where a vast quantity of liquor is drunk,
and where vast numbers of the class on
whom liquor has a decided effect, attend,
the strong men act promptly before the
police can be troubled, and with a creditable
roughness cast out anything like drunkenness,
upon the streets, when of course it is
some one else's business to deal with it. On
any idiotic cries, or challenges to fight, the
strong men rush up, seize the disturber by
the throat, and hustle him out in a second.
For the place must be well conducted.

What a scene inside!—vestibules blue,
gold, and white, all champagne and glorified
bars, and velvet sofas, and little pigeon-hole
boxes, and painted Houris serving drinks.
The crash of music comes from within;
charming gentlemen are in crowds, all
apparently devoted to lovely burdens, who
seem to be never weary of accepting
homage in the shape of what the Bar of
England, behind which the Houris stand,
can offer. Inside, what a spectacle!—loftiness,
decoration, majesty, size, and a dim
dome-like spaciousness not to be surpassed.
Even the Frenchman owns that his dear
Paris cannot boast its equal. Think of the
noble stage, with its enormous opening,
the grand orchestra in front, nearly a
hundred strong, crashing out; then gallery
after gallery ascending, as it were, to be
lost in the cathedral-like roof, lost in the
mists of too much light! But one may
think more of the enormous crowd with
which that vast tabernacle is bursting, with
which it is boiling over—not the "sea of
heads," still and steady, which is known
to theatres, but an ever-circulating mass,
floating to and fro, indistinct, undistinguished
to a great degree. There is
lovely burden after lovely burden, itself
to another great degree glittering with
the jewels and gold of the quality to
which the burden itself is partial. They
seem happy and in the highest spirits,
and well may bless the kindly patronage
which affords them this magnificent shelter
and gaily encourages their presence; but
at the same time regulates them with a
firm hand, the hand of the strong men.
For this is "a well-conducted place of
amusement," and every young gentleman
who is making his manners, or marring his
head. comes to the Royal Pandemonium.

Down in the great area, what eating
and drinking, what glittering silver
tankards—or seeming silver—what Bass,
what Allsopp, what innumerable "sodas"!
Animated and crowded as that huge space
appears, it is in truth the dullest part
of the house; for here are herded the
stupid homely souls who come merely to
look at the magnificent entertainments
provided on the stage, and for whom, I
suspect, the proprietor has a befitting
contempt. Even the strong men in their
scarlet and blue uniform—handsome Life
Guardsmen they look too—we can see
despise these clodhoppers, who know
nothing of life, and who do not come to see
life. They do not order champagne wine
for themselves, or for lovely burdens.
They do not command costly suppers;
they pay their shilling or so at the doors.
Yet they are scrupulously treated; not for
the world would the least disrespect be
offered to them, or to the humdrum wives
and daughters whom they bring with them
to stare at the show. Nothing can be
more generous than this treatment, for no
sort of account can be found in it; to
carpers like the present writer, the proprietor
of this well-conducted place of amusement
can retort, "Look down there at
my patrons—the pure wives and daughters
of England. They come to me. What
are these idle charges?"

Well may they stare at the noble scenery
that seems to run riot in fancy and colouring,
at the endless troops of dancing seraphs,
who seem to live, quite naturally, above in
golden branches, to float in the air, and hang
from clouds in the most natural way. So
with the orchestra, its general leading them
facing the audience. As we survey this
motley crowd, all engaged in what is called
harmless pleasure, it is impossible not to
consider it a school of some sort, open
every night in the year, and which is teaching
all the young gentlemen and ladies who
resort there lessons of some description.

The scholars, if we consider the hour
during which the academy is open, resort
there in thousands, some nearly every night,
and for some their studies have quite a
fascination. Some arrive from the opera
in full dress—with opera hat, white tie.
Every one newly come from the country
repairs there at once, eager to see a little
scholastic life. But it offers far more
advantages to the mere youth—clerk or
shopboy—who has here a career not to
be pursued under other circumstances,
so advantageously. In this splendid realm
he gains an importance, a spurious man-
about-township, at a cheap cost. He can
ruffle it like a real gallant, according to his
degree. Here he can generously "stand"
refreshment, and purchase the converse and
the smiles of lovely burdens; from here he