has kept this seat at the table; and, enforcing his views by several thumps of his dessert-knife, makes a very instructive speech on that Parliamentary order which is observed at all public dinners in England. Who could even think, while dinner is on the table, of conversing on any other subject but the domestic virtues of the turtle, the sole, and the salmon, the tenderness of roast lamb and venison, the bees-wing of port wine, and all the other good things which are especially fit to establish a delightful harmony between Whigs and Tories, High Churchmen and Dissenters, Cotton Lords and old aristocrats? There's the rub. That's what the foreigners will never learn; they cannot do a thing at the right time, and poison their very meat with politics!

I dare say Sir John is right; but his speech is interrupted by the coffee, which has greater effect upon the company than his practical philosophy. Dr. Keif and Sir John take their coffee by the fire.

"Are you aware," says the latter, "that your remarks have been very offensive to our French friend? We Englishmen can never approve of a wholesale condemnation of any nation. If you had said those words in the House of Commons, you would have been called to order; and I really think there is an Act of Parliament--"

"Well never mind your Act of Parliament! the less you say about it the better. There are examples of examples. You are always preaching manners to people, and--. Never mind, just provoke me, if you please. I'm exactly in a temper."

"But my dear Doctor, I really can't understand what is the matter with you."

"Well, I'll tell you. People believe that a German's skin ought to be as thick as that of a rhinoceros. I was not in the least angry, but merely gave that fellow change for his five-franc piece. Just as we sat down to dinner he said a few words which I don't care to repeat. In short, he said that we Germans were not very likely to set the Thames on fire."

"Very wrong indeed," replies Sir John, turning to M. Gueronnay. "I'll tell him so; he must make an apology."

"For God's sake be quiet! An apology, ridiculous! I'm ashamed of my childishness, that his vapid phrase could ruffle my temper; but that is what a man comes to. In Germany I used to laugh at our patriots; and here I'm covered with patriotism as with a cutaneous eruption, and irritated by the slightest touch."

"Nonsense, sir! Consider it is only the word of a Frenchman!" said Sir John, almost instinctively attacking the weakest side of the sapient and wrathful Doctor. "And I say a Frenchman is no one. But now be reasonable, and shake hands with Mons. Gueronnay. I say--Mons. Gueronnay! You, Sir! Confound the Frenchman!" muttered Sir John, with earnest devotion, "Confound him, he _won't_ hear!"

The attempts at mediation between the two foreign powers are here interrupted by George, the tiger, bringing in a letter.

"Dr. Keif, if you please, a letter from Mr. Bonypart."

A flagrant absurdity flung into the midst of a quarrel is, after all, the readiest means to restore good will and smooth the ruffled tempers. George's blunder makes everybody laugh. Dr. Keif is at once assailed with many questions as to the "Emperor's" intentions. "Is it an invitation to Paris? Is it a challenge? or the offer of a pension?"

"Yes, it's in his own hand," said the Doctor, and pocketed the mysterious document.

"Is it, indeed!" cried the Frenchman, in a state of delightful amazement. "Is it a letter from Louis Napoleon--pardon! I would say, from his Majesty the Emperor himself?"

"Suppose it is, I can see nothing in it to justify your opening your eyes to that extent!" said Mrs. Bella, with the prettiest imaginable little sneer. "I'm sure Dr. Keif is by far more respectable than one half of his majesty's old friends and companions. But perhaps you will say Dr. Keif holds very strange opinions on the subject of the French nation. Just so, Mons. Gueronnay. Your emperor, I'm sure, thinks even worse of your countrymen than Dr. Keif does, and that's why he is your Emperor!"

"Order!" shouts Sir John, "I'll fine you a shilling if you say another word about politics."

"Hear! hear!" said the Doctor. "But I will explain the matter to Mons. Gueronnay before I go. My friend Baxter has come to town and promises me no end of adventures, if I--"

"Mr. Baxter!" quoth the lady of the house, looking up from the supplement of the _Times_, which for the last few minutes had engaged her attention. "Mr. Baxter! Really George is getting duller every day; he mispronounces even English names. The fact is, Mons. Gueronnay, that boy George cannot on any account repeat or remember a foreign name. Whenever any German comes to the house and sends up his name, George _will_ make the most shocking mistakes. He will not learn, and gives to every foreigner the very first name he happens to think of."

"He takes them from the newspapers," said Mrs. Bella. "The Doctor is continually teaching him politics. It's true, Doctor, you spoil all our servants. That boy George is too fond of reading, and reading is almost a vice in a young--"

"Aristocrat," adds Dr. Keif. "But I beg your pardon: lackey is the proper word."

"In short," continues the lady of the house, "there is no getting on with him. He turns _Schulze_ into Shelly, and converts _Fritze_ into Sir Fitzroy. The honest name of Müller becomes in his mouth Macaulay, and a Prussian gentleman of the name of Lehman is always announced as Lord Palmerston. He is so fond of great names."

"Delicious!" cried Mons. Gueronnay. "What a subject for Scribe!"

"Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot wait for the tea-hour; for at nine o'clock, I am expected at the cigar-divan in the Strand;" saying which, Dr. Keif prepared to leave the room.

"Stop!" said Sir John, consulting his watch. "You've plenty of time; exactly sixty-one minutes."

"How exact you English people are--punctilious!" We need scarcely inform our readers that the speaker is Mons. Gueronnay. "Sixty minutes and one! What Frenchman would say sixty minutes and one! Tell us, Mons. le Docteur, are your adventures so very important that they depend on the minute?"

