orange-peel, and the sound of the prompter's
whistle, and the slamming of the box doors, and
the rustling of ladies' robes as they pass to their
seats, all once so pleasant to hear, I still enjoy,
to a certain extent, the privilege of going to the
play for nothing. Of one private box I am
not only renter, but freeholder. I disdain the
favours of the free list. My box belongs to
me in fee simple. I furnish it, as I list, with
tbe softest settees and carpets, the brightest
mirrors, the coziest arm-rests and screens. I
may smoke in my box. I may drink tea there.
No boxkeeper dares to worry me for gratuities.
I carry my box about with me as Glamdalditch
carried Grildrig. I set it down, and open it,
whensoever I list. Now in Europe, now in
Africa, now in America. The settlement of the
bill of the play depends entirely on my own
will and caprice. I may change the performance
every night; I may shut up the house for
a whole season. I may command Mosé in
Egitto to follow the Miller and his Men, and
interpolate the ballet of Giselle between the
fourth and fifth acts of Macbeth. I am free
to patronise native talent, or to choose my
plays and my performers exclusively from
foreign sources. I can bestow the most
sumptuous scenery, dresses, and decorations on my
repertory. Without a farthing of extra
expense I will get up a Christmas pantomime or
an Easter burlesque. My corps de ballet is
ten thousand strong. My "supers" are
innumerable. I am not only freeholder of the
proscenium box, but stage manager, prompter, and
leader of the orchestra. I must own that I
am likewise called upon to dress the leading
lady, shift the scenes, and snuff the candles.
Finally, I am not compelled, when I go to
the play for nothing, to assume that most
abhorrent of disfigurements, evening dress; on
the contrary, when I have a mind to enter my
private box, I usually divest myself of all
superfluous attire, lie down with my head on
a pillow, and on the softest bed attainable,
and then ring for the fiddlers to strike up, and
for the play to begin. Let me conclude by
observing that two of the chief advantages of my
theatre personal, are, that I can see the play
with my eyes shut, and that my actors and
actresses never come to the treasury on
Saturday. Ring up! What shall the play be
tonight? I have a lurking liking for fantastic titles
to my dramas. A "Bunch of Quays"? Presto:
I have a private box in an inn at Rotterdam.
To every stage there must be a proscenium.
The frame to my Dutch mirror, is a first-floor
window looking out on the great quay of the
Boompps.

Th scenery is very well painted; but the
perspective is, perhaps, a little too flat; the light is
too evenly diffused to afford any picturesque
contrasts of chiar'oscuro; and there are, certainly,
in the middle distance too many squabby
windmills for romantic effect. But you must take
your Dutch decorations as you find them. They
are all by Vandyke, and not exempt from a
slight tinge of mannerism. There are plenty of
ships, however, and their infinitely interlaced
spars and rigging are very graceful and grateful
to the eye. Yonder row of lime-trees, too, on
the Boompps are cool and refreshing. Be
these I do not see much to chronicle in the
way of mise en scène, except rain. Bless us,
how it has rained for four-and-twenty hours!
It never rains but it pours, says the proverb;
but it has rained, without pouring, since yesterday
morning at Rotterdam. A fine impartial
even-spreading rapid sleet; a rain that seems
to come up as well as down; a cold vapour-
bath; a ram that docs not interfere with
business, for it wets you and your umbrella through
before you are aware of it, and, being thoroughly
damped for the day, you make up your mind to
the worst, till you can go home to dinner, and
dry yourself. There is no mud. Dutch
cleanliness takes care of that. The stones of my quay
cannot be wetter, but they cannot be cleaner.
As the rain falls, alert men with birch brooms
step forward and sweep it away, ere any particle
of earthy matter can enter into solution with
the moisture. Such an alert broomster has been
at work since early this morning, and I doubt not
that he only relieved a guard of other besomists.
To paint the lily, or to gild refined gold, has
hitherto been deemed a work of supererogation;
but what of washing wet flagstones? This,
however, is done at Rotterdam. When the man
with the broom finds that the rain is getting the
better of him, and that, his strenuous sweeping
notwithstanding, it is slowly forming into puddles
in the interstices, he picks his way back to the
hotel, and speedily reappears with a pail of water,
the contents of which ne carefully slushes over
the soaking stones. In most continental cities
that I have seen, the lazy people wait for the rain
to come and wash their streets; and, as it
ordinarily comes but once a year in hot climates, the
streets are only washed during one month out of
the twelve. The Dutch regard the rain as a kind
of contaminator, and, with full buckets, hasten
to wash it away. A very cleanly people are
these Hollanders. They would reach
perfection, could they only be persuaded to wash
themselves.

Now, on a November morning, to look out
on a wet quay, bordered by wet trees, with wet
windmills in the middle distance, a wetter sea
in the background, and the wettest sky overhead,
distilling a persistent moisture, is not very
conducive to that state of mental exhilaration
which is termed, inelegantly but forcibly,
"jolly." Men staying in lonely inns have done
desperate things on wet days. Washington
Irving's stout gentleman was driven, under
the persecution of Aquarius, to salute the
chambermaid with a kiss. Ay, and he kissed
the landlady to boot. It is my own fault,
perhaps, if the first drama I have chosen to witness
from my private box is a "water piece." Till
the curtain descends, however, I must fain see the
play that I have summoned up; and for the nonce
I am at Rotterdam, and on the Boompps, and I
cannot help myself. Rain, as a rule, makes one,
wretched. A Frenchman, who translates the