the rest of the piece, I repeat, I remember next to nothing.” [6] At this time I happened to be living in Dublin, and recall with pleasure the comedian’s striking face and figure, and the entertainment that he imparted. Once buying a newspaper in a shop that was close by the fine old Theatre Royal, since destroyed by fire, a “characteristical” pair entered, whom I recognised from having seen them on the stage. I was particularly struck with the pale, well-marked features, the black flowing hair, the dress of correct black, the whole very much suggesting Nicholas Nickleby, or some other of Dickens’ “walking gentlemen.” There was something strangely attractive about him, and a courteous, kindly tone to the owner of the shop as he made his purchase. When the pair had departed the lady’s tongue “grew wanton in his praise.” “Oh, but Mr. Irving,” she said enthusiastically, “he is the _one_; a perfect gentleman! Every morning he comes in to buy his newspaper, and he do speak so _nicely_. I _do_ think he is a charming young man,” etc. [7] The good-looking Montague, following the invariable development, seceded from the management and set up a theatre for himself. This not proving successful, he went to America, where he died early. [8] It has been stated, I know not with what truth, that he was engaged at a salary of £15 a week, which was raised on the success of ‘The Bells’ to £35. [9] Originally the piece opened with the second act, and the manager was said to have exclaimed: “Oh, bother politics! give us _some domestic business_.” This led to the introduction of the tranquil, pastoral scene at Hampton Court. The closing scene, as devised by the author, represented the capture of the king on the field of battle. “Won’t do,” said the “Colonel” bluntly; “must wind up with _another_ domestic act.” Sorely perplexed by this requirement, which they felt was correct, both author and actor tried many expedients without success, until one evening, towards the small hours, the manager, who appeared to be dozing in his chair, suddenly called out: “Look at the last act of ‘Black-eyed Susan,’ with the prayer-book, chain, and all.” All which may be legendary, and I give it for what it is worth. [10] I recall the manager’s complacent anticipation of the success of his _coup_. “Clayton,” he said, “was a clever, spirited fellow, and would assuredly make a hit in the part.” He certainly played respectably, and made up by earnestness what he lacked in other points. He was particularly proud of his own “make up.” But his inharmonious voice was against him, and it was impossible to “take him” seriously.