Mr. Leonhard, who has translated several celebrated English plays, such as “The School for Scandal,” and some others, lives here as a private person, instructing Germans in English, and Englishmen in German, with great ability.  He also it is who writes the articles concerning England for the new Hamburgh newspaper, for which he is paid a stated yearly stipend.  I may add also, that he is the master of a German Freemasons’ lodge in London, and representative of all the German lodges in England—­an employment of far more trouble than profit to him, for all the world applies to him in all cases and emergencies.  I also was recommended to him from Hamburgh.  He is a very complaisant man, and has already shown me many civilities.  He repeats English poetry with great propriety, and speaks the language nearly with the same facility as he does his mother language.  He is married to an amiable Englishwoman.  I wish him all possible happiness.  And now let me tell you something of the so often imitated, but perhaps inimitable

Vauxhall.

I yesterday visited Vauxhall for the first time.  I had not far to go from my lodgings, in the Adelphi Buildings, to Westminster Bridge, where you always find a great number of boats on the Thames, which are ready on the least signal to serve those who will pay them a shilling or sixpence, or according to the distance.

From hence I went up the Thames to Vauxhall, and as I passed along I saw Lambeth; and the venerable old palace belonging to the archbishops of Canterbury lying on my left.

Vauxhall is, properly speaking, the name of a little village in which the garden, now almost exclusively bearing the same name, is situated.  You pay a shilling entrance.

On entering it, I really found, or fancied I found, some resemblance to our Berlin Vauxhall, if, according to Virgil, I may be permitted to compare small things with great ones.  The walks at least, with the paintings at the end, and the high trees, which, here and there form a beautiful grove, or wood, on either side, were so similar to those of Berlin, that often, as I walked along them, I seemed to transport myself, in imagination, once more to Berlin, and forgot for a moment that immense seas, and mountains, and kingdoms now lie between us.  I was the more tempted to indulge in this reverie as I actually met with several gentlemen, inhabitants of Berlin, in particular Mr. S—­r, and some others, with whom I spent the evening in the most agreeable manner.  Here and there (particularly in one of the charming woods which art has formed in this garden) you are pleasingly surprised by the sudden appearance of the statues of the most renowned English poets and philosophers, such as Milton, Thomson, and others.  But, what gave me most pleasure was the statue of the German composer Handel, which, on entering the garden, is not far distant from the orchestra.

This orchestra is among a number of trees situated as in a little wood, and is an exceedingly handsome one.  As you enter the garden, you immediately hear the sound of vocal and instrumental music.  There are several female singers constantly hired here to sing in public.