entitled _The Camp_, which had a tremendous success all that winter. The piece, an imitation of Sheridan by Tickell, represented the arsenal and the camp at Coxheath, and Miss Walpole, as “Nancy,” took the part of a young soldier, and filled it most admirably, a contemporary author informs us.[10] We have found an engraving which represents her in this costume, doubtless a souvenir of the plaudits which she then received. In the month of April, 1779, she appears again in other pieces by Farquhar. After this, the bills for us have nothing to say; Miss Walpole’s name is not to be found in them. [Illustration: _W H Bunbury Delinᵗ._ _Watson & Dickinson Excudᵗ._ CHARLOTTE WALPOLE, IN “THE CAMP.” (_After an engraving in the British Museum._) [_To face page 12._] To what must one attribute this sudden silence, this disappearance from the stage, just when so fair a future seemed opening before the actress? To a determination brought about by her very success itself and by the charm she exercised. Several times during the winter a young man had been seen at Drury Lane, who occupied a front stall and watched very keenly the acting of the graceful young recruit of Coxheath; so that there was no very great astonishment expressed when, on June 18, 1779, _The Gentleman’s Magazine_, in its society column, announced the marriage of Sir Edward Atkyns with Miss Charlotte Walpole, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.[11] “The pretty Miss Atkyns”--that was henceforth to be her appellation in London, and all over Norfolk! If the Walpoles could boast of an illustrious descent, the Atkyns’ in this respect were in no wise inferior to them. In this family, where the Christian names are handed down from generation to generation, that of Edward is, as it were, immutable! Illustrious personages are by no means wanting. An Atkyns had been Chancellor of the Exchequer in the seventeenth century; his son had built a splendid manor-house, Ketteringham, in the same county of Norfolk; at his death he left it to his grand-nephew, who, in his turn, bequeathed it to the fortunate husband of Miss Walpole. The young couple took up their abode in this antique mansion of Ketteringham Hall, the name of which will often recur in this narrative. They appear to have lived peacefully there for some years, coming only for a few weeks in mid-winter to London. “Happy is the nation that has no history,” says the proverb; and it is equally true that happy folk have none. So we will certainly not, in the absence of any material, create one for these young people.