melo-drama is worshipped here with as much pomp as in Paris. At the Surrey Theatre I wit nessed a ludicrous violation of the laws of costume: in a piece borrowed from one of the dramas of the Gaité or the Ambigu, of which Bayard was the hero the knight was attired in the uniform of an officer of hussars. The Surrey Theatre has this season engaged young Grimaldi, who, as the representative of the pantomimic clown, is worthy to succeed his celebrated father. An English gentleman of my acquaintance observed to me, that Grimaldi possessed a genius for grimace; but my friend, like the rest of his countrymen, occasionally abuses the word genius. Sadler's Wells Theatre, owing to the peculiarity of its construction and situation, admits of the exhibition of spectacles similar to the naumachiæ of the Romans. The space beneath the stage is filled with water, and forms, when required, a vast basin, suited to the representation of naval battles, &c. The minor theatres of London are chiefly frequented by the inhabitants of the districts in which they are situated; and they are, like all other places of public amusement, closed on Sunday. But the working classes of London are not more disposed than those of Paris, to devote the Sabbath to the observance of religious duties. The public houses in the suburbs of the capital, are, in moral England, found to be no less profitable than the establishments of the same kind in atheistical France. When English writers acknow ledge that the common people of France conduct themselves decorously in their recreations, they take care to add, that our gaiety is a gaiety by command, and is subject to police regulations, as our plays are to dramatic laws. I must confess that John Bull appears in most disadvantageous colours in the saturnalia of a fair. Owing to the outrages which were committed this year at Brook Green fair, the magistrates propose suppressing it for the future; but to effect this object, it will, probably, be requisite to employ armed force, for John Bull is very jealous of his privilege of being disorderly on these occasions, when he seems de: termined to indemnify himself for his habitual taciturnity. I did not neglect to visit Brook Green fair; but it would require the language of Tabarin to describe this scene of tumult and confusion, in which every mechanic, against whom one is jostled in the crowd, seems to have a volley of insolence at his tongue's end. I shall not attempt to give you any idea of the riotous public houses, the noisy mountebanks, the painted signs, representing living phenomena, and the booths for the display of jugglers, rope-dancers, &c. whose dirty tinsel dresses scarcely cover the ragged garments beneath them. My attention was for a few moments arrested by a group of young rustics, attired in dresses at once remarkable for elegance and simplicity, and decorated with numerous bows of ribbon. They had small gingling bells fastened to their knees and ancles. Some waved white handkerchiefs, and others wands They advanced in a regular step, forming a kind of graceful dance, and keeping time by striking their wands one against another. They reminded me of the morris-dancers alluded to by Shakspeare, and whom the Caledonian bard, in the Lady of the Lake, invites to the festivals of Stirling. They were, however, soon put to flight by a party of intoxicated and riotous fellows, who amused themselves by annoying the most peaceable part of the company who had been attracted to the fair. One of their favourite tricks seemed to be to pretend to tear people's clothes, by scratching them unawares with small rattles. But this must not be regarded as a picture of the true sons of Old England, and their cheerful rustic pastimes. In the vicinity of great towns, all the poetic simplicity which formerly distinguished the manners of the lower classes has now completely disappeared. The thirst of gain has destroyed the various gradations of society, and divided the nation into two great classes-the rich and the poor. All amiable intercourse between them seems to be at an end. The plodding spirit which every where prevails, excludes that sociability of feeling, without which no true pleasure can exist. When the higher classes of society in England evince their solicitude for the suppression of fairs, and other popular amusements, it is not through the dread of those outrages, which every friend to good order must naturally apprehend from the violence of a multitude more intent on riot than diversion. The Pharisees of the British aristo cracy pretend to be actuated by respect for public morals. But these, unfortunately, are the very men, who, as I have before observed, squander their money on Opera dancers, and fill the columns of the newspapers with the scandalous reports of crim. con. trials. From the first of May to the first of September, the inhabitants of London may enjoy a decorous spectacle at Vauxhall Gardens. Vauxhall very much resembles our Tivoli. It is less gay, certainly, but more magnificent. The illuminations, in particular, display truly oriental splendour. On entering the Gardens, the first object that attracts attention is a superb orchestra, which contains an organ, and on which the seats of the musicians and singers are ranged in a semi-circular form. In case of rain, the company withdraw to a spacious pavilion, which is decorated in a fantastic, but very splendid, style. The entertainments consist of a concert, various feats of jugglers and rope-dancers, and exhibitions of hydraulic mechanism in short, at Vauxhall Gardens, no pains seem to be spared to captivate all the senses at once. I visited Vauxhall at the latter end of June, and I saw a repetition of the fête in honour of the Duke of Wellington, which had been given on the 18th, the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo. The Duke seems, at present, to be extremely popular among his countrymen; but when I saw the conqueror of conquerors exhibited, at full length, over the doors of public houses, I was forcibly reminded of what Lord Byron says of the perishable glory of heroes. "Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, And still should be so, but that the tide is turn'd; 'Tis with our hero, quietly inurn'd; LETTER XL. TO M. A. THIERS. THERE are two theatres in London, which I hardly know how to describe to you, though the entertainments at each result wholly from the efforts of a single performer aided merely by a few whimsical disguises. The first is a little theatre, at which a Frenchman, named Alexandre, exercises his talent as a ventriloquist, with considerable ingenuity, and adds to it the illusion of his own personal metamorphoses. The English are much amused by his grimaces and lazzi; but I will give you a proof of my impartiality, by declaring my decided preference for Matthews, who, like Alexandre, entertains his |