. Keep her there!"

The old idiot paid no attention to our advice; he argued the matter to
himself. "'Tis but a trifling request," he remarked; "and it will make
her happy."

"Yes, but what about us?" replied the same voice from the Gallery. "You
don't know her. You've only just come on; we've been listening to her
all the evening. She's quiet now, you let her be."

"Oh, let me out, if only for one moment!" shrieked the poor woman. "I
have something that I must say to my child."

"Write it on a bit of paper, and pass it out," suggested a voice from
the Pit. "We'll see that he gets it."

"Shall I keep a mother from her dying child?" mused the turnkey. "No, it
would be inhuman."

"No, it wouldn't," persisted the voice of the Pit; "not in this
instance. It's too much talk that has made the poor child ill."

The turnkey would not be guided by us. He opened the cell door amidst
the execrations of the whole house. She talked to her child for about
five minutes, at the end of which time it died.

"Ah, he is dead!" shrieked the distressed parent.

"Lucky beggar!" was the unsympathetic rejoinder of the house.

Sometimes the criticism of the audience would take the form of remarks,
addressed by one gentleman to another. We had been listening one night
to a play in which action seemed to be unnecessarily subordinated to
dialogue, and somewhat poor dialogue at that. Suddenly, across the
wearying talk from the stage, came the stentorian whisper--

"Jim!"

"Hallo!"

"Wake me up when the play begins."

This was followed by an ostentatious sound as of snoring. Then the voice
of the second speaker was heard--

"Sammy!"

His friend appeared to awake.

"Eh? Yes? What's up? Has anything happened?"

"Wake you up at half-past eleven in any event, I suppose?"

"Thanks, do, sonny." And the critic slept again.

Yes, we took an interest in our plays then. I wonder shall I ever enjoy
the British Drama again as I enjoyed it in those days? Shall I ever
enjoy a supper again as I enjoyed the tripe and onions washed down with
bitter beer at the bar of the old Albion? I have tried many suppers
after the theatre since then, and some, when friends have been in
generous mood, have been expensive and elaborate. The cook may have come
from Paris, his portrait may be in the illustrated papers, his salary
may be reckoned by hundreds; but there is something wrong with his art,
for all that, I miss a flavour in his meats. There is a sa