were hurt except the author. This occasioned Sir Fleetwood Shepherd to say,
"There was so much fire in his play, that it blew up the poet, house and
all." "No," replied the good-natured author, "the play was so heavy, that
it broke down the house, and buried the poor poet in his own rubbish."


Monsieur de la Motte, soon after the representation of his "Ines de
Castro," which was very successful, although much censured by the press,
was sitting one day in a coffee-house, when he heard several of the critics
abusing his play. Finding that he was unknown to them, he joined heartily
in abusing it himself. At length, after a great many sarcastic remarks, one
of them, yawning, said, "Well, what shall we do with ourselves this
evening?" "Why, suppose," said de la Motte, "we go to the _seventy-second_
representation of this bad play."


The Sailor and the Actress.--"When I was a poor girl," said the Duchess of
St. Albans, "working very hard for my thirty shillings a week, I went down
to Liverpool during the holidays, where I was always kindly received. I was
to perform in a new piece, something like those pretty little dramas they
get up now at our minor theatres; and in my character I represented a poor,
friendless orphan girl, reduced to the most wretched poverty. A heartless
tradesman prosecutes the sad heroine for a heavy debt, and insists on
putting her in prison unless some one will be bail for her. The girl
replies, 'Then I have no hope, I have not a friend in the world.' 'What?
will no one be bail for you, to save you from prison?' asks the stern
creditor. 'I have told you I have not a friend on earth,' is the reply. But
just as I was uttering the words, I saw a sailor in the upper gallery
springing over the railing, letting himself down from one tier to another,
until he bounded clear over the orchestra and footlights, and placed