"By no means! Nothing but an appointment of many weeks standing with Mr. Baxter. We propose making an expedition into the theatrical quarters, and I dare say we shall drop in here and there at half-price."

But the Frenchman cannot understand how any one can go to the theatre at this unseasonable time of the year. He has always understood that in London there are but two entertainments worthy of the notice of _un homme comme il faut_: the Italian opera and the French theatre at St. James's. But they are closed now that the season is over. It is true that the Queen does now and then pay a visit to some of the obscure English theatres; but surely she does that for no other reason but to humour the national prejudices of the English.

The ladies cry out against these shocking opinions; but all their protests cannot shake the smiling and gallant and withal obstinate Frenchman.

"_Enfin mes dames!_" cried he, "you have not an idea of all you must forego in London. You are very fortunate that you have never been at Paris. _Par Dieu!_ Paris! It is there, _mesdames_, where the common life is a delicious farce; every _salon_ is a stage; every apartment has its coulisses, and every one, from the duke down to the portier, knows his part. Your honest Englishmen can neither act, nor can they judge the action of the stage. An English actor is an unnatural creature, exactly like a Paris Quaker. Where can you find more passion for art than with us! Paris has not half so many inhabitants as London; but it has more theatres, and they are always more crowded than your churches. The poorest _ouvrier_ cannot live without basking in the splendour of the stage; he drinks milk and eats bread for _toute la semaine_, that he may have some sous to go to the _Variétés_ or the _Funambules_ on Sunday night. Show me the Englishman who would sacrifice a beefsteak for the sake of a theatrical representation. _Allez! allez!_ You weave, and you spin, you steam and you hammer, you eat and you drink, at the rate of so many horse-power, but to enjoy your life, that is what you do not understand. Am I right, madam?" The girls look at one another, and do not exactly know what to say.

Sir John, in his easy chair, shakes his head and mutters, "There are good reasons for the difference."

"_Ah ça_," continues the Frenchman triumphantly, "there are reasons; but, let me tell you, the reasons are atrocious! First, a theatrical piece would desecrate the Sunday evening, and the Sabbath must end in the same wearisome manner in which it commenced. If you mention this to an Englishman, he will make a long face, and say something about the morals of the lower classes. Ah, surely the lower classes in England are extremely moral! You can see that on Monday morning, when the drunkards of the night before are accused before the fat Lord Mayor. One has bitten off the constable's nose; another has knocked down his wife, and kicked her when she was on the ground; and a third has been knocked down by his wife through the instrumentality of a poker. It is nothing but morals and gin; but, _Dieu merci_, they have not been at the theatre. Do not tell me, because you have more churches and chapels than there are days in the year, that your lower classes go to church. For the poor there are no benches in your churches; your religion is only for respectable people, and while they pray they rattle the money in their pockets. And then there are thousands of Quakers, and Methodists, and Latter-day Saints, who even on week days shun the theatre as a place of abomination. How is it possible for a theatre to prosper? And lastly, you are so fond of your fire-places and parlours, that it is almost impossible to induce you to go out; and you have such a strange passion for green grass, that you live far away in the suburbs, and want a carriage to come back from the theatre in the dawn of the morning. These dreadful distances are ruinous to the purse, and prevent all civilisation. Let me tell you, _Monsieur le Docteur_, that your admirable Englishmen do not monopolise all the wisdom of the world; but let them go. I do not pity them; but I am sorry for the poor daughters of Albion. _Parole d'honneur, Mesdames_, you would not regret it if the beautiful dream of Napoleon were accomplished. Ha, what a merry life! Fancy our great army landing on your shores one fine morning. Before the sun is risen our gallant soldiers are in the city; they say, '_Bon jour_,' they conquer, and are conquered by the charms of the fair-haired Anglo-Saxon ladies. Our soldiers demand nothing but a due recognition of their transcendant merits. You may keep your Bank, your religion, and your Lord Mayor. France covets nothing but the glory of killing the dragon of English _ennui_. Hand in hand with the fair sex, our invincible army will perform the work of restoration. On the first night there is a grand ball of fraternisation at Vauxhall. On the following morning the liberators publish a manifesto, which decrees that there shall be at least one French vaudeville theatre in every parish."

The girls on the sofa listen with awe-struck curiosity, and the Frenchman continues his harangue.

"And after a few years, when these new institutions shall have taken root in the hearts of Englishmen, the heroic army returns to sunny France, saying, 'Now we understand one another, and now there will be eternal peace between us.' The regeneration of merry England, by means of Norman blood, will outlive many centuries. But if you relapse again into your puritanical spleen, then we shall come again. And the daughters of Albion stand on the chalky cliffs wailing, and stretch their white arms after their liberators. How do you like the sketch? Is it not chivalrous? Is it not full of the most touching disinterestedness? How do you like it, Sir John? Do not be frightened, it is merely _une idée_."

But Sir John is far too angry to reply, and M. Gueronnay turns again to the Doctor.

