“Harris will be _hors de combat_” Bulstrode soon observed, “unless I can manage to get him from the table.--You know he is to play Marcia this evening; and, though a _little_ wine will give him fire and spirit for the part, too much will impair its feminine beauties. Addison never intended that 'the virtuous Marcia,' in towering above her sex, was to be picked out of a kennel, or from under a table. Harris is a true Irish peer, when claret is concerned.” All the ladies held up their hands, and protested against Mr. Harris' being permitted to act a travestie on their sex. As yet, no one had known how the characters were to be cast, beyond the fact that Bulstrode himself was to play Cato, for great care had been taken to keep the bills of the night from being seen, in order that the audience might have the satisfaction of finding out, who was who, for themselves. At the close of each piece a bill was to be sent round, among the favoured few, telling the truth. As Anneke declared that her father never locked in his guests, and had faithfully promised to bring up everybody for coffee, in the course of half an hour, it was determined to let things take their own way. Sure enough, at the end of the time mentioned, Herman Mordaunt appeared, with all the men, from the table. Harris was not tipsy, as I found was very apt to be the case with him after dinner, but neither was he sober. According to Bulstrode's notion, he may have had just fire enough to play the 'virtuous Marcia.' In a few minutes he hurried the ensign off, declaring that, like Hamlet's ghost, their hour had come. At seven, the whole party left the house in a body to walk to the theatre. Herman Mordaunt did not keep a proper town equipage, and, if he had, it would not have contained a fourth of our company. In this, however, we were not singular, as nine in ten of the audience that night, I mean nine in ten of the gentle sex, went to the theatre on foot.