h
a pair of handsome silver pitchers, which I still retain as a
memento of their good-will and friendly consideration. You must
bear in mind that while I was thus employed in occasional
attempts at play-writing, I was engaged in editing a daily
journal, and in all the fierce contests of political strife: I
had, therefore, but little time to devote to all that study and
reflection so essential to the success of dramatic composition.

My next piece, I believe, was written for the benefit of a
relative and friend, who wanted something to bring a house; and
as the struggle for liberty in Greece was at that period the
prevailing excitement, I finished the melodrama of the _Grecian
Captive_, which was brought out with all the advantages of good
scenery and music [June 17, 1822]. As a "good house" was of more
consequence to the actor than fame to the author, it was
resolved that the hero of the piece should make his appearance
on an elephant, and the heroine on a camel, which were procured
from a neighbouring _menagerie_, and the _tout ensemble_ was
sufficiently imposing, only it happened that the huge elephant,
in shaking his skin, so rocked the castle on his back, that the
Grecian general nearly lost his balance, and was in imminent
danger of coming down from his "high estate," to the infinite
merriment of the audience. On this occasion, to use another
significant phrase, a "gag" was hit upon of a new character
altogether. The play was printed, and each auditor was presented
with a copy gratis, as he entered the house. Figure to yourself
a thousand people in a theatre, each with a book of the play in
hand--imagine the turning over a thousand leaves simultaneously,
the buzz and fluttering it produced, and you will readily
believe that the actors entirely forgot their parts, and even
the equanimity of the elephant and camel were essentially
disturbed.

My last appearance, as a dramatic writer, was in another
national piece, called "The Siege of Tripoli," which the
managers persuaded me to bring out for my own benefit, being my
first attempt to derive any profit from dramatic efforts. The
piece was elegantly got up--the house crowded with beauty and
fashion--everything went off in the happiest manner; when, a
short time after the audience had retired, the Park Theatre was