"_Parole d'honneur_," says he, "it is a perfect disgrace, the education of the women in England! _N'est ce pas_, even your German philosophers must admit, that the Grand Opera is the cynosure, the academy, the flower of high life--of elegance, _enfin_, of civilisation. _Eh bien!_ go to the opera, take a good glass, and you will despair. Beautiful women, you will find in plenty in the boxes, in the stalls, and in the gallery. But please to take your glass, and you will see they are allmere raw material. A splendid breed, certainly--a little heavy in the bones--large feet, but that makes no difference--but a complexion--hair--flesh--tell me, am I impartial, or am I not? _Mais, mon cher_, they are all rough diamonds. It makes one's heart bleed, to think how this race of women might be brought out, and what a treasure these brutal Englishmen are neglecting! I will say nothing whatever of the toilet. Take a Paris _grisette_, give her three-quarters of a yard of tulle and two yards and a half of ribbon, and she conquers the world; but an English woman--say Lady A.--with her California of shawls and diamonds on her person, has the appearance of a clothes' stand. But, as I said before, I will not go the length of asking for a genius for toilet. I will suppose that the light-haired marchioness, with those superb curls, has the good sense to get her fashions from Paris, and that, as a constitutional lady, she is governed by the advice of her responsible French maid. She does not insist on having a scarlet shawl and a light green dress with orange flounces, and a cavalry hat with ostrich feathers. No; she is _bonne enfante_--she listens to reason."

"_Bon._"

"But my dear Doctor, all this is of very little use. Listen to me, and let us confine our remarks to the light-haired marchioness. She leaves her box. Her carriage stops the way. She enters it. Now tell me, what is her behaviour? Throws she backwards one of those dilating, radiating, dangerous glances, which one might justly expect of her--without which, public life, even in the largest town, lacks all public interest; which the fair sex actually owe to those around them; for after all, what were women created for but to beautify the earth? But our light-haired marchioness walks straight on, as if she had blinkers to her eyes; she walks in a business-like manner--in the way of a student who enters his college, or a clergyman on his way to church; and though she makes but a few steps, I should know her as an English woman among the thousands of the women of all nations. Not a trace of hovering, of gliding, of jumping, or a little coquetry; nothing of the kind. If you meet her, she looks you straight in the face, exactly as if you were a statue or her husband. Be on your guard, she kicks! In sober seriousness, she raises her foot in such a manner as makes me wish that I could box her dancing-master's ears. Yes, yes, my friend, Lady A. commands my fullest respect, so long as she sits in her box and conducts herself as a statue. Her bust--classic! Her white hand, with long taper fingers--noble--very noble--though a little too thin; her face, full of _hauteur_! _à la bonne heure!_ in her large blue eyes there is even the shadow of a shade of romance; and round her lips plays something like a smile, which has caught a cold and is afraid of coming out in the open air. But her forehead is a little too severe for me; behind it there is a good deal of scripture reading and history, and details of the money-market, perhaps even Latin and Greek. Her long taper fingers write a firm hand; I am quite sure they can, without the least musical scruples, hammer on the substantial keys of a Broadwood. Of course they can; but do you know what these carefully-trimmed fingers cannot do? They cannot move a fan! Do you know what this beauty, with all the slenderness of her waist, and all the fulness of her shoulders, can never attain? Deportment! She has two left arms and two left hands. A French waist can languish, love, hate, smile, and weep; but this beautiful English woman, during the performance, looks at the libretto as if it were a book of common prayer. Now and then she raises her fan like a screen; and perhaps in one of the _entre-actes_ she condescends to a little coquetry. Such things happen now and then. You see how impartial I am. _Mon Dieu!_ how awkward she is! _Enfin_, she wants the _je ne sais quoi_. And, _au bout du compte_, one fine morning you read in the _Post_, that such and such an accomplished and very chaste lady, who happens to be the youngest daughter of a half-ruined house, has eloped, that is to say, she has run away, with some red-cheeked chaplain or groom. Don't tell me what the English are!" says M. Gueronnay, drawing a deep breath, and wiping the perspiration off his forehead with a triumphant look, as if he had captured the British fleet and brought it to Cherbourg. "There is your Italian Opera!"

"But you cannot pay such singers in Paris," interrupted Sir John, mustering up all his courage. "And as for decency and good manners, I do not think they can be found in your Tuilleries. None but gentlemen are admitted in Her Majesty's Theatre."

"Gentlemen--that is to say, black dress coat and black pantaloons; 'tis a pity that wigs and hair-powder are not also _de rigueur_. If we are to believe what the _Morning Post_ says, the ladies in the first row of boxes fainted away, because a foreigner with a blue neck-tie had by some means or other gained admittance to the pit. Mind he had paid for his place, as well as everybody else. My dear Sir John, good manners are not innate in you; and because you cannot rely on your instincts, you draw up an orthodox code of decency, and observe it strictly to the letter, as if it were the law of the land. A black dress coat is _de rigueur_, black pantaloons ditto; but the dress coat and the pantaloons may be old, dirty, and shabby. Only think, you pay your money and submit to be schooled by a theatrical lackey. I would not submit to it, that's all; none but the English, who adore the aristocracy, would ever put up with such impertinence. But the foreigners are justly treated. Why should they go to your Italian Opera House? Can they not go to Paris; and do not Grisi, Mario, and Lablache also sing in Paris? We do not, indeed, crowd all the talents of Italy into a single opera, because our ears are not made of cast-iron."

