t the end of the first act to say that all
things were going pretty well; though he confessed to the titter in the
house upon Miss Pritchard's first appearance, dressed exactly like an
Indian princess.

"I cannot help it, Sampson," said I (filling him a bumper of good
punch), "if Indians are dressed so."

"Why," says he, "would you have had Caractacus painted blue like an
ancient Briton, or Bonduca with nothing but a cow-skin?" And indeed it
may be that the fidelity to history was the cause of the ridicule cast
on my tragedy, in which case I, for one, am not ashamed of its defeat.

After the second act, my aide-de-camp came from the field with dismal
news indeed. I don't know how it is that, nervous before action,
in disaster I become pretty cool and cheerful. [The writer seems to
contradict himself here, having just boasted of possessing a pretty
equanimous disposition. He was probably mistaken in his own estimate of
himself, as other folks have been besides.-ED.] "Are things going ill?"
says I. I call for my reckoning, put on my hat, and march to the theatre
as calmly as if I was going to dine at the Temple; fidus Achates walking
by my side, pressing my elbow, kicking the link-boys out of the way, and
crying, "By George, Mr. Warrington, you are a man of spirit--a Trojan,
sir!" So, there were men of spirit in Troy; but alas! fate was too
strong for them.

At any rate, no man can say that I did not bear my misfortune with
calmness: I could no more help the clamour and noise of the audience
than a captain can help the howling and hissing of the storm in which
his ship goes down. But I was determined that the rushing waves and
broken masts should impavidum ferient, and flatter myself that I bore my
calamity without flinching. "Not Regulus, my dear madam, could step into
his barrel more coolly," Sampson said to my wife. 'Tis unjust to say
of men of the parasitic nature that they are unfaithful in misfortune.
Whether I was prosperous or poor, the wild parson was equally true and
friendly, and shared our crust as eagerly as ever he had partaken of our
better fortune.

I took my place on the stage, whence I could see the actors of my poor
piece, and a portion of the audience who condemned me. I suppose the
performers gave me a wide berth out of pity for me. I must say that I
think I was as little moved as any spectator; and that no one would have
judged from my mien that I was the unlucky hero of the night.

But my dea