ear 1749, Shuter was master of a booth at
Bartholomew Fair in West Smithfield, and it was his mode to lengthen
the exhibition until a sufficient number of persons were gathered at
the door to fill the house. This event was signified by a fellow
popping his head in at the gallery door and bellowing out 'John
Audley!' as if in the act of inquiry, though the intention was to let
Shuter know that a fresh audience were in high expectation below. The
consequence of this notification was that the entertainments were
instantly concluded, and the gates of the booth thrown open for a new
auditory." That "John Audley" should be in time corrupted into "John
Orderly," is intelligible enough. We don't look to the showman or the
strolling manager for nicety or correctness of pronunciation. But
whether such a person as John Audley ever existed, who he was, and
what he did, that his name should be handed down in this way, from
generation to generation, we are still left inquiring.

CHAPTER XVIII.

STAGE GHOSTS.

The ghost, as a vehicle of terror, a solvent of dramatic difficulties,
and a source of pleasurable excitement to theatrical audiences, seems
to have become quite an extinct creature. As Bob Acres said of
"damns," ghosts "have had their day;" or perhaps it would be more
correct to say, their night. It may be some consolation to them,
however, in their present fallen state, to reflect that they were at
one time in the enjoyment of an almost boundless prosperity and
popularity. For long years they were accounted among the most precious
possessions of the stage. Addison writes in "The Spectator": "Among
the several artifices which are put in practice by the poets, to fill
the minds of the audience with terror, the first place is due to
thunder and lightning, which are often made use of at the descending
of a god, at the vanishing of a devil, or at the death of a tyrant. I
have known a bell introduced into several tragedies with good effect,
and have seen the whole assembly in very great alarm all the while it
has been ringing. But there is nothing which delights and terrifies
our English theatre so much as a ghost, especially when he appears in
a bloody shirt. A spectre has very often saved a play, though he has
done nothing but stalked solemnly across the stage, or rose through a
cleft in it and sunk again without speaking one word. There may be a
proper season for these several terrors, and when they only come in as
ai