I had been a week in my new home without seeing Martinelli.  He came on a Monday morning, and I asked him to dine with me.  He told me that he had to go to the Museum, and my curiosity to see the famous collection which is such an honour to England made me accompany him.  It was there that I made the acquaintance of Dr. Mati, of whom I shall speak in due course.

At dinner Martinelli made himself extremely pleasant.  He had a profound knowledge of the English manners and customs which it behoved me to know if I wished to get on.  I happened to speak of the impoliteness of which I had been guilty in paying a gaming debt in gold instead of paper, and on this text he preached me a sermon on the national prosperity, demonstrating that the preference given to paper shews the confidence which is felt in the Bank, which may or may not be misplaced, but which is certainly a source of wealth.  This confidence might be destroyed by a too large issue of paper money, and if that ever took place by reason of a protracted or unfortunate war, bankruptcy would be inevitable, and no one could calculate the final results.

After a long discussion on politics, national manners, literature, in which subjects Martinelli shone, we went to Drury Lane Theatre, where I had a specimen of the rough insular manners.  By some accident or other the company could not give the piece that had been announced, and the audience were in a tumult.  Garrick, the celebrated actor who was buried twenty years later in Westminster Abbey, came forward and tried in vain to restore order.  He was obliged to retire behind the curtain.  Then the king, the queen, and all the fashionables left the theatre, and in less than an hour the theatre was gutted, till nothing but the bare walls were left.

After this destruction, which went on without any authority interposing, the mad populace rushed to the taverns to consume gin and beer.  In a fortnight the theatre was refitted and the piece announced again, and when Garrick appeared before the curtain to implore the indulgence of the house, a voice from the pit shouted, “On your knees.”  A thousand voices took up the cry “On your knees,” and the English Roscius was obliged to kneel down and beg forgiveness.  Then came a thunder of applause, and everything was over.  Such are the English, and above all, the Londoners.  They hoot the king and the royal family when they appear in public, and the consequence is, that they are never seen, save on great occasions, when order is kept by hundreds of constables.

One day, as I was walking by myself, I saw Sir Augustus Hervey, whose acquaintance I had made, speaking to a gentleman, whom he left to come to me.  I asked him whom he had been speaking to.

“That’s the brother of Earl Ferrers,” said he, “who was hanged a couple of months ago for murdering one of his people.”

“And you speak to his brother?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Is he not dishonoured by the execution of his relative?”