Nevertheless, at least two seasons of good work were accomplished before our morbid imitation of Nature and the illimitable egotism of Paul Clifford finally succeeded in driving art from the stage. During that period we produced about fifteen new plays, and gave a large number of one-night revivals. Our repertory ranged from “Hamlet” to “Dick Whittington,” and I think one pleased us as much as the other. This would have been more remarkable if Paul Clifford had not played the title-part in both plays. We had soon come to prefer him to any other of the heroes, and in consequence, whatever the play might be, he was bound to be there in his riding-boots and handsome yellow satin coat. This would have been well enough if he had been willing to keep his place, but he soon became as ubiquitous as an actor-manager. Owing to the number of rôles that he was called upon to fill, we had his pasteboard presentment in a hundred different attitudes, and on one occasion when a stage-crowd was required it was entirely composed of Paul Cliffords, and even then there were rows of forlorn Paul Cliffords in the wings for whom there was no room on the stage. This was the beginning of the end. We suffered from the worst excesses of the star system; we began to be discontented when Paul was not on the stage, and we were prepared to boo if that dashing highwayman was not permitted to bluster across the most subtle dramas. About this time we deserted the old theatre that had been the scene of so many triumphs for a larger and far more elaborate one. We had long had gas footlights, but now our system of lighting was intricate enough to suit Mr. Arthur Collins. Indeed, when, years afterwards, I was allowed to explore the stage of Drury Lane, I found nothing to surprise me, save, perhaps, the electric switchboard, with its pretty display of diminutive electric lights. Our scenic sensations were only surpassed by those of Mr. Bruce Smith. When we played a dramatisation of “Hard Cash,” the scuttled vessel sank in a sea of real water. The fountains in our Garden of Enchantment flung scented torrents into their moss-clad basins; and when we sought to reproduce a burning house we succeeded in setting the theatre on fire.