sidering that "from the security of a full pit dunces might be criticks, cowards valiant, and prentices gentlemen."

Whether any such were concerned in the murder of my play, I am not certain; for I never endeavor'd to discover any one of its assassins; I cannot afford them a milder name, from their unmanly manner of destroying it. Had it been heard, they might have left me nothing to say to them. 'Tis true, it faintly held up its wounded head a second day, and would have spoke for mercy, but was not suffered. Not even the presence of a Royal Heir-apparent could protect it. But then I was reduced to be serious with them; their clamor, then, became an insolence, which I thought it my duty, by the sacrifice of any interest of my own, to put an end to. I therefore quitted the actor for the author, and stepping forward to the pit, told them, That since I found they were not inclin'd that this play should go forward, I gave them my word that after this night it should never be acted again: but that, in the meantime I hop'd they would consider in whose presence they were, and for that reason, at least, would suspend what further marks of their displeasure they might imagine I had deserved. At this there was a dead silence; and, after some little pause, a few civiliz'd hands signify'd their approbation. When the play went on I observ'd about a dozen persons, of no extraordinary appearance, sullenly walk'd out of the pit. After which, every scene of it, while uninterrupted,

met with more applause than my best hopes had expected. But it came too late: Peace to its Manes! I had given my word it should fall, and I kept it by giving out another play for the next day, though I knew the boxes were all let for the same again."

"Peace to its Manes" indeed. It was doubtless poor stuff, this Love in a Riddle, but good or bad, the public had resolved to have none of it, and there was an end to the matter. But the Beggar's Opera continued popular for many a day, and we can imagine the prosperous, illiterate John Rich, whom the success of the piece lifted from comparative poverty to affluence, telling his friends how he had been one of the first to discover its merits. Even managers are forgetful, and Rich was not less so than others of the same ilk. He was the son of Christopher Rich, and for many years enjoyed great celebrity as an effective pantomimist; indeed he seems to have been the first manager to put pantomine on a popular and respectable footing on the English stage. His Harlequins proved so attractive that he often drew the attention of play-goers from the legitimate drama, and, in his own curious way he even proved a rival of Garrick, who wrote of him :

"When Lun* appeared, with matchless art and whim,
He gave the power of speech to every limb;

Tho' mask'd and mute convey'd his quick intent,
And told in frolic gestures what he meant :
But now the motley coat and sword of wood
Require a tongue to make them understood."

*Rich used to appear in pantomime under the name of Mr. Lun.

His pantomime was, indeed, faultless, but not so his grammar or his general education. One of his peculiarities was to call everybody "Mister," and this habit once brought forth an unkind jest from the coarsest and most unkind of men, the mimic Foote. The latter on being addressed several times as "Mister," took Rich to task for his bad manners in not adding "Foote." Don't be angry," said the manager, "for I sometimes

forget my own name." "That's extraordinary," replied Foote, "for though I knew you could not write it, I did not suppose you could forget it."

12

WR

AN ACTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL.

E often hear the elderly play-goer speak lovingly of the "actors of the old school," deploring the fact that they are passing away, and sighing because their successors have not inherited all their excellences. "There's poor So and So," he says sadly, he's almost the last one left; how I wish some of the younger generation of players would take pattern by him." And then he adds, mournfully: "The palmy days of the drama are done for."

Dear old croaker! Don't you know that it has been the fashion for the past two centuries to talk about those "palmy days," and to look upon the ' old school" as something never to return. Nay, those among us who are now young will grow eloquent, thirty years hence, over favorites of to-day, and complain that the theatre is no longer what it was. It will always be thus, venerable sir, and so take heart of grace, for the "old school," like the poor, is sure to be ever with us. If you are skeptical, read of Quin, who was spoken of, in the autumn of his life, as one of the last of the old school," and who was, no doubt,