I was born in Lambeth Parish, London, England, on January 10, 1820; my father, Thomas Frederick Lane, was an actor of considerable provincial fame, and my mother, _née_ Eliza Trenter, a very pretty woman and a sweet singer of ballads. That was an eventful year for theatrical people. The old King, George the Third, died, and all theatres were closed for one month; and there was considerable suffering among our kind, as I have been told since. At twelve months old my mother took me on the stage as a crying baby; but cry I would not, but at sight of the audience and the lights gave free vent to my delight and crowed aloud with joy. From that moment to this, the same sight has filled me with the most acute pleasure, and I expect will do so to the last glimpse I get of them, and when no longer to be seen, "Come, Death, and welcome!" I acted (?) all the "children's" parts in the plays then usual—_Damon's_ child—and had to be kept quiet with cherries before my last entrance, and then Mr. Macready's eyes frightened me into an awed silence. Then I remember (I was about five) playing the rightful heir in a melodrama called "Meg Murdock; or, the Haggard of the Glen," where the bad man came on when I was sleeping to murder me! Of course I awakened, and we both traversed the stage from different sides, taking the greatest care not to meet, when I stumbled over a property pitcher, and exclaimed "Oh, it's only the jug!" which was always the signal for great applause, and completely baffled the bad man. After that, in Liverpool, I remember playing the brother of "Frankenstein," who is killed by the Monster of Frankenstein's creation, acted by the celebrated T. P. Cooke, and to this hour can remember the horror which possessed me at his look and attitude, my own form dangling lifeless in his arms. He was a very amiable man, and always had some nice thing to give me after the play. Of course, I cannot give any consecutive account of the towns we played in. In one of them the beautiful Miss Maria Foote acted, and I suppose I must have done something to please her, as she sent for me her last night and gave me a lovely wax doll dressed as _Maria Darlington_, one of her favorite parts; and I thought her mother much prettier than she was! Then again, in Liverpool—by this time I was seven, or very near it—we (mother and myself, my father was dead two years ago) were at Cooke's amphitheatre when they played dramas where horses were the principal actors; one of these was called "Timour, the Tartar." I was _Prince Agib_, confined in prison by _Timour_, because I was the true heir to the throne. My mother comes to the court to beseech for my liberty and gets into more trouble, and is cast into "the lowest dungeon by the moat," I having obtained my liberty in the meanwhile. The last scene shows a practical cataract in the centre of the stage, with a prison to the right; at a given call I rush on, on horseback,