I was present when John Kemble bade farewell to the Liverpool audiences. It took place in the summer of 1813. The play was "Coriolanus." The house was crowded to excess, and the utmost enthusiasm was exhibited in favour of the great tragedian; who, although not a townsman, was at any rate a county man, he having been born at Prescot. Mr. Kemble, when addressing the audience on that occasion, made a very remarkable declaration. He said that "it was on the Liverpool stage he first adapted the play of 'Coriolanus,' and produced it, as they had just seen it performed, and that it was the earnest encouragement he then received that proved a great stimulus to him in after life." A statement of the sums of money received at benefits amongst the "old stagers" may perhaps interest some of my readers. I am going back a long way, but I do so that those who know or who guess at the receipts of the "moderns" may compare them with those of the "ancients." In 1795 Mrs. Maddocks, a most delightful actress, and an immense favourite in Liverpool, drew 213 pounds; Mrs. Powell, 207 pounds; Mr Banks, 183 pounds; Mr. Whitfield, 135 pounds. Mr. Kelly, the Irish singer, and Mrs. Crouch, a most charming and fascinating woman, with a lovely voice, realised together 136 pounds; Mr. Hollinsworth, 124 pounds; and Mr. Ward 119 pounds. In modern days the Clarkes (the manager and his wife) have received as much as 300 pounds at their benefits. One of the best speculations Mr. Lewis ever made was the engagement of Paganini, shortly after his first appearance in the metropolis, in, I think, 1829 or 1830. This wonderful genius had taken the musical world of London by storm, and struck terror and despair into the hearts of the violinists of his day; one and all of whom declaring, as a friend of mine said of his own playing--although eminent in his profession--"that they were only fiddlers." Paganini's playing was most unearthly and inhuman. I never heard anything like the tones he produced from his violin--the sounds now crashing as if a demoniac was tearing and straining at the strings, now melting away with the softest and tenderest harmonies. He kept his hearers enthralled by his magical music, and astonished by his wonderful execution. I shall never forget hearing him play the "Walpurgis Nacht," when he appeared at the Amphitheatre in 1835 or 1836. It was painting a picture by means of sounds. His descriptive powers were wonderful. Anybody with the least touch of imagination could bring before "his mind's eye" the infernal revel that the artist was depicting. The enchantments of the witches were visible. You could hear their diabolical songs, you could fancy their mad and wild dances; while, when the cock crew (imitated by the way in a most astonishing manner), you would feel that there was a rushing of bodies through the air, which were scattering in all directions. Then the lovely melody succeeding--descriptive of the calm dawn of summer morning--came