We have spent the two last days in a very frisky way, my dear Bob. We have done nothing less than go and sleep one night in London, for the purpose of seeing the new theatre at Covent Garden; hearing the play is a thing nobody has done there yet, for, as you will know if you ever see newspapers, the mob are making open war upon the managers, to force them to give up an addition they have been absurd enough to make to the prices of admission, and this war the Cockney nobility carry on most steadily. As soon as the curtain rises the whole of the audience begin in chorus whistling, roaring, hissing, ringing great bells, blowing French horns, and sounding catcalls, through the whole performance. Of course not a word is heard of what passes on the stage, and all you have to amuse you is the pantomime and a few battles-royal in the pit, which are carried on between some of the amiable black-faced blackguards who sit in it, much to the delight of all the rest.