In a pretty piece at the Gymnase in Paris, where the Prime Minister of England unfortunately ruined himself by speculating in Railway shares, a thorough-going English servant appeared under that thorough-going English name Tom Bob--the honest fellow having been christened Tom, and born the lawful son of Mr. and Mrs. Bob. In an Italian adaptation of Dumas’ preposterous play of “KEAN,” which we once saw at the great Theatre of Genoa, the curtain rose upon that celebrated Tragedian, drunk and fast asleep in a chair, attired in a dark blouse fastened round the waist with a broad belt and a most prodigious buckle, and wearing a dark red hat of the sugar-loaf shape, nearly three feet high. He bore in his hand a champagne-bottle, with the label RHUM, in large capital letters, carefully turned towards the audience; and two or three dozen of the same popular liquor which we are nationally accustomed to drink neat as imported by the half-gallon, ornamented the floor of the apartment. Every frequenter of the Coal Hole Tavern in the Strand, on that occasion, wore a sword and a beard. Every English lady presented on the stage in Italy, wears a green veil; and almost every such specimen of our fair countrywomen carries a bright red reticule, made in the form of a monstrous heart. We do not remember to have ever seen an Englishman on the Italian stage, or in the Italian Circus, without a stomach like Daniel Lambert, an immense shirt-frill, and a bunch of watch-seals, each several times larger than his watch, though the watch itself was an impossible engine. And we have rarely beheld this mimic Englishman, without seeing present, then and there, a score of real Englishmen, sufficiently characteristic and unlike the rest of the audience, to whom he bore no shadow of resemblance. These edifying pictures of the English are not complete without the finishing touches of grotesque absurdity vouchsafed by the actors. A few winters ago we were enticed into the little theatre of Coblentz by the information paraded in large placards on the doors that it was “very well warmed;” that Auber’s opera of Fra Diavolo was to be played; and that the part of Lord Allcash was to be personated by a distinguished comic actor. Even while we write, his lordship is before our mind’s eye, blazingly costumed in a green coat, blue inexpressibles, top-boots, a brace of yellow handkerchiefs sticking out of either pocket, a couple of watches, and a hat with a feather in it! Yet, if they do not know something of the ordinary appearance of an English traveller in Coblentz, where should they? He must be at least as well known there, as in Devonshire or the Isle of Wight.