Dr. Keif thinks it high time to mediate between the vainglorious Frenchman and the incensed Sir John. "You go a little too far," says he. "All English ladies are not like your light-haired marchioness, and there are exquisite connoisseurs in music in London; but I am quite free to confess, the powers of digestion of the public amaze me. John Bull listens to two sympathies by Beethoven, an overture by Weber, two fugues by Bach, ten songs by Mendelssohn, and half a dozen arias and variations at one sitting, and then he goes home and falls asleep in peace. At the theatre, a tragedy by Shakespeare, a three-act melodrama from the French, a ballet, and a broad London farce, do him no harm, so great is the strength of his stomach."

"A capital remark! I am sure we shall understand one another," whispers M. Gueronnay. "The cry here is always for large quantities. The Englishman throws down his sovereign and wants a hundred-weight of music in return. _Mon cher Docteur_, you should come to Paris. Do not smile, and do not allow our friend here to make you too partial to the English. Sir John is the best fellow in the world, but _entre nous_, he is very queer. But you, my dear doctor, you have _esprit_, you are not without a certain talent for observation. Why should you rest in this town? I am sure your eyes will be opened after your first quarter of a year in Paris. _Par Dieu_, Paris! Does not the whole of the civilised world wear the cast-off clothes of Paris? It is quite ridiculous your shaking your head at our having got rid of our constitution; but in return Europe trembles at our nod, and _enfin ça ne durera pas_. We may change and change again. Constitutions of original Paris-make we have in plenty. We have had more of them than England, Germany, and Italy--in fact, what is there that Paris has not? Do you want religion? there is _Lacordaire_ and _Lamennais_; and there is the _Univers_--religions of all shades. Are you fond of philosophy and religion? Go to Prudhon. To tell you the truth, I myself do not care for philosophy and religion; they are either of them _mauvais genre_. I am for civilisation and property; and I should not mind seeing M. Prudhon hanged, but that does not prevent me, as a Frenchman, being very fond of him. In one word, the world is but a bad imitation of Paris. In Paris you find heaven and hell, order and liberty, the romance of orgies, and the solitude of the cloister, in the most charming harmony and in the grandest and most elegant form. But above all," said M. Gueronnay, very impressively, "do not believe that you will ever learn to speak the French language unless you go to Paris. Impossible; you will never catch the accent. And England is the worst climate for French pronunciation that can be found. Look at me! I, a Parisian, still feel the pestilential influence of this English jargon, which they are presumptuous enough to call a language, and whenever I go back from London I am ashamed of myself, and dare not speak to the family of my porter."

"Monsieur _Enfin_," said Sir John, as he accompanied the Doctor to the door, "has been bothering you, but, dear me; what can you expect of a Frenchman? a harmless fellow, but queer, very queer! You might make a good deal of money if you shewed him in Piccadilly. At one time I took some trouble with him, and tried to give him an idea of what England is, but it was of no use. You cannot argue a dog's hind-leg straight. You will never catch me quarrelling with him, that's all."

"It is the story of the pot and the kettle," said Dr. Keif, when he was in the street. "Each one says of the other that he is a queer fellow." Saying which, the Doctor smiles, without the least suspicion that he is quite as queer as the rest.

It is past midnight when the Doctor returns from his nocturnal expedition, the adventures of which shall be duly recorded in another chapter. George opens the door to him. "The family have gone to bed," says he, "but the two gentlemen have not yet _adjourned_." Indeed their voices are plainly audible in the hall, and Dr. Keif looking up, beholds Sir John and Mons. _Enfin_ on the landing, each holding a flat candle-stick with the candle burnt down to an awful degree of lowness, in his hand. The case is as clear as daylight. False to his principles, Sir John is engaged in a desperate attempt to "reason the dog's hind-leg straight."

Dr. Keif came just in time to enjoy the climax of the controversy.

"_Enfin_--the less you say about literature the better. What English author ever made a revolution?"

"I assure you, sir, Shakespeare--"

"And I assure you, sir, that, in my opinion, Shakespeare is entirely deficient in power. No power whatever, _parole d'honneur_! Coarse! Ah yes! he is indeed coarse. But power? Ah, my dear sir, where will you find it?"

"And I tell you, sir, that your grisettes and lorettes and actresses want _grace_, that's what they do. And why do they want it? To be graceful, a woman should be decent, sir, and respectable, sir; and your grisettes are not a whit better than they ought to be!"

"Good night, gentlemen," whispers Dr. Keif, as he passes them on the landing. "Don't settle the question now; I should like to say a few words about it to-morrow morning."

They stare at him in a bewildered manner, and the very next moment they dispute as fierce as ever.

"Mons. Gueronnay thinks Shakespeare lacks power; and Sir John is disgusted with the French women, because they want grace! Why it's as good as a play!" mutters Dr. Keif as he gains his own room.

CHAP. IX.

The Theatrical Quarters.

THE THEATRES.--THE POOR MAN'S SUNDAY.--GROUPS FOR HOGARTH.--DR.
KEIF AND MR. BAXTER AT THE OLYMPIC.--TRAGEDY AND COMEDY IN
ENGLAND.--MR. AND MRS. KEELEY.--MR. WIGAN.--MR. KEAN AND THE
BRIMLEYS.--METHODISM.--A PENNY THEATRE.--THE PANTOMIMES.--THE
BALLET.--THE STAGE IN ENGLAND AND
GERMANY.--MATERIALISM.--DRURY-LANE AT 11·45 P.M.--MERRY OLD
ENGLAND.--DRURY-LANE AT 1 A.M.

