limbs which had before, and for so long a period, been exhibited in silk stockings.  Yet these alterations were accomplished gradually, no doubt.  All was not done in a single night.  Fashion makes first one convert, and then another, and so on, until all are numbered among her followers and wear the livery she has prescribed.  Garrick’s opinion of those playgoers of his time, whom he at last banished from his stage, may be gathered from the dialogue between AEsop and the Fine Gentleman, in his farce of “Lethe.”  AEsop inquires:  “How do you spend your evening, sir?” “I dress in the evening,” says the Fine Gentleman, “and go generally behind the scenes of both playhouses; not, you may imagine, to be diverted with the play, but to intrigue and show myself.  I stand upon the stage, talk loud, and stare about, which confounds the actors and disturbs the audience.  Upon which the galleries, who hate the appearance of one of us, begin to hiss, and cry, ‘Off, off!’ while I, undaunted, stamp my foot, so; loll with my shoulder, thus; take snuff with my right hand, and smile scornfully, thus.  This exasperates the savages, and they attack us with volleys of sucked oranges and half-eaten pippins.”  “And you retire?” “Without doubt, if I am sober; for orange will stain silk, and an apple may disfigure a feature.”

In the Italian opera-houses of London there have long prevailed managerial ordinances touching the style of dress to be assumed by the patrons of those establishments; the British playgoer, however, attending histrionic performances in his native tongue has been left to his own devices in that respect.  It cannot be said that much harm has resulted from the full liberty permitted him, or that neglect on his part has impaired the generally attractive aspect of our theatrical auditories.  Nevertheless, occasional eccentricity has been forthcoming, if only to incur rebuke.  We may cite an instance or two.

In December, 1738, the editor of The London Evening Post was thus addressed by a correspondent assuming the character of Miss Townley: 

“I am a young woman of fashion who love plays, and should be glad to frequent them as an agreeable and instructive entertainment, but am debarred that diversion by my relations upon account of a sort of people who now fill or rather infest the boxes.  I went the other night to the play with an aunt of mine, a well-bred woman of the last age, though a little formal.  When we sat down in the front boxes we found ourselves surrounded by a parcel of the strangest fellows that ever I saw in my life; some of them had those loose kind of great-coats on which I have heard called wrap-rascals, with gold-laced hats, slouched in humble imitation of stage-coachmen; others aspired at being grooms, and had dirty boots and spurs, with black caps on, and long whips in their hands; a third sort wore scanty frocks, with little, shabby hats, put on one side, and clubs in their hands.  My aunt whispered