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pertinacious in his resolution; but I could not believe he would persist, until I saw the playbills advertising 'Laugh when you can' (the title a satire on the proceeding) and the 'Poor Soldier.' My father took the part of Gossamer; the players could hardly be persuaded that he was in earnest, but the night arrived and they were obliged to dress for their parts. At seven o'clock the prompter went to my father's dressingroom, knocked, and inquired, "Sir, shall I ring in the music? there is no one in the house!" "Certainly, sir; ring in the music," was his answer. The music was rung--the musicians

went into the orchestra and began to play. I went into my father's room, and informed him, that "there were two boys in the gallery and one man in the pit, and I would go into the boxes, that there might be an appearance in all." Accordingly I took my place in the centre box, and, with difficulty preserving a demure countenance, saw my father very gravely and indeed sternly begin the part of the laughter-loving Gossamer, indignant with the performers, who had difficulty in restraining their disposition to make a joke of the whole affair. A scene or two was quite sufficient, and I left the remaining three-quarters of the audience to their amusement, preferring a walk round the walls of "our good town" on a lovely summer evening, until the inhabitants should begin to light up. About nine o'clock I thought I would look in again, to see whether the farce was really going on. The play had just concluded, and the pit audience went out. The two boys remained in the gallery, evidently tired out with the dulness of their evening; but when the musicians reappeared in the orchestra, and began the overture of the afterpiece, it seemed as if their power of endurance was exhausted, and leaning over the gallery balustrade one of them, with a violent gesture of his arm, called out, "Oh, dang it, give over!" and both walked out, leaving the players to undress themselves and go out in their own clothes to see the illuminations.

For the Newcastle race week Charles Kemble and his wife were re-engaged, and the performances strengthened by my co-operation. In Venice Preserved' we were the Jaffier and Pierre; in' The Wonder,' with Charles Kemble as Don Felix, Mrs. C. Kemble as Violante, the part of Colonel Briton was studied for the occasion by me; and in 'The Rivals,' Charles Kemble

taking Falkland, and his wife Julia, I was the Captain Absolute. They were paid £100 for their services, and my father's profit on the week was very remunerative. From hence I returned to Holy Island and my father to Carlisle to open his new theatre, which was almost nightly filled and promised soon to reimburse him for his outlay. The time spent by him with advantage there brought us to the Newcastle Assizes; and here again my suggestion was adopted of engaging Young, with whom I promised to take the second characters. Emery, whose representation of a Yorkshireman was reality itself, was in the neighbourhood, and on very moderate terms, acting in the afterpieces, made up very attractive bills of fare. Young and Emery together in a country theatre was a very unusual display of histrionic talent-my local reputation in addition still further stimulated public curiosity. To' Hamlet' and 'Richard III.' (which Young had tried, not very successfully, against Kean's popularity in London) the houses were well filled, but were greatly exceeded by the receipts to the plays of The Iron Chest,' in which Young acted Sir Edward Mortimer, Emery Orson, and myself Wilford; 'The Revenge,' with Young in Zanga, and myself Don Alonzo; 'Education,' with Young and Emery in their original parts of Count Villars and the Yorkshire Farmer, myself taking the young man, whose name I forget: but I do not forget the lifelike acting of Emery, whose perfectly natural manner in his dialogue with me was so irresistible, that I could not suppress upon the stage the laughter he provoked. In the representation of countrymen, such as Farmer Ashfield, Zekiel Homespun, &c., he was unapproachable; in the part of Robert Tyke, in The School of Reform,' he rose to the display of terrific power. He has been followed by no one that could compare with him. Young was of course greatly and deservedly applauded: his grand declamatory style wound up the speeches of Zanga and Mortimer with telling effect. His Richard was not good, but his performance of Hamlet (a character that so few are found to agree upon) had as usual its very numerous admirers.

He gave me a little advice or caution, which was kindly meant, although it did not then carry conviction with it. "Young gentleman, you expend a degree of power unnecessarily; half the energy and fire that you employ would be more than sufficient. You will only waste your strength, if you do

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not bear this in mind." Experience justified his remark, and taught me the lesson of increasing the effect of force in acting by economising its use.

