Most of these distorted views of English life originate with the French with whom we have had most intercourse, and who ought to know us best; but our German and Austrian friends, the dramatic caricaturists, have a very hard hit at us now and then. Only last month we were attracted to the Carl Theatre, in Vienna, by one little line in a play-bill, which announced a new piece, the English title of which is, “The Benefit Night.” Here is the line:--

~=Lord Pudding, ein reisender Englander Hr. Heese.=~ Lord Pudding, a Travelling Englishman Mr. Heese.

In rigid obedience to the law, which has impressed the names of eatables upon the eaters thereof, the author had christened his “pock-pudding-Englisher” (to borrow a pleasant periphrasis from Scotland), out of the pot. Nevertheless “The Benefit Night”--in which we think we descry some reflection of a very good French vaudeville--is written with considerable cleverness and wit. The plot was chiefly evolved from the endeavours of a manager to obtain the assistance of certain eminent “stars” of the profession for his benefit. He first presented himself to a great singer, who was, of course, afflicted with a cold, but who was at length frightened into voice by hearing that a rival had already agreed to sing his part, and by an assurance from the manager that the new singer had already taken everybody by storm at the rehearsal. A great tragedian the manager won by flattery; “the food of gods” being the only thing worthy the acceptance of so august a personage; and a dancer he bribed by assuring her that the wealthy Englishman, “Lord Pudding,” would be in the house, especially to fall in love with her. He also promised a troop of experienced claqueurs to applaud her new “pas.”

We were introduced to Lord Pudding, as he appeared while indulging in the singular fancy of taking a lesson in Elocution from a German actor! His personal appearance was wonderful to behold. He was much stuffed out with wadding to increase his natural proportions, and his dress was such as the tailors--not only of Pall-Mall and St. James’s Street, but of any English extraction or habitation whatsoever--would see with amaze. It was composed of a blue dress coat, with white buttons, a red waistcoat, nankeen tights, shoes of polished leather, and long brass spurs. His neck-kerchief was a bright blue, carrying the eye pleasantly up to a very white hat with an imperceptible brim. The author appeared to have studied the manners of our aristocracy with exceeding diligence; for, to the usual peculiarities which may be considered the “stock” of Foreign theatricals, he added some strikingly original features. Lord Pudding was, of course, a lover, and of course an unsuccessful one: he was jilted by the French dancer. When he danced he was made to tumble; when he saluted a lady he gave his lips a loud smack. He entered a room like a whirlwind, and between his paroxysms of “fuss” our usual friendly salutation “Gottam” was repeated many times; to the enthusiastic delight of the audience, who believed it to be a polished sort of “How-d’ ye-do?” He was quite the Clown to the Ring; and had the long pockets--in which that gentleman usually searches for the chalk when it is required for the tight-rope--well-filled. Nor was Pudding stingy with his money. Despite his hard usage by the ballet-lady, he was liberal to the manager. Though wrathful, he was of easy faith; being readily imposed upon, and peculiarly sensible to flattery, by which means he was induced to take three boxes for the benefit, viz., one for himself; one for the policeman who had been in constant attendance on him since his arrival, to restrain his inveterate propensity for knocking down the lieges of the city (so intense was his love for “the boaks;”) the third for the exclusive occupation of ----, his boulle-dog! One or two little touches, which distinguished his lordship, showed that the actor was, at least, an observer. Such were, the hat pushed back from the crimson forehead, the heavy rolling walk, and a strenuous objection to be kissed--all particularly English.

Other specimens of the genus we had previously seen, however, showed that Lord Pudding was a very fair example of an English gentleman on the German stage.

We cannot but believe that though amusing, these caricatures--exhibited as they are to ignorant and prejudiced minds--tend to confound the just relations between one people and another. Perhaps friendly Excursions on both sides of the channel may do much to lessen these absurdities. Unfortunately--as recent publications too well prove--the mistaken estimate of the English is by no means corrected by the graver works now and then put forth by distinguished men. Highly as we esteem M. Guizot and some Frenchmen of real attainments, who have written upon England, we have never taken up a book on the subject without painful disappointment, or without seeing in it errors almost equal to M. Ledru Rollin’s more recent incongruities.

To the honour of our modern English authors be it spoken, they have been zealous to avoid such ridiculous mistakes. It is true that the harmless old legends respecting Foreigners--that nine-tenths of them are Frenchmen; that all are of very slender proportions in figure; that their staple diet is frogs; and that, despite Alison’s and every other History of Europe, they very much prefer to dance than to fight; together with other popular delusions--still linger in the minds of some of our bold peasantry and milder cockneys; but it is to be hoped, after many years of peace and better sense, that we may now claim for the majority of even an under-educated British public, a more correct knowledge of the personnel and manners of our Continental neighbours, than our Continental neighbours manifestly have of us. The very foible of Lord Pudding himself--that of being a travelling Englishman--would defend him from such blunders as the literary Frankenstein who gave life to the monster, has fallen into. Travelling Englishmen are common abroad, who speak foreign languages, and understand foreign customs, extremely well. There are many of our travellers whom we should be very glad to improve: and thanks to railways, and to our possession of some--though not very much--of the wealth which the foreign dramatic and fictionist artists so liberally attribute to us, we are rapidly polishing off the rust of national prejudice, and ignorance of our brethren abroad. Should an English author or actor be guilty of such laughable mistakes about foreigners as those we have pointed out, woe unutterable would alight on his ignorant head.

Every sort of attraction which brings people of different nations, and even of different counties, together--whether it be a German wool fair, a music meeting, or a Swiss shooting-match--smooths away the acerbities of caste, and strengthens the sympathies of individuals. Let us, therefore, hope that the myriads of exotics which will be attracted next year to the Great Industrial Conservatory in Hyde Park, will receive new vigour and fresh intelligence from their temporary transplantation; that they will learn that Englishmen and English women are not quite the monstrosities they at present appear to believe them. Foreigners will then have the advantage of seeing us at home, and in a mass; and will thenceforth cease to judge us by those follies which they observe in a few idle tourists from these islands. They will see us as we are, reciprocating what we believe to be the general desire here, in reference to them.

THE STEAM PLOUGH.

When the first experiments were being made with the Hay-making Machine, now commonly used in some parts of the country, it happened that Shelley, Mrs. Shelley, and Peacock, the author of “Crotchet Castle,” “Headlong Hall,” and other works of pungent erudition, were walking through a field where this strange-looking machine was in operation. Instead of the pleasant sight of the rustic men and women with their forks and rakes--a scene so full of indelible associations, from childhood upwards--they saw this quaint monster rolling round the field over the long swathes of hay, its rotatory forks, or rather fingers on wheels, flinging up the hay on all sides as it went spinning onwards. Meditating on the effect, if successful, this would, some day, have on the vast numbers of poor people in England, to say nothing of the summer invasions of Irish--whose sole dependence for the year is the money they make in the English hay-season--Shelley and the others walked onwards, and left the field. Presently they met a clownish fellow, who was looking intently at the whirling and whisking performance of the round-about machine in the hay-field. Shelley, having no objection to find, in the then adjusted state of society with regard to the labouring classes, that this machine was a failure, said to the clown, in a sort of half contemptuous tone--“Now, tell me,--does that thing answer at all?” The fellow looked Shelley full in the face--“It answers a deuced deal too well,” said he; “I wish it was working in the inside of him that made it!”