The space between Oxford-street and the Strand, the chief thoroughfares of Eastern and Western London, is occupied by a quarter of the town which, in many of its parts, we would not recommend for the residence of strangers who desire respect and consideration from their London acquaintances. On the other hand, nothing can be more interesting to a curious traveller than a careful examination of this quarter. We say a _careful examination_; for the mere walking through it on the occasion of a visit to the theatres is not enough to exhaust this mine of strange and curious sights. Of course, every stranger walks through this quarter, for in it are the most ancient and renowned among the theatres of London, namely, Covent-garden and Drury-lane.

Old and venerable houses are they, with blackened columns and sooty walls, and surrounded with the questionable traffic of an equivocal neighbourhood. A theatre in prudish London has not much good fame to lose; these two have never at any time stood amidst the fragrance of gardens or parks, or the splendours of a court. The flight to the west has not been caused by them. But, strange to say, the modern smaller theatres, too, are to be found in the outskirts of this half-genteel region. The Lyceum, the Strand theatre, and the Adelphi, are in the Strand. Most dingy and dirty-looking are the streets which surround the Olympic. The Princess' theatre, elated with the occasional visits of royalty, has sought an asylum in Oxford-street; and the half-classic Sadler's Wells has gone far out to the north, into staid methodistical, and humble Islington. But Her Majesty's Theatre, the favourite of the greatest in the land, raises its colonnade in the immediate vicinity of Leicester-square, the modern Alsatia of young France! Are we not, in the vicinity of the Haymarket, before and after midnight, exposed to the blandishments of those fair, frail creatures, that have nothing in common with the Muses, Graces, and Fays, but their state of celibacy? In short, is not the Venus vulgaris notorious for its predilection for a half-fashionable neighbourhood! When, therefore, you date your letters from Long-acre, and when, on receiving such a letter, the face of John Thingumbob, Esq., experiences a perceptible elongation, and his manner of speaking to you afterwards suggests to you the idea that he has been _iced_, then believe, O stranger, that our respectable friend, John Thingumbob, Esq., doubts not the safety of your own virtue, but the stability of your finances.

In Drury-lane itself, the painted cheek is less frequently met with than in the Haymarket; the deadly sins which revel in this classic neighbourhood do not use paint, and scorn to employ the blandishments of seduction. Their names are Poverty, Drink, and Dirt.

In the Strand, just opposite to majestic Somerset-House, and half-hidden by the railings of the church-yard, which encroaches upon the natural dimensions of the street, there is a narrow passage, which turns up into Drury-lane. That lane, though of unequal breadth, is always narrow, and numberless are the blind alleys, courts, and passages on either side. The first and second floors of the high and narrow houses, shelter evidently a class of small tradesmen and mechanics, who in other countries would pass as "respectable," while here they work for the merest necessaries of life, and, like their customers, live from hand to mouth. A few of them are usurers, preying

p. 267.]

upon poverty, coining gold from its vices and morbid longings. As for the garrets of those houses, we would not for the world answer for the comfort of their inhabitants. All the lower floors are let out as shops, in which are displayed dingy dresses and articles of female ornament, coarse eatables, cheap and nasty literature, shockingly illustrated; thick-soled shoes, old clothes, awful cigars--all at very low prices. But the gin-palaces are the lions of Drury-lane; they stand in conspicuous positions, at the corners and crossings of the various intersecting streets. They may be seen from afar, and are lighthouses which guide the thirsty "sweater" on the road to ruin. For they are resplendent with plate glass and gilt cornices, and a variety of many-coloured inscriptions. One of the windows displays the portrait of the "NORFOLK GIANT," who acts as barman to this particular house; the walls of another establishment inform you, in green letters, that here they sell "THE ONLY REAL BRANDY IN LONDON," and a set of scarlet letters announces to the world, that in this house they sell "THE FAMOUS CORDIAL MEDICATED GIN, WHICH IS SO STRONGLY RECOMMENDED BY THE FACULTY." Cream Gin, Honey Gin, Sparkling Ale, Genuine Porter, and other words calculated utterly to confound a tee-totaller, are painted up in conspicuous characters, even so that they cover the door-posts. It is a remarkable fact, that the houses which are most splendid from without, appear most dismal and comfortless from within. The landlord is locked up behind his "bar," a snug place enough, with painted casks and a fire and an arm-chair; but the guests stand in front of the bar in a narrow dirty place, exposed to the draught of the door, which is continually opening and shutting. Now and then an old barrel, flung in a corner, serves as a seat. But nevertheless the "palace" is always crowded with guests, who, standing, staggering, crouching, or lying down, groaning, and cursing, drink and forget.

On sober working-days, and in tolerable weather, there is nothing to strike the uninitiated in Drury-lane. Many a capital of a small German country is worse paved and lighted. Nor is misery so conspicuous and staring in this quarter as in Spitalfields, St. Giles', Saffron-hill, and other "back-slums" of London. But at certain bestial periods, misery oozes out of all its pores like Mississipi mud. Saturday and Monday nights, and Sunday after Church-time, those are the times in which Drury-lane appears in full characteristic glory. A Sunday-afternoon in Drury-lane is enough to make the cheerfullest splenetic. For to the poor labourer the Lord's day is a day of penance or dissipation. The cotton-frock and fustian-jacket are scared away from the churches and the parks by their respectful awe of rich toilettes and splendid liveries. For the poor man of England is ashamed of his rags; he has no idea of arranging them into a graceful _draperie_ in the manner of the Spanish or Italian Lazarone, who devoutly believes that begging is an honest trade. Even the lowest among the low in England are proud enough to avoid the society of a higher _caste_, though that superiority consist but in half a degree. They consort with persons of their own stamp, among whom they may walk with their heads erect. Church and park have moreover no charm for the blunted senses of the overworked and under-fed artizan. He is too weak and fatigued to think of an excursion into the country. Steamers, omnibuses, or the rail, are too expensive. His church, his park, his club, his theatre, his place of refuge from the smell of the sewers that infect his dwelling--his sole place of relaxation--is the gin-palace.