At Carlisle, where I had been inquired for, I repeated my favourite characters to audiences that tested the continent powers of the little building; but my father's outgoings having absorbed his receipts, he was in perplexity and embarrassment how to reach Leicester, and how to find a company to act there with him. In the very nick of time the Haymarket Theatre suddenly closed, and left open to his choice several very valuable performers, poor Tokely among them, a stroke of chance that confirmed him in his Micawber confidence that "something must turn up." Still the ready funds were wanting-and when, to my inquiry what was his immediate need, he told me that £10 would be everything to him at that moment, I astonished and delighted him by producing £20, out of £30 which I had saved from my weekly allowance. He set out in joyful expectation of good receipts in the public weeks (as races, fairs, &c., were termed) at Leicester, and left me to conclude a most successful campaign at Carlisle and carry on the company to Dumfries, where I acted a fortnight to full houses. Our corps were few in number, several having been draughted off to Leicester, and our stock of plays was therefore limited, but the attraction was so uniformly good, that a night closed would have been so much money refused. All our available plays were arranged; but for one night there was none within our scanty company's means. It occurred to me that all the players had acted in 'The Foundling of the Forest,' and sending for the prompter to ascertain it, I desired him to bring me the book that I might study Florian for the occasion. "Sir, there is no book," was his answer. This seemed checkmate, but from having got up the play at Newcastle, and having been present several times at its performance three years before, I recollected much of the part; and observing to him that as the players would be able to repeat to me their cues (ie., the ends of my speeches to them), I would answer for managing it, and ordered the play to be announced. At rehearsal I found there was no hitch; numerous places were taken in the boxes, and all went off with great applause from a very full attendance.

My father now changed places with me, he coming to the public weeks at Dumfries and I proceeding to Leicester, where I was to act a month and close the season. Fortune seemed still to be on my side, and the whole period of my stay there was one unbroken course of prosperous work. It was during my sojourn here that a young actress, who had been a great favourite in Dublin, made her appearance in London at Covent Garden, and at once united all voices in her praise. Her beauty, grace, simplicity, and tenderness were the theme of every tongue. Crowds were nightly disappointed in finding room in the theatre to witness her enchanting personations. Juliet, Belvidera, Mrs. Beverley, Mrs. Haller, were again realities upon the scene, attested with enthusiasm by the tears and applauding shouts of admiring thousands. The noble pathos of Siddons' transcendent genius no longer served as the grand commentary and living exponent of Shakespeare's text, but in the native elegance, the feminine sweetness, the unaffected earnestness and gushing passion of Miss O'Neill the stage had received a worthy successor to her.

My directions were, in leaving Leicester, to bring my two sisters, who had been several years at Miss Linwood's school there, home with me. They were accordingly the companions of my journey to Newcastle, where a suite of rooms on the first floor of a house in Pilgrim Street, next door to the Queen's Head Hotel, had been taken for us. My father joined us here. I should not be so particular in noticing the precise locality of our new dwelling, but for an incident that left its impress vividly on my memory. One afternoon-it was a Saturdaymy elder sister had retired to lie down in her bedroom for relief from a distracting headache. My father and self were seated after dinner at table, writing letters. The streets were empty, for a storm such as I have rarely seen was tearing through them with hurricane violence. With a bright fire in the grate and a decanter of port wine before us, we might well have supposed ourselves secure from any inconveniences of the tempest, though the pavement was actually flooded with the torrents pouring down, and tiles and slates were hurled through the air by the fury of the gale. A twofold evidence was this day given of our lives' uncertainty. A tremendous crash, that shook the whole house as if it were tumbling

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in ruin, startled us from our seats; the room was instantly filled with thick dust and smoke, out of which we lost no time in escaping. I rushed into my sister's room, and lifting her from her bed hurried her down stairs into the hall passage, where all the inmates of the house, servants, &c., pale and out of breath, were assembled in fearful consternation. Hurried questions were passed: "What is it?" "Are we safe?" "The roof has given way!" "Are all here ?" At once the mistress of the house shrieked out, "My bairns! my bairns!" and darted with me up the stairs to the room above that in which my father and I had been sitting. We flung open the door; the chimney had fallen in, breaking down the roof, crushing into the room below one whole side of the flooring of the attic, and dividing the room into two triangular spaces; in the one nearest the door was a large old mahogany table with two flaps reaching nearly to the ground. Beneath this table, in the midst of all the wreck and rubbish, were the two children. The innocent little creatures, ignorant of the danger they had escaped, were playing together. The mother seized one and I the other, and with full hearts we carried them down to the lower storey. I never can forget the emotion of that poor mother. Some friendly neighbours accommodated our unhoused hosts for the night, and we took refuge in the hotel next door until we could find a home in more private apartments.

A domestic imbroglio now arose that altered the current in which my life had hitherto run. A collision of opinions. between my father and myself on the subject of some engagements in the theatre, to which I took well-founded exceptions, left me no alternative, as I thought, but to withdraw from the embarrassing position in which such arrangements would have placed me, and "seek my fortunes where they would be kinder." I would have made, and indeed tendered, sacrifices to avoid this separation; but my father was inflexible in adhering to measures which I conceived in every way objectionable. On the strength of the overtures previously made to me by the Bath manager, I wrote to him that I was now at liberty to engage, and after a brief negotiation it was agreed that the difference between us in regard to the pecuniary amount, for which we severely contended, should be made