The Theatre at Thamesend is not so large as
Exeter Hall. It is not so large as the Adelphi,
or the St. James's, or Miss Kelly's. In short,
it is as small as it well can be, and the stage
—though larger than that of the Smallport
Theatre, where the proscenium was so low that
your Eye-witness could only see the face of the
tallest actor from the mouth downward—the
stage is of such confined dimensions that, when
a scene has to be set in front of another, the
performers have a hard matter to keep their legs
out of the foot-lights, and look as if the background
must inevitably end in pushing them over
into the pit.

But what matters size? The Thamesend
Theatre was beautifully decorated, with the
whole solar system on the ceiling complete,
except in one place, where there was a great
round hole, which looked as if one of the
larger planets had been unable to stand it any
longer, and had bolted out into space. There
were twenty-seven persons present on this
occasion (after half-price), and the boy who, wanting
to pass from one part of the gallery to another,
achieved his object by a hand-over-hand process
round the rail of that portion of the building,
must have done so out of pure fancy, as he might
easily, if he had thought proper, have stepped
over the benches, on which his friends were but
sparsely scattered. As for the audience, it was
mainly composed of young Thamesend swells,
who all tried to imitate each other in their
costume and manners, taking their lead from the
young man at Hicks and Vicars's, who on the
previous day had served the E.-W. with that box
of dinner pills to which he attributes the
gradual break-up of his digestive powers. The
young man from Hicks and Vicars's tried hard
to be languid, and not interested in the
performance, but the " thrilling combats" proved
too many for him, and in the course of the
progress of the drama , he became violently and
breathlessly excited.

And well he might. For, to be sure, this was
a play which, even without the thrilling combats,
might reasonably awaken the interest of
anybody. Let us consider it carefully. The reader
has already seen that this drama commences
with "the lilly of France—the happy vintage
and abode of love," and that " Adelle's goodness
is the theme of her moral neighbours;"
he has seen that lily is (and why not?) spelt
with two l's, and he has observed that the name
of Adèle is similarly favoured with a redundancy
of letters. All this he has seen, but there are
other things which he has not seen. He has not
seen the moral neighbours, and it is well for him.
The first blow has been struck at the morality
of the Eye-witness; the thin end of the immoral
wedge has—so to speak—been introduced, by
the sight of those moral neighbours, of their
dirt, their discouraging seediness, and (especially
with regard to the main spokesman) their
intemperance. Indeed, the principal moral neighbour
was supported from behind by his friends, and
delivered his dialogue with a glazed eye and an
impaired and gulpy utterance.

But if the reader (and his morality) has gained
by not having seen the moral neighbours, he has
greatly lost in having missed " Adelle's" father,
the merry Pierre. This young person was blessed
with a perennial youth, which set at defiance the
elastic cotton baldness which had been pulled
on by different dirty fingers, till it was relieved
by a black line from his face. He was evidently
the youngest member of the company, and as
Adelle herself was a stout matron of about forty,
and her lovers were both stalwart veterans, the
aspect of affairs was remarkable. The
miscreant Gerrole having failed to induce this
youth to grant him his daughter's hand in
marriage, vows vengeance, as will be seen by
reference to the bill, and soon gets an
opportunity of wreaking it. Enter Captain Lafont,
who being a pedestrian traveller, and in want
of a guide, is of course dressed in a military
frock, cotton drawers, and Hessians. He
wears a cap with a gold band, carries a riding-
whip to help him across the mountains, and
is further prepared for a scramble by having
on his heels an immense pair of gilt spurs. The
faithful Michel steps forward, appropriately
accoutred for an Alpine journey in a blouse, an
open shirt-collar, white trousers, and pumps
with buckles in them.

Now, the faithful Michel, being the accepted
lover of Adelle, is obnoxious in the eyes of the
wicked Gerrole; so he at once determines to
waylay the travellers, and by murdering them
both to get rid of his rival, and at the same
time to become possessed of the wardrobe
of the officer, Captain Lafont. The wicked
Gerrole now associates in his villany the
miscreant Marcel, and they both get into ambush
on a spot which the traveller and his guide will
infallibly pass, and this is the process called
intercepting the road. This getting into ambush
is a matter of great difficulty, and is not
accomplished without much noisy stamping about and
profuse gesticulation. It is at last, however,
tolerably successful, considering the smallness
of the "cover" and the largeness of the
performers; the murderers are made all snug, the
thunder and lightning begins, and the Dumb
Guide and Captain Lafont appear on the scene.
They descend the rocks at the back, and it then
becomes evident, that, as far as being a guide is
concerned, the faithful Michel is an impostor.
He gropes about, advances to the second
entrance left, and, being received there by a flash
of lightning, tries the third entrance right. Finding
that this will not do either, he retires to the
back of the stage, raises himself on tiptoe, and
kisses his hand, looking, as stage directions say,
"off." Having performed this feat at the back
of the stage, he next comes to the front and
repeats it; other equally intelligible pieces of
pantomime would, doubtless have followed, if
Messrs. Marcel and Gerrole had not suddenly
burst out of their ambush and attacked the
Captain; who was sitting all this time helplessly on
a big stone.

The faithful Michel rushes to the rescue, but
to his dismay finds that his pistols, which Marcel