To provide against the Sunday, he takes a supply of fire-water on Saturday evening when he has received his week's wages, for with the stroke of twelve the sabbath shuts the door of all public-houses, and on Sunday-morning the beer or brandy paradise must not open before one o'clock in the afternoon, to be closed again from three to five. Hence that unsacred stillness which weighs down upon Drury-lane on Sunday-mornings. The majority of the inhabitants sleep away their intoxication or _ennui_. Old time-worn maudlinness reigns supreme in the few faces which peer from the half-opened street-doors; maudlinness pervades the half-sleepy groups which surround the public-house at noon to be ready for its opening; chronic maudlinness pervades the atmosphere. And if a stray ray of light break through the clouds, it falls upon the frowsy loungers and the dim window-panes in a strange manner, as though it had no business there.

It is Saturday-night, and the orgies of Drury-lane have commenced. "That's the way thou shouldst look," says Dr. Keif, hurrying forward to the divan in the Strand; "that's the way thou shouldst look, thou _Citta Dolente_, to awe us with thy charms. Oh for a Dutch painter of the old school to turn this scene into a _Höllenbreughel_."

A dense fog, with a deep red colouring, from the reflection of numberless gas-jets, and the pavement flooded with mud; a fitful illumination according to the strength of the gas, which flares forth in long jets from the butchers' shops, while the less illumined parts are lost in gloomy twilight. If your nerves are delicate, you had better not pass too close by the gin-shops, for as the door opens--and those doors are always opening--you are overwhelmed with the pestilential fumes of gin. The pavements are crowded. Slatternly servants with baskets hurry to the butchers and grocers, and the haunters of the coffee-houses of Drury-lane elbow their way through the very midst of the population--the _sweepings_ of humanity. A wicked word this, but the only one fit for these forms of woe and livid faces, in which hunger contends with thirst, and vice with disease.

What subjects for Hogarth on the narrow space of a couple of flag-stones! How ravenous the craving which flashes from the eyes of that grey-haired woman, as she drags a slight, yellow-haired girl--perhaps her own child--to the gin-shop! The little girl follows in a dumb wooden way; but her small slight hand is shut with an anxious grasp, as though she feared to lose her weekly earnings--the wages, perhaps, of hard work, or still harder beggary. She stumbles at the threshold, and almost falls over a couple of children that are crouching on the ground, shivering with cold, and waiting for their father within. The father comes, staggering and kicking the air, with manifest danger to his equilibrium, and cursing awfully. The kick was meant for his wife, a thin woman, with hollow yellow cheeks, whose long serpent-like curls are covered with an old silk bonnet, while her stockingless feet are contained in large slippers. She counts five copper pence in her bony hand, looks at her drunken husband, and at the fatal door, and at the costermonger's cart in the middle of the street; and she counts her pence, and recounts them, and cannot come to the end of them, though they are but five. The large oysters in the dirty cart, too, excite her appetite. Which is it to be? the public-house or a lot of oysters? "Penny a lot, oysters!" shouts the man, as he moves his cart forward. A dozen greedy eyes watch his movements.

Similar groups are met with at every step. At the door of almost every gin-shop you see drunken women, many of them with children in their arms; and wherever you go, amidst the confused noise and murmur of many voices, you hear distinctly the most awful oaths. It is not at all necessary to quote those oaths. Let it suffice, that one of them, beginning with a B, startled Dr. Keif's ears a hundred times at least in his walk through Drury-lane.

"Adventure number one!" said Mr. Baxter, to whom our friend communicated the result of his observations.

The fact is, Dr. Keif and Mr. Baxter are seated in the pit of the Olympic Theatre, which is small enough to enable even a short-sighted person to make the public in the boxes and the galleries the subject of a physiognomical study. The "Caucasian population" of Mr. Disraeli's novels may be seen in large numbers enjoying their sabbath. The pit and the upper gallery are filled with sentimental cooks and housemaids, intermixed with a sprinkling of females, to whom we do but justice if we describe them as _lorettes_ in a small way. They enjoy the patronage of a select assembly of beardless shopmen and attorneys' clerks, who treat them to ginger-beer, soda-water, lemonade, and oranges. The curtain has just fallen.

"How do you like it?" asks Mr. Baxter.

"Why I think we have seen enough."

"Wait one moment, I want to look at some one I know. Am I to understand that you didn't like the piece?" said Mr. Baxter.

"On the contrary; I like it very much. There's nothing like a piece of tragical clap-trap in your English theatres."

"Ay!--well!--just so! But then the piece was 'done' from the French."

"The natural source of the modern British drama. But never mind the piece; it's the _acting_ which amuses me. Mrs. Lackaday telling young Ronsay of her boding dream, and Ronsay pitching into her with a declaration of love--you must confess that the scene would have done credit to the most wooden marionettes."

"Yes, indeed! That scene was capital!"

