This was doubly annoying, because I have a natural liking to pretty faces, and wish to have them about me; and because they are indispensable to the success of a company at a fair, where one has to vie with so many rival theatres.  But when once a jealous wife gets a freak in her head there’s no use in talking of interest or anything else.  Egad, sirs, I have more than once trembled when, during a fit of her tantrums, she was playing high tragedy, and flourishing her tin dagger on the stage, lest she should give way to her humor, and stab some fancied rival in good earnest.

I went on better, however, than could be expected, considering the weakness of my flesh and the violence of my rib.  I had not a much worse time of it than old Jupiter, whose spouse was continually ferreting out some new intrigue and making the heavens almost too hot to hold him.

At length, as luck would have it, we were performing at a country fair, when I understood the theatre of a neighboring town to be vacant.  I had always been desirous to be enrolled in a settled company, and the height of my desire was to get on a par with a brother-in-law, who was manager of a regular theatre, and who had looked down upon me.  Here was an opportunity not to be neglected.  I concluded an agreement with the proprietors, and in a few days opened the theatre with great eclat.

Behold me now at the summit of my ambition, “the high top-gallant of my joy,” as Thomas says.  No longer a chieftain of a wandering tribe, but the monarch of a legitimate throne—­and entitled to call even the great potentates of Covent Garden and Drury Lane cousin.

You no doubt think my happiness complete.  Alas, sir!  I was one of the Most uncomfortable dogs living.  No one knows, who has not tried, the miseries of a manager; but above all, of a country management—­no one can conceive the contentions and quarrels within doors, the oppressions and vexations from without.

I was pestered with the bloods and loungers of a country town, who infested my green-room, and played the mischief among my actresses.  But there was no shaking them off.  It would have been ruin to affront them; for, though troublesome friends, they would have been dangerous enemies.  Then there were the village critics and village amateurs, who were continually tormenting me with advice, and getting into a passion if I would not take it:—­especially the village doctor and the village attorney; who had both been to London occasionally, and knew what acting should be.

I had also to manage as arrant a crew of scapegraces as were ever collected together within the walls of a theatre.  I had been obliged to combine my original troupe with some of the former troupe of the theatre, who were favorites with the public.  Here was a mixture that produced perpetual ferment.  They were all the time either fighting or frolicking with each other, and I scarcely knew which mood was least troublesome.  If they quarrelled, everything went wrong; and if they were friends, they were continually playing off some confounded prank upon each other, or upon me; for I had unhappily acquired among them the character of an easy, good natured fellow, the worst character that a manager can possess.