About half a dozen times in my life did I visit Rockley’s, but I retain the most vivid recollection of the close atmosphere, the mingled smell of sawdust and port, the loud buzz of conversation, and the frequent laugh that followed the last new story or the smartly uttered retort. It will suffice here to record the impression of a single visit. The little man standing close to the bar, the centre of an eager group intent on his poignant utterance, is Shiel Barry. Barry was an Irishman, an actor of extraordinary intensity, and a man of considerable general knowledge. He was an omnivorous reader, and, when I first knew him, a great admirer of Carlyle, some passages of whose “French Revolution” he recited with a wonderfully lurid effect. I have recorded elsewhere in this book my impression of his masterly interpretation of the part of the miser in “Les Cloches de Corneville.” His rendering of certain of the characters in Dion Boucicault’s Irish plays was equally memorable and impressive. He was a master of pathos and ferocity, and could at once attract or repel by the strange realism of his embodiment of either emotion. The flamboyant gentleman with the Louis-Napoleonic moustache is William Holland, of the Surrey Theatre, the North Woolwich Gardens, the Circus at Covent Garden, and finally manager of the Corporation’s amusements at Blackpool, which became this particular Napoleon’s St. Helena. Conversing with him is Dr. Joseph Pope, familiarly known as “Jo,” and nicknamed “Jope.” Dr. Pope had been a surgeon in the army, serving in the Royal Artillery. He was a brother of Mr. Sam Pope, Q.C., of the Parliamentary Bar. Jo had been celebrated as the fattest man in the army, and Sam was distinguished as the fattest man at the Bar. Sam was a bachelor making an enormous income. Jo was a bachelor living on his half-pay; and it used to be said, that when Jo was in need of a remittance wherewithal to set right his balance at Cox’s, he would apply to Sam. If Sam proved irresponsive, Jo at once threatened to go on to the music-hall stage. That always “fetched” Sam, who hated the Bohemianism in which Jo wallowed. William Brunton discusses costume designs with Alias, and Harry S. Leigh hums a new lyric which he has composed for a production at the Alhambra. Brunton, espying me, edges through the crowd to me. “Have you heard George Hodder’s _non sequitur_?” he asks. “No. What was it?” “George was sent down to Stony Stratford by the _Daily News_. When he woke up in the morning, he had forgotten the name of the place. He rang the bell, and desired the chambermaid to send ‘boots’ to him. When that menial appeared, George asked: ‘Wh-wh-what’s the n-name of this p-place?’ ‘Stony Stratford,’ answered ‘boots.’ ‘Ah!’ said Hodder, ‘you may well c-call it Stony Stratford—_for I never was so b-b-bitten with bugs in the whole course of my l-l-life_!”