A BREACH OF BRITISH PRIVILEGE

SIR, —I occasionally see your journal at
the houses of my friends, and I am told that
it occupies a highly influential and prominent
position among the periodicals of the present
time. For my own part, I carefully
abstained from subscribing to you, when you
started. I didn't like the look of you, then;
and I don't like the look of you, now. You
are not English to the back-bone. You have
more than once set up the foreigners— the
jabbering, unwashed, unshaved foreigners,
who live on kickshaws and sour wine—as
examples to us. I doubt whether you really
believe that one Englishman is equal to two
Frenchmen, and six of any other nation. I
doubt whether you know your Rule Britannia
as you ought, and whether you sincerely feel
that we are the " dread and envy" of every
foreign community on the face of the earth.
No, sir, you won't do for me—it may be
disagreeable to you to know it—but you
won't.

Why do I write to you, then? For three
reasons. First, and foremost, to see whether
you can be fair enough to both sides to print
something which is not written by one of
your own set. Secondly, to perform an
entirely new literary feat, in the character of
correspondent to a journal, by writing a
letter to an Editor which doesn't begin by
flattering him. Thirdly, and lastly, to show
you the results to which your precious
modern principles have led, and will continue
to lead, by quoting the last new example of
the invasion of the execrable foreign element,
as now exhibited every night, not far from
you, at the West End of the Strand. There
are my reasons; and here is my letter.
Listen to the first, if you can. Print the
last, if you dare.

I have been, for some time, prepared
for a great deal in the way of desertion of
national principle. When beards (which you
recommended) began to grow on British
faces—when shoeblacks (whom you
encouraged) began to ply in British streets—
when the word " entrée" appeared among
the chops and steaks of British taverns; and
when foreign opera companies could sing at
playhouse prices on the British stage, and
not be hooted off it—I was proof, as l fondly
imagined, against any additional feeling of
surprise at any additional foreign innovation.
But, I was mistaken; and I don't mind
acknowledging it. Much as I was prepared
for, I was not prepared, sir, for MR. BENJAMIN
WEBSTER'S NEW ADELPHI THEATRE.

I shall probably be very severe in the
course of this letter; but I will endeavour to
be reasonable and just at the same time. In
writing of Mr. Webster's Innovation (for in
the good old English sense of the word it is
not a Theatre at all), I will bear lightly on
the architect, Mr. T. H. Wyatt. I will assume
that when he received his commission, it was
saddled with certain conditions, which he
was bound to fulfil, and did fulfil, as an
honest man. I will even endeavour to write
of Mr. Webster himself more in sorrow than
in anger, when I come to the personal part
of the subject, so far as he is concerned.
First of all, however, I must take care to be
general, before I become particular (there
are people out of your literary set, sir, who
understand the art of writing, though they
seldom care to practise it)—I must establish
my principle and state my case, using a new
paragraph for the purpose, and making it a
short one. You see I know all about it,
although, I thank Heaven, I am not a literary
man.

My principle is, That the English public
does not want to be made comfortable when
it goes to the Theatre; That this peculiarity
marks the great distinction between a British
audience and a French audience; And that
a manager who gives to the modest Englishman,
who has not asked for it, the comfortable
seat which the arrogant Frenchman has
insisted on having long since, is a manager
who gratuitously breaks down a grand
social distinction between France and Great
Britain.

My case is, That Mr. Benjamin Webster
has committed this grave patriotic offence at
The New Adelphi Theatre.

Now let us be moderate—let us be
philosophic— let us have this out logically by all
manner of means. The English public does
not want to be made comfortable when it
goes to the Theatre. Is there any man in
his senses who doubts this? Let him, in
that case, remember the Old—yes, the fine,
old, genuine, British Adelphi Theatre, now