e, which was better than the rest. At the end of the
play Mr. Bartley made the audience a speech, mentioning our
departure, and bespeaking their good will for the new management.
The audience called for Knowles, and then clamored for us till we
were obliged to go out. They rose to receive us, and waved their
hats and handkerchiefs, and shouted farewell to us. It made my
heart ache to leave my kind, good, indulgent audience; my friends,
as I feel them to be; my countrymen, my English folk, my "very
worthy and approved good masters;" and as I thought of the
strangers for whom I am now to work in that distant strange country
to which we are going, the tears rushed into my eyes, and I hardly
knew what I was doing. I scarcely think I even made the
conventional courtesy of leave-taking to them, but I snatched my
little nosegay of flowers from my sash, and threw it into the pit
with handfuls of kisses, as a farewell token of my affection and
gratitude. And so my father, who was very much affected, led me
off, while the house rang with the cheering of the audience. When
we came off my courage gave way utterly, and I cried most bitterly.
As my father was taking me to my dressing-room Laporte ran after
us, to be introduced to me, to whom I wished success very
dolorously from the midst of my tears. He said he ought to cry at
our going away more than any one; and perhaps he is right, but we
should be better worth his while when we come back, if ever that
day comes. I saw numbers of people whom I knew standing behind the
scenes to take leave of us.

I took an affectionate farewell of poor dear old Rye (the
property-man), and Louis, his boy, gave me two beautiful nosegays.
It was all wretched, and yet it was a pleasure to feel that those
who surrounded and were dependent on us cared for us. I know all
the servants and workpeople of the theater were fond of me, and it
was sad to say good-by to all these kind, civil, cordial, humble
friends; from my good, pretty little maid, who stood sobbing by my
dressing-room door, to the grim, wrinkled visage of honest old
Rye....

[That was the last time I ever acted in the Covent Garden my uncle John
built; where he and my aunt took leave of the stage, and I made my first
entrance upon it. It was soon after altered and enlarged, and