The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1867-08-28
LONDO fMUSEMENTS.

London, that vast stOrehOuhe ol misery, does
not contain being more miserable than the
French tourist. The Frenchman, as rule,
does not travel beyond the limits Of the French
language; but sometimes an adventurous in
dividral determines that he win visit England:
his friends attempt to dissuade him, but in
vain. they represent to him the absence of the
sun the eternity of the rain, the perils of
bvpoobondria and suicide. He buttons up his
coat to his chin, strikes his breast with his
extended palm (like the gorilla, French YER
sion> and declares with the air of man des-
tined for Timbuctoo, that he has pledged him
calf that he must 90. Stirred by speech on
tbe left or an article by De Girardin, he de-
sires to visit free people, and to observe
with his own eyes those institutions which
are envied and admired by the Liberals of
Paris
Armed with huge umbrella and Guido de
Londres, he finds his way at once to Leicester
Square in obedience to a mysterious but un-
devating law. In Paris, London is celebrated
for its squares. If you say "How beautiful
they are, the Boulevards ~ the polite Parisian
responds "Ah, mon Dieu, but we have them
not your squares" No doubt as our friend
is being jolted along to his place of destiua-
ton, he pictures to himself a square sur
rounded by beautiful buildings and enclosing
a lovely garden in its midst. Shady walks,
fountain, marble nymphs pretty nurse-maids,
innocent children, lovers walking in we'll
assorted pairs, and perhaps, who knows
some charming woman, with blue eyes,
of course, walking there alOne--the woman
who is not loved, who is not understood,
who hates her husband, as all properly
constituted French heroines do, and who
sghs for some cOngenial heart. But
he is rudely awakened by finding himself in
Leicester Square ITSELF Around him are
dingy dwelling houses, and still dingier hotels.
The tawdry Alhambra attracts, but does not
please the eye The centre of the square is
covered with a rank, unwholesome looking
grass, and is evidently the dust-heap of the
neighborhood, while a mutilated equestrian
statue prepares him for the mOnstrOsities of
British art.
He takes up his lodgings in very bad and
dear hotel. He pays for his eia ordinGire the
price of Uin tin de Bordeaux. He sits down to
a table d'h6te in company with few dull
counting house clerks, and with gentlemen of
questionable, or, rather, unquestionabe char
acter. They attempt to draw him into
dOminoes or billiards; he resists and flies
into the gloomy streets; he strolls up
and down Regent street for little while but
presently the shops are closed, the street is
inferred in darkness, and phantoms which
resemble his own cOuutrywomen, pursue him
through the shades. He rushes to the opera,
and is refused admission because he is not
dressed in black; to the House of Commons,
but cannot get in without an order; to the
theatre, where he does not understand word;
he searches in vain for the brilliant cafes which
his mind associates with great cities. He re-
turns to his hotel detected, and foul insects
prey upon him as he sleeps.
The next day he discovers a square which
more nearly realizes his beau ideal. The blue
eyed goddess is there. He tries to enter, but
the gate is locked; these agreeable retreats are
reserved for people who have houses in the
square. Perhaps, though he cannot go in,
the goddess may come out; he Ogles her. she
calmly blows the nose of her youngest child.
He tries the streets again; attempts to
fdaer but is iostled by sturdy Britons who
pass him at the rate of four miles an hour; he
loses his way; becomes entangled in a laby-
rinth of hideous Streets is pointed at, screamed
at, followed with laughter by dirty children;
at sharp corner he finds himself in the mid
die of group, is hustled and deprived of his
watched and chain, his handkerchief, his breast
pin, and his pocket-book Overcome by
despair, he leans against lamp-post, and
abandOns himself to memories of happier
days; a policeman touches him on the shoul-
He goes to the Park at 3 o'clock. 1t is the
wrong hour, and there is not soul there.
Finally he puts himself under the charge of a
Udlet de place, hastens through Westminster
Abbey, ST.. Pauls, the Tower, the Thames
Tunnel, the National Gallery, and the British
Museum, and returns to Paris, where he
relates to his contferes of the ca6 his impress
sions of English life, and his imaginary bOnneS
fortunes with young miss.
The American who visits Europe should
regard London simply as museum, a manu-
factory, a dock-yard; as an emporium of in
dustry; as a monument of ancient history. i
he wishes to amuse himself he should go al
once to Paris, or should try to enter Londor
society. Amusements there are in London
and such as there are shall be described. Bu
English life is, properly speaking, life of in
teriOrs, while Paris life is a fete out of doors
In Paris the man of pleasure requires purse
and that is all. In London he must brinl
letters of introduction (Gnd purse), or h,
will fall under the blue devils in month.
What are the amusements of the man o
fashion He resides in London three months
only in the year-May, June, July. He rise
late and breakfasts at his lodgings or the club
His table is covered with small pink notes
highly scented, or huge quadrilateral enve
lopes, enclosing gilded cards. After breakfas
he writes his answers. at twelve o'clock hi
groom comes round with his horse. He ride
in Rotton Row till two, now joining one group
now another. He is then carried off to luu
cheon. In the afternoon he pays his mornin
calls, looks in at his tailor's, his jewellers,
his bank, and perhaps at an apreS-midi; to tn
Park again at six; returns to his lodgings,
dressed by his valet and is whirled off to
dinner party, to the opera, to ball, an
usually cOntrives to get to bed by five, or, a