nor dread the critic's pen. So long as we get the
words of our parts, and they are not often many, it is all we care for.
We have our own merriment, our own friends, and our own admirers; for
every actor has his friends and admirers, from the highest to the
lowest. The first-rate actor dines with the noble amateur, and
entertains a fashionable table with scraps and songs and theatrical
slip-slop. The second-rate actors have their second-rate friends and
admirers, with whom they likewise spout tragedy and talk slip-slop; and
so down even to us; who have our friends and admirers among spruce
clerks and aspiring apprentices, who treat us to a dinner now and then,
and enjoy at tenth hand the same scraps and songs and slip-slop that
have been served up by our more fortunate brethren at the tables of the
great.

I now, for the first time in my theatrical life, knew what true
pleasure is. I have known enough of notoriety to pity the poor devils
who are called favorites of the public. I would rather be a kitten in
the arms of a spoiled child, to be one moment petted and pampered, and
the next moment thumped over the head with the spoon. I smile, too, to
see our leading actors, fretting themselves with envy and jealousy
about a trumpery renown, questionable in its quality and uncertain in
its duration. I laugh, too, though of course in my sleeve, at the
bustle and importance and trouble and perplexities of our manager, who
is harassing himself to death in the hopeless effort to please every
body.

I have found among my fellow subalterns two or three quondam managers,
who, like myself, have wielded the sceptres of country theatres; and we
have many a sly joke together at the expense of the manager and the
public. Sometimes, too, we meet like deposed and exiled kings, talk
over the events of our respective reigns; moralize over a tankard of
ale, and laugh at the humbug of the great and little world; which, I
take it, is the very essence of practical philosophy.

Thus end the anecdotes of Buckthorne and his friends. A few mornings
after our hearing the history of the ex-manager, he bounced into my
room before I was out of bed.

"Give me joy! give me joy!" said he, rubbing his hands with the utmost
glee, "my great expectations are realized!"

I stared at him with a look of wonder and inquiry. "My booby cousin is
dead!" cried he, "may he rest in peace! He nearly broke his neck in a
fall from his horse in a fox-chase. By good lu