with tolerable good humour, as he goes out
humming Departure lor Syria (for soothing
ointment), this an odd proceeding on the
whole. Are these constant Departures for
Syria, and petitions for Queen Salvation to
have any significance, or to be taken as so
much unutterable cram? He goes next
night to another theatre— next night to
another—in fact, takes the round; everywhere
the same monstrous image is thrust
into his face. So was thrust in at a window,
to meet the eyes of a queen, the gory head of
the unfortunate Princess Lamballe, fastened
on a pike.

He is driven to fury at last, and the British
King of Beasts gets up within him. If any
or all of these sneaking rascals would but
step outside under the colonnade, he would
show them the stuffed figure in an attitude
and character they had not dreamt of. Just
five minutes under the colonnade; fair play,
and no foul hitting from behind. It is true
beyond doubt, Bogie Albion was the butt of
all pleasantry, innumerable quips and gags,
before Journeying to Syria was thought of:
was still satirised all through that
embarcation through the hot menaces of the
colonels, and, at this hour is borne rampant
and triumphant over many theatrical stages.
They are never tired of it—never will be
tired of it. We may safely prophesy it
will endure through all time. It has a
strange and mysterious vitality; like enough
it may be to our own stage Yorkshireman,
our own stage Irishman, to our benevolent
stage relations, and to our own
Buckstonian cockneys who are eternally
taking lodgings already in possession of, or
next door to, other odd people, and who,
we may suppose, shall continue to have
intrusions made upon them; to be assaulted
by angry husbands, arrested by bailiffs—
taken to be bailiffs, and treated as bailiffs
deserve to be treated—until the end of all
things, and the crack of doom shall have
come.

The French dramatists have always a stock
of Bogies on hand. Who does not know
Allcash, Milor Allcash, in the delightful Fra
Diavolo, or the Inn of Terracina—perfect
picture of ariistocratic Briiton, who comes in,
as all English lors do, with hiis hair in curl-papers
and sprinkling goddams plentifully?
In that pleasant, sparkling operetta of
Auber's, known as the Domino Noir, this
British nobleman again obtrudes himself.
With painful disregard of the common courtesies
of life, he persists in keeping his hat on
in dwelling-houses and private drawing-rooms;
keeping, too, his hands in those famous
nether-flapped pockets which British
noblemen always wear.

This aristrocratic conception has served
the French dramatist in good stead. Whenever
he has been hard put to it for variety, he
has only has to fall back on a Corinthian son
of Albion the Perfidious, and the audience
shrieks again with delight. It would take
long indeed to gather together all the strange
English physigonomies French dramatists
created. Longer, too, the taking stock of
their curious jumble of notions upon English
persons and things, transcending even that
extraordinary baronet who lurks in the
Mysteries of Paris—Sir Walter Murph by
name—transcending even those singular
glimpses of the inner English life, shadowed
forth by Dumas in Richard Darlington and
Kean, and other dramas; to say nothing of
those household names, and pet sobriquets
so familiar to British ears—Ketty, Betzy,
Damby, Lor Mewill, and Sir Flaming, who,
as the books of pedigree tell us, is connected
with "Les Premiers Lors de Londres." To
say nothing of the theatrical quarrels into
which the well-known "Colley Crimmer," who
wrote an apology, found himself drawn, or of
the extraordinary good fortune playgoers
enjoyed in those days, when it was given to
them to see Mistriss Siddons, Macreddy,
Miss O'Neill, Fanny Kemble, Illustre
Kean (le Soleil d'Angleterre), playing
together in one company. A rare treat
indeed, denied, it is to be feared, to our
fathers, and kept exclusively for some
fortunate Frenchman then on his travels through
Albion the Perfidious!

A good many years ago, when that
excellent prince George the Fourth and his
lawyers were busy fighting the good fight in
behalf of conjugal fidelity and the domestic
virtues, a lively Frenchman gathered up the
mishaps and sorrows of the ill-fated lady, and
worked them into a thrilling drama. Paris
flocked to see, and wept over the sad story
of her wrongs. Wonderful pains were taken
with the details, so as to make the piece a
perfect reproduction of English manners and
habits. It became therefore an instructive
as well as a pleasing lesson. Thus, in that
famous trial scene in Vestminstairs Hall—
wherein all the forms of judiciary proceedings
were faithfully portrayed were introduced
such historical personages as Lor
Denman and Lor Brougham, arrayed in full
forensic costume, and pleading as though
they were still simple commoners. Pleasant
also to observe Monsieur le Président who,
when the audience grew tumultuous, would
ring his little bell violently, and so restore
quiet. But what was this to the famous
tableau in the last act, when horrors accumulated,
and the interest of the piece was
wrought up to a fearful pitch? It was
the well-known incident that took place at
the coronation banquet, when the wicked
king, unable otherwise to relieve himself of a
spouse that was odious to him, conceived the
horrible design of poisoning the wretched
lady, as she sat beside him at the feast, little
recking the cruel destiny that was in store
for her. She sat beside her lord and master,
the revel proceeded, and the exhilaration
became fast and furious. High beakers were