"Was'nt it! The fellow stood there, like a big gun, until his turn came, and then he went off! He turned his eyes upwards, that you might have seen the whites at the distance of a mile; and he sparred with his hands, as if preparing for a set-to with the moon; and all of a sudden he stood stock still again, exactly like a gun, and the audience was fairly enraptured! And did it not strike you, that the two people had the same modulation and declamation, as a married couple of forty years' standing, whose features have acquired the same expression, and whose limbs have fallen into the same mode of movement? At times I am inclined to believe, that the tragic actors, male and female, have been ground their trade to the tune of one and the same patent barrel-organ. Their pathos is set to music. They all delight in the same pause between the article, the adjective, and the substantive; they all make endless stops, and utter the word which follows with a kind of explosion. I presume these poor fellows try to imitate Macready."

"That is to say," remarked Mr. Baxter, "they caricature him."

"But do you know whom Macready caricatures or imitates? I have read a good deal about Garrick, Kemble, and Mrs. Siddons, and I ought to swear by them, as you all do; but still I cannot help suspecting that, even in the golden period of English tragedy, 'all was not gold that glittered.' There is no originality. There is too much respect for antiquated traditions among the craft."

"Certainly there is a good deal of tradition about it. But our actors are not at liberty to depart from those ancient ways; and the slightest deviation would raise a storm against the unfortunate innovator. The taste of the public demands--"

"Indeed! and how does it happen that the period of the Garricks, Kembles, and Siddons did not create and lead you to a better taste? Has England gone back in education and refinement? Why it is just the reverse. The art of tragic acting must formerly have been subject to the same vices as in our days. What you say about the taste of the public is a very lame excuse. I am of opinion that your English public might be trained to a better taste; they are not fond of criticising; their feelings are not used up, and they are eminently grateful. Their taste is unrefined, but they are inclined to respect grace and dignity. Look at Madame Celeste. She carries everything before her by the grace of her untraditional movements."

"But then she is a pretty French woman," said Mr. Baxter, laughing, "and pretty women, you know, will carry every thing before them. But now come before the curtain is up, for Mr. Ronsay will certainly deafen us this time."

"Good evening, Mr. Brimley," whispered Mr. Baxter, as we went out, touching the shoulders of a young man who sat in the darkest corner of the pit with his hat slouched over his face, his great-coat buttoned up to his chin, and a large shawl tied round his neck, as though he were occupying the box-seat of an omnibus instead of a pit-seat in a hot and crowded theatre. The young man jumped up, blushed over and over, seized Mr. Baxter's hands, and talked to him very earnestly, and, as it appeared, imploringly.

"Adventure No. 2," said Mr. Baxter, when the two friends had gained the street. "That tall young fellow with the red whiskers is a Mr. Brimley; he is twenty-five years of age; he manages his father's business in the city; he is likely to have £200,000 or £300,000 of his own, and he trembles like a school-boy lest his papa should hear of his secret escapades."

"What escapades are those? if it is a fair question."

"Perfectly fair. His great crime is, that this evening, for the first time in his life, he has gone to the theatre."

"Impossible!"

"But fact. I know Peter Brimley, Esq., and Mrs. Brimley, and the whole family. A set of more honest, respectable people does not exist between the Thames and the Clyde; but if they were to understand that Mr. Ebenezer Brimley, their son, had crossed the threshold of frivolity, and placed himself on a seat of ungodly vanity, there would be more lamenting and howling among the uncles and aunts of Brimley House than there would be over a bankruptcy of the firm of Brimley and Co. These people are Methodists, and yet Ebenezer the Bold has taken the first step. Since stolen water is more sweet and intoxicating than brandy honestly purchased, I am afraid Ebenezer will drink the poisonous cup to the dregs. Some of these fine days we shall hear of his having gone off with Mrs. Lackaday. Poor fellow! he has not the least idea that she is on the wrong side of forty, and he is evidently much taken with her painted beauties. Never mind, I will be silent as to the past, because I have promised him. He wont sleep this night, I tell you, that little boy of twenty-five, for fear lest some incautious word of mine might betray the secret."

"Then it would appear that M. _Enfin_ is not, after all, so very wrong," said Dr. Keif.

"Nor is he; but your Frenchman cannot see farther than the tip of his nose. The Puritans and low church people form a powerful faction in England; but the round-heads, though great nuisances, are wanted so long as there are cavaliers. And now let us enter this temple of art."

We pass through a low door, and enter a kind of ante-chamber, where we pay a penny each. A buffet with soda-water, lemonade, apples, and cakes, is surrounded by a crowd of thinly-clad factory girls, and a youthful cavalier with a paper cap is shooting at a target with a cross-bow, and after each shot he throws a farthing on the buffet. Passing through the ante-chamber and a narrow corridor, we enter the pit of the penny-theatre, a place capable of holding fifty persons. There are also galleries--a dozen of wooden benches rise in amphitheatrical fashion up to the ceiling; and, strange to say, the gentlemen sit on one side and the ladies on the other. This separation of the sexes is owing to a great refinement of feeling. The gentlemen, chiefly labourers and apprentices, luxuriate during the representation in the aroma of their "pickwicks," a weed of which we can assure the reader that it is not to be found in the Havanna; but they are gallant enough to keep the only window in the house wide open.

