To reproduce recent trials would be a
hardly warrantable thing. The actual participators in them would have
a right to object (delighted though many of them would be). Vain,
then, is my dream of theatres invigorated by the leavings of the law-
courts. On the other hand, for the profit of the law-courts, I have a
quite practicable notion. They provide the finest amusement in London,
for nothing. Why for nothing? Let some scale of prices for admission
be drawn up--half-a-guinea, say, for a seat in the well of the court,
a shilling for a seat in the gallery, five pounds for a seat on the
bench.
Then, I dare swear, people would begin to realise how fine the
amusement is.
WORDS FOR PICTURES
`HARLEQUIN'
A SIGN-BOARD, PAINTED ON COPPER, SIGNED
`W. EVANS, LONDON' CIRCA 1820
Harlequin dances, and, over the park he dances in, surely there is
thunder brooding. His figure stands out, bright, large, and fantastic.
But all around him is sultry twilight, and the clouds, pregnant with
thunder, lower over him as he dances, and the elms are dim with
unusual shadow. There is a tiny river in the dim distance. Under one
of the nearest elms you may descry a square tomb, topped with an urn.
What lord or lady underlies it? I know not. Harlequin dances.
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