Haymarket Theatre.  In 1799, through the influence of my uncle, Michael Kelly, the celebrated singer and composer of that day, I was allowed to become a miniature chorister in her place....

One Saturday, during the limited season of nine months in the year, Mr. Peake (dear, good old gentleman!) looking, as I remember he always did—­anxiously perplexed—­doubtless as to how he could best dole out the too frequently insufficient amount provided for the ill-paid company, silently looked me in the face, while he carefully folded a very dirty, ragged bank note—­put it into my hand, patted my cheek, and with a slight pressure on my shoulder, hinting there was no time for our usual gossip—­as good as said, “go, my dear,” and I hurried down the long gallery, lined down each side with performers of all degrees, more than one of whom whispered as I passed—­“Is it full pay, dear?” I nodded “Yes,” and proceeded to my seat on the window of the landing-place.

It was a great comfort in those days, to have a bank-note to look at; but not always easy to open one.  Mine had been cut and repaired with a line of gum paper, about twenty times as thick as the note itself, threatening the total destruction of the thin part.

Now observe in what small matters Fanny and Barbara were in a marked degree different characters.  Barbara, at 11 years of age, was some time before she felt the different size of a guinea to a half guinea, held tight in her hand.  I, at nine years old, was not so untaught, or innocent.  I was a woman of the world.  I took nothing for granted.  I had a deep respect for Mr. Peake, but the join might have disfigured the note—­destroyed its currency; and it was my business to see all safe.  So, I carefully opened it.  A two pound-note instead of one!  The blood rushed into my face, the tears into my eyes, and for a moment, something like an ecstasy of joy passed through my mind.  “Oh! what a blessing to my dear mother!”—­“To whom?”—­in an instant said my violently beating heart,—­“My mother?” Why she would spurn me for the wish.  How shall I ever own to her my guilty thought?  I trembled violently—­I staggered back on my way to the Treasury, but no one would let me pass, until I said, “But Mr. Peake has given me too much.”  “Too much, has he?” said one, and was followed by a coarse, cold, derisive, general laugh.  Oh! how it went to my heart; but on I went.

    “If you please, Mr. Peake, you have given me a two—­”

    “A what?”

    “A two, Sir!”

“A two!—­God bless my soul!—­tut-tut-tut-tut—­dear, dear, dear!—­God bless my soul!  There, dear,” and without another word, he, in exchange, laid a one pound note on the desk; a new one, quite clean,—­a bright, honest looking note,—­mine, the one I had a right to,—­my own,—­within the limit of my poor deservings.

    Thus, my dear sir, I give (as you say you wish to have the facts
    as accurately stated as possible) the simple, absolute truth.