Just as we enter we see the director, a small curly-headed man, with a red punch face, ascending the stage by means of a ladder. He makes two low bows, one for the ladies and one for the gentlemen, and delivers himself of a grand oration, to excuse some small deficiences in his institution. At every third word he is interrupted by the cheers and remarks of the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen," says he. "I am sorry I cannot produce a _prima donna_ to-night. Jenny Lind has sent me a message by my own submarine telegraph, asking for an extension of her leave. You would not surely shorten the honeymoon of the nightingale. Why, to do that would be as bad as cruelty to animals. Madame Sontag tells me, quite in confidence, that she is falling off, and that, although her voice is good enough for Yankee ears, she wants the courage to make her appearance before the refined public of No. 17, Broad-street, London. Mdlle. Wagner was at my service, cheap as any stale mackerel; but could I insult you by producing her? Would not every note have reminded you of the fact, that she values nothing in England but its copper pence. Besides, the terms of friendship which subsist between myself and Mr. Lumley--there are considerations--I hope you'll understand me, ladies and gentlemen!"

"Question! question!"

"Maybe you are astonished that these boards are uncarpeted, and that no painted curtain displays its glories to your eyes!"

A voice from the gallery:--"At your uncle's, eh?"

Another voice:--"Nonsense! His wife has turned the stuff into a petticoat."

"How little you understand me, ladies and gentlemen. In the first place, it is but decent that our stage should lament the death of the Iron Duke"--

Interruption:--"No first place! Don't you try to be funny, old feller!"--Blasphemy--groans.

"Ladies and gentlemen, pray listen to me. Let all be serene between us. I have nothing to conceal. Ladies and gentlemen, the overture is about to commence!"

The speaker vanishes through a trap-door, through which two fellows presently ascend. One is dressed up to represent an Irishman; the other wears the characteristic habiliments of a Scotch Highlander. They play some national airs, and while thus engaged strip themselves of every particle of their outer clothing, and appear as American planters. Some one from below, hands up a couple of straw hats, which they clap on their heads, and the metamorphosis is complete. They then go to the back of the stage and return with an unfortunate "African." The part is acted by no less distinguished a person than the director himself. His face is blackened, he has a woolly wig on his head, and heavy chains on his wrists and ancles; and to prevent all misunderstandings, there is pinned to his waistcoat an enormous placard, with the magic words of "UNCLE TOM."

The planters produce meanwhile a couple of stout whips, which instruments of torture they use in a very unceremonious manner, in belabouring the back of the sable _protegé_ of the Duchess of Sutherland and the women of England generally, when all of a sudden, that illustrious negro, exclaiming, "LI-BER-R-R-TY! LIBER-R-R-TY!" breaks his fetters, and turning round with great deliberation, descends into the pit. Exeunt the two planters, each with a somerset.

Transformation:--Three forms issue from the back door; a colossal female, with a trident and a diadem of gilt paper, bearing the legend of "BRITANNIA"; after her, a pot-bellied old gentleman, with a red nose and a spoon in his right hand, while his left holds an enormous soup-plate, with a turtle painted on the back of it.

Britannia, heaving a deep sigh, sits down on a stool, adjusts a telescope, which is very long and very dirty, and looks out upon the ocean. The gentleman with the red nose, who, of course, represents the Lord Mayor of the good City of London, kneels down at her feet, and indulges in a fit of very significant howlings and gnashings of teeth. The third person is a sailor-boy complete, with a south-wester, blue jacket, and wide trousers, who dances a hornpipe while Britannia sighs and the Lord Mayor howls.

Now comes the great scene of the evening! Somebody or something, diving up from the very midst of the pit, makes a rush against the stage. It is the Uncle Tom of the last scene; but surely even Her Grace of Sutherland would not know him again. His face is as black and his hair as woolly as ever; but a cocked hat, a pair of red trousers and top boots, and an enormous sword, brings it home even to the dullest understanding, that this is a very dangerous person! Besides, on his back there is a placard, with the inscription: "_Solouque_--NAPOLEON--EMPEROR"!!

The monster bawls out "INVASION!" while, to the great delight of the ladies and gentlemen, he bumps his head several times against the chalky cliffs of Britain, which, on the present emergency, are represented by the wooden planks of the stage. The very sailor-boy, still dancing his hornpipe, shows his contempt for so much ferocity and dulness. He greets the invader with a scornful--"_Parli-vow Frenchi?_"

At this juncture, the conqueror becomes aware of the presence of the short ladder, and mounts it forthwith. The boy vents his feelings of horror and disgust in an expressive pantomime, the Lord Mayor howls louder than ever, and the gnashing of his teeth is awful to behold; but just as the invader has gained the edge of the stage, he is attacked by the sailor, who, applying his foot to a part of the Frenchman's body which shall be nameless, kicks that warrior back into the pit. The public cheer, Britannia and the Lord Mayor dance a polka, and the sailor sings "God save the Queen!"

"If the French ambassador could but know of this!" said Mr. Baxter, as the two friends were pushing their way out through a crowd of new comers. "That one kick would give rise to half a dozen diplomatic notes. Alas, for the liberties of Old England! Now I am sure the Lord Chamberlain's deputy would never have permitted this scene in a Drury-lane pantomime."

"I'm glad of it," said Dr. Keif, testily, "since it seems to hurt you, who are a moderate Tory. But why did we go away?"

"It was so hot. But what do you say to this sort of thing? Here you have the low and the uneducated in raptures with a histrionic representation. Are you still of opinion, that the people of England are without dramatic affinities and theatrical instincts?"