ss people." So he invited me to a dinner at the Reform Club,
to meet a few friends. Among these was a Mr. Birch, son of the
celebrated Alderman Birch. He had directed the dinner, being a famous
_gourmet_, and Soyer had cooked it. That dinner cost my host far more
than he had made out of me. We had six kinds of choicest wines, which
impressed me _then_.

Mr. Birch was a man of literary culture, and we went deeply into books.
The next day he sent me a charming work which he had written on the
religious belief of Shakespeare, in which it was fairly proved that the
immortal bard had none. And I was so well pleased with England, that I
liked it better than any country I had ever visited.

In 1870, when I came to London, and found my character of "Hans
Breitmann" on three stages at once, I received, of course, a great deal
of attention. Somebody said to me, "Oh, of course; you come here well
known, and are made a great deal of." I replied, "Twenty years ago I
came to London without a single letter of introduction, and had only two
or three student friends, and received just as much kind hospitality." I
think that like generally finds its like, so long as it is honest and can
pay its bills.

I left Portsmouth for New York in a sailing-vessel or packet. I could
have returned by steamer, but preferred the latter, as I should now, if
there were any packets crossing the ocean. In old times travel was a
pleasure or an art; now it is the science of getting from place to place
in the shortest time possible. Hence, with all our patent Pullman cars
and their dentist's chairs, Procrustean sofas, and headlong passages, we
do _not_ enjoy ourselves as we did when the coach went on the road so
slowly as to allow us to see the country, when we halted often and long,
many a time in curious old villages. But "the idea of dragging along in
that way!" Well, and what, O tourist, dost thou travel _for_?

There was on the vessel in which I sailed, among the few passengers, Mrs.
and Mr. John Gilbert, a well-known dramatic couple, who were extremely
agreeable and genial, the husband abounding in droll reminiscences of the
stage; a merry little German musician named Kreutzer, son of the great
composer; and a young Englishwoman with a younger brother. I rather
doubted the "solidity" of this young lady. By-and-bye it was developed
that the captain was in love with her. Out of this, I have heard, came a
dreadful tragedy; for the love