"The ballet master, D'Egville, was called for, and asked 'Why he allowed the curtain to drop before the conclusion of the ballet?' He affirmed that he had directions from me to do so. I was then called upon the stage, and received a volley of hisses, yellings, etc. I stood it all, like brick and mortar; but at last, thinking to appease them, I said the truth was that an order had been received from the Bishop of London to conclude the performance before midnight. Some person from the third tier of the boxes who appeared to be a principal spokesman called out--'You know, Kelly, that you are telling a lie.' I turned round very coolly and looking up at the box from whence the lie came, I said, 'You are at a very convenient distance; come down on the stage and use that language again, if you dare!' "This appeal was received by the audience with a loud burst of applause, and the universal cry of 'Bravo, Kelly: well replied!--turn him out! Turn the fellow out of the boxes!' The gentleman left the box, but did not think proper to make his appearance on the stage. This was a lucky turn as regarded myself, but did not appease the rioters; for finding their mandate for drawing up the curtain and finishing the ballet was not obeyed, they threw all the chairs out of the boxes into the Pitt, tore up the benches, broke the chandeliers, jumped into the orchestra, smashed the pianoforte, and continued their valourous exploits by breaking all the instruments of the poor unoffending performers. Having achieved deeds so worthy of a polished nation, and imagining no more mischief could be done, they quitted the scene of their despoliation with shouts of victory." There was, however, a finale to the drama which the rioters did not expect. Mr Goold, a lawyer and great friend of Kelly, identified some of the ringleaders and brought actions against them for damages which cost them many hundreds of pounds. The lustres, scenes and musical instruments which had been destroyed alone were estimated at £1500. And the prosecutions were only withdrawn on the culprits undertaking to apologise for their conduct, as well as to recoup all who had suffered through their misbehaviour. Meanwhile, many persons were frightened from attending the Opera for fear of a repetition of such scenes, and the rival attraction of the performances given by the young Roscius prospered in proportion. This infant prodigy, who was born in 1791, first appeared on the stage at the age of eleven, and for over five years personated the most difficult characters before enraptured audiences, earning from fifty to seventy-five guineas per night, apart from benefits, so that he really made from £4000 to £5000 a year.