We were fortunate in seeing one of the great dramatic performers of Germany, Emile Devrient. The play was one of the Princess Amelia's; a tale of domestic sorrow, as I ascertained by my interpreters. There was no scenic effect, no dramatic contrivance to aid it. The scene was not once shifted during the play. Devrient seemed to me, as far as I could judge merely from his action, expression, and voice, to deserve the applauses showered on him. The playing was all natural, and the voices of the women marvellously sweet. Have I never yet remarked to you the sweet, low tone of the German woman's voice? From the cultivated actress to your chambermaid, it is a musical pleasure to hear them speak. Is it an atmospheric effect, or the breath of a placid temper? The latter, I thought, when, a moment since, my inkstand was overset, and the girl summoned to repair the mischief held up her hands, smiled, and uttered, in a lute-like tone, a prolonged g—u—t! (good!)
We dined to-day at Mr. Köck's. He is an eminent banker here, and, from his extensive English connexions, is in some sort compelled to be a general receiver of the Continental tourists. We do not bank with him, and therefore have not this
