would be the nautical drama at the Theatres
Royal Plymouth or Portsmouth. No doubt
the upright tar would be brought on,— the
noble being who flies to the aid of females—
who will have a small armoury of sentiments,
songs, and oaths, and who will be port
admiral, and marry the young woman of rank
whom he has saved from drowning, before the
end of the piece. Terrible infliction he must
have been for our fathers, that model of
seaman manufactured by Mr. Thomas Morton,
and it must be accounted one of the blessings
of our enlightened age, that these noble
creatures have been long since dismissed the
service theatrical.

All through this nautical drama are grave
and serious seamen, together with a comic
tar, who is regarded with immense favour by
his brethren off the stage. But over the plot
unhappily hangs a cloud. What the midshipman
has to do with the tars, or both with
the heroine— or, indeed, who is actually
the midshipman: the person who seems to
come nearest to that idea being of very
mature years— such questions it is indeed
hopeless to resolve.

Finally came the great feature of the
night. Mademoiselle Amalie of the Theatres
Imperial in many countries, and first dancer
at the court of Selters-Vasser, would perform
pas-seul, ballet d'action, daring entrechats,
in that daring piquant style which had won
her such fame at the Imperial Theatres. Poor
soul! She must have worked at many
theatres— Imperial and otherwise— worked until
her poor limbs had stiffened beneath her. It
was desperate labour that ballet d'action. She
might have been pirouetting in a ploughed
field, with such toil did she heave her
heavy form upward. Amalie of the
Imperial Theatres and the Court of H.S.H.
the Grand Herzog of Selters-Vasser, this
should, in common humanity, be thy last
campaign!

The tars were delighted. They should
have called for a hornpipe; but, perhaps,
had mercy on Amalie, now showing painful
signs of distress. It was enough for her
to have struggled through the ballet d'action.
To say the truth, Amalie's person was,
scarcely shaped for that profession. She was
altogether of the earth, earthy.

French melodrama, French comic-piece (for
the midshipman came from that country,
too) and French ballet! Still the French
craze! The old tune!

All over and emptied before ten the
sailors gone home to their ships— the citizens
to their houses,— poor ancient Amalie to her
lodging— before ten.

At the great fair time in Amsterdam
many shows find their way to the town.
They are of the booth order chiefly; the
usual ruck of menageries, wax-work, strolling
drama, and the like. But there is one horse-
riding establishment that comes annually,
and has au open plot of ground, market-place
in business season— just under a
church and on the edge of a canal— kept
for itself, and is certainly a praise-worthy
institution. It might, perhaps, put
to shame American troupes and
bare-backed steeds, and daring acts. They have
a noble Pavilion, much on the transatlantic model,
with some dozen performances
daily, pavilion on each occasion being
filled to overflowing. Not being a riding-man
himself, our brother delights in these
equestrian feats.

When Mr. W. B. Childers takes that
double sommersault backwards—a feat never
before attempted in any age or country the
pipe falls from his (our Dutch brother's)
mouth with wonder. His little eyes distend
as Mademoiselle Victorine goes through her
graceful act on a highly-trained courser, and he
is utterly bewildered when the bodily
contortionists perform their astounding feats.
There is literally not room to swing a cat at
one of these performances.

Mynheer goes again and again, and brings
his women-kind with him. It is a great
season altogether.

Up at La Haye of the sweet water, they
have a charming little French Theatre, not
a stone's throw from those green groves
before spoken of. So, of those summer evenings,
the pleasure-seeker may take his after-dinner
stroll among the trees, and then turn him
back leisurely and come in time for the little
French opera, just as the overture is beginning.
His Majesty and august court deigns
occasionally to visit the little theatre.
Persons of quality have their loges there, and
altogether it is a pleasant little place. It is,
what may be called, playing at operaboxes.

Sparkling French Operettas, M. Adolphe
Adam's "Châlet," and the famous " Postillon,"
are very prettily played:

"Qu'il est bon! qu'il est bon!
Qu'il est bon!
Ce brave postillon."

Such a grateful refrain the stranger may
take home with him to his caravanserai—
chanting it softly as he goes along to his
chamber: " O! qu'il est bon, qu'il est bon,"
&c.

At Rotterdam, too, Polyglot city, with
Babylonian tinge, far greater things are
attempted. Of Sunday nights, monthly,
grand masqued balls! nothing short of that.
Whither resort English, French, and
Hollanders, who fuse into the true polynational
pandemonium. The whirl, dance, and clash
of music, are in the true Parisian and
London pandemonia style. Against
deadwalls are to be seen ancient fragments of
posters, announcing, in the old red characters,
that M. Jullien would be there with
his unrivalled baud. All couched, however,
in the Dutch tongue, even to the glowing
description, setting out poetically the