Calls for the author after the first representation of a new play are, of course, frequent, the more especially when the work has given entire satisfaction. In some instances, the audience summon that individual to appear for no other purpose than to hiss him for the unskilfulness of his performance; in which case, the author will most probably retaliate with a speech wherein mention of ‘an organised opposition’ comes uppermost. Speaking of the former, some curious examples might be noted. An author frequently announces, through the medium of the manager, that he has betaken himself abroad, or, say, to Scotland, fearing the result of his piece, whereas he may be quietly looking on at the back of the pit, or has concealed himself behind the curtains of a private box. In another case, the successful author will attempt to make a speech, while bowing his acknowledgments, and signally fail, retiring considerably more abashed than triumphant. But the crowning episode to be narrated in this connection occurred some years ago at one of the Dublin theatres, when one of the tragedies of Sophocles was put on the stage. At the close of the performance, the ‘gods’ loudly called for the author; whereupon the manager explained that as the author had been dead more than two thousand years, he could not very well appear. Nothing disconcerted, a very small gallery-boy called out: ‘Then let’s have his mummy!’ Dramatic, including operatic, artistes taking their benefits are almost invariably honoured with a call before the curtain. On such occasions, too, they may fairly be entitled to considerable latitude in various ways, as, for instance, in their own selection of the programme for that evening. Notwithstanding this, they should not suffer themselves to infringe the ordinary regulations of the establishment. Not very long ago, a star _prima donna_ of the very first magnitude, when taking her benefit at the Imperial Opera, St Petersburg, found herself called before the curtain more than twenty consecutive times. In the end she occupied the centre of the stage, and addressed her enthusiastic patrons a few words in the Russian language, then offered to show her gratitude for their favours by singing them a song in their own tongue. This was received with rapturous applause; but judge of her surprise when, after retiring from the stage, the management fined her two thousand francs for addressing the audience without permission! The proceeds of her benefit were thus considerably reduced; and her experience was only in one degree removed from that of the French pantomimist and dancer, as related by Charles Kemble. This individual was in the habit of taking a benefit at regular intervals, but always with a loss. One night, however, he came before the curtain with a beaming countenance, and after a polite bow, he acknowledged his thanks in these terms: ‘Dear public, moche oblige; very good benefice; only lose half a crown dis time. _I come again!_’