quarantine island in the bay. Her husband accompanied her; and much they enjoyed themselves. There was nobody in the hospital but themselves, and excellent attendants, who made them thoroughly comfortable. The patient was not at all ill when the one pustule had fairly come out. She had taken a favourite piece of fancy-work; and they carried some of their best-beloved poets, and a good novel or two; and they sat in the verandah all the lovely summer day, or strolled in the garden, and looked out on the sea. I need not say she had been vaccinated.
When we arrive at removing the first case of smallpox in our cities in this vigilant way, and when we reduce the disease to something like this one pustule, by universal vaccination, backed by good general sanitary habits, we may regard the malady as gaily as my American friends did. It makes one’s heart ache to think of the contrast between their feelings and those of the families of the sixty or seventy patients in London who are being carried to the grave week by week, leaving three or four times as many more tossing in the intolerable fever, and suffering under the horrible eruption which is more repugnant to our feelings than any other disease but leprosy. And we are conscious of a deeper disgust and humiliation under the calamity than our fathers felt, because we well know that this is no “visitation of God,” and that it has no more business among us at this day than leprosy.
From the Mountain.
MY NEIGHBOUR AT THE THEATRE.
I have a grievance, one of old standing too, and it is a wonder therefore that I have not long ere this rushed into print with the true British feeling that a course of letter-press is the only system of blood-letting applicable to such a case. A “letter to the ‘Times’” has many a time arrested a fever, if indeed it has not in some instances prevented a suicide. Pray let me therefore vent my feelings this once, and consider that in reading my grumblings you may have warded off from me an attack of brain-fever. My grievance is this; I can’t, that is, I am not allowed, to enjoy the theatres as I would. I am an old playgoer. I was brought up from my early childhood to believe in theatrical amusements, both my parents having been enthusiastic admirers of this kind of entertainment, and intense believers in Edmund Kean, the Kembles, and other celebrities of their day. Do I not remember how often I have heard them speak of going twenty nights in succession to see Grimaldi in the pantomime of “Mother Goose,” the first pantomime, as I have been told, which had a comic opening? But all this by the way—I speak of my theatrical experiences, not of those of my forefathers! I have stated my grievance to be, that, with a strong predisposition for the drama, I am not allowed to enjoy it, and why? Why, because I am always annoyed by my neighbour! Now I speak from an experience of a good many years, during several of which I was a constant attendant at the different theatres from pure love of the thing, and during the last few years of which I have been equally assiduous in my visits from severe compulsion, having been engaged to “do” the theatres for a weekly paper of great celebrity and increasing circulation. Throughout the whole period, however, I can safely say that two out of three of my evenings, so far as enjoyment goes, have been marred by my neighbour. Are all theatre-goers equally afflicted, or is it a special ban upon me? My tormentors assume manifold forms of annoyance; so manifold, indeed, that I do not expect to be able to recollect each of the varieties, but pray bear in mind that, of each form I am going to instance, I have met with repeated examples. I go to see a favourite actor, Fechter or Charles Kean, in one of Shakspeare’s tragedies. I go early, and find myself seated next to an old gentleman evidently a devout admirer of the immortal bard, and well up in all the different readings of particular passages adopted by actors of my day, and also those of his younger days. Thinks I to myself, well, I am in luck to-night at all events, especially when the old gentleman says, “Now, young man, recollect, if you please, that, though it gives me great pleasure to chat with you before the curtain goes up, and the more so as I find you really seem to understand something about Shakspeare, and the way his text ought to be rendered, it will annoy me excessively if you make any remarks to me after the curtain is once up, till the act-drop descends.” I hasten of course to assure the old gentleman that his sentiments upon this point are in exact accordance with mine, and we are thereupon great friends. We are in the dress-circle, the curtain rises, and all is rapt attention for the first scene of “Hamlet,” which, as the Ghost appears almost immediately, soon becomes very exciting. While the two soldiers are speaking, I look with some uneasiness at four empty seats next to me, feeling sure that the “party” will arrive late, and in the midst of an interesting speech. The Ghost, however, arrives before them, and the whole scene passes off, with those benches yet remaining vacant. I begin to nourish a hope that they will remain so. Scene II. Enter the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, &c., &c. The King’s long introductory speech over, he reaches at length the words:
Ham.“But now, my Cousin Hamlet and my son,”
Ham. “A little more than kin, and less than kind.”
Ham. “A little more than kin, and less than k[Aside.
Box-keeper—Party for box 12, four seats in the front row.—[Bang, bang, go the seats]—Will you take a book of the play, sir?
Paterfamilias—Book of the play, let’s see; let’s see; no, no, got it in my library at home. Now Jane, you come and sit next me.
Jane—Oh, no, Pa; I think Tom would rather be next you.
The old Gentleman—Hush, hush!
Myself—Hush, hush, hush!
People in next box—Silence there.
Paterfamilias and Co. look rather frightened; soon, however, younger branches seem to recover, and when Mr. Kean is commencing:
“Oh that this too, too solid flesh would melt.”
The son inquires of his papa, quite audibly:
“Who is that short gentleman in black velvet, Pa?”
