One says he likes not the writing; another likes not the plot; another not the playing; and sometimes a fellow that comes not there past once in five years, at a Parliament time or so, will be as deep-mired in censuring as the best, and swear, by God’s foot, he would never stir his foot to see a hundred such as that is!” The conduct of the gallants, among whom were included those who deemed themselves critics and wits, appears to have usually been of a very unseemly and offensive kind.  They sat upon the stage, paying sixpence or a shilling for the hire of a stool, or reclined upon the rushes with which the boards were strewn.  Their pages were in attendance to fill their pipes; and they were noted for the capriciousness and severity of their criticisms.  “They had taken such a habit of dislike in all things,” says Valentine, in “The Case is Altered,” “that they will approve nothing, be it ever so conceited or elaborate; but sit dispersed, making faces and spitting, wagging their upright ears, and cry:  ‘Filthy, filthy!’” Ben Jonson had suffered much from the censure of his audiences.  In “The Devil is an Ass,” he describes the demeanour of a gallant occupying a seat upon the stage.  Fitsdottrell says: 

    To day I go to the Blackfriars playhouse,
    Sit in the view, salute all my acquaintance;
    Rise up between the acts, let fall my cloak;
    Publish a handsome man and a rich suit—­
    And that’s a special end why we go thither.

Of the cutpurses, rogues, and evil characters of both sexes who frequented the old theatres, abundant mention is made by the poets and satirists of the past.  In this respect there can be no question that the censure which was so liberally awarded was also richly merited.  Mr. Collier quotes from Edmund Gayton, an author who avowedly “wrote trite things merely to get bread to sustain him and his wife,” and who published, in 1654, “Festivous Notes on the History of the renowned Don Quixote,” a curious account of the behaviour of our early audiences at certain of the public theatres.  “Men,” it is observed, “come not to study at a playhouse, but love such expressions and passages which with ease insinuate themselves into their capacities....  On holidays, when sailors, watermen, shoemakers, butchers, and apprentices are at leisure, then it is good policy to amaze those violent spirits with some tearing tragedy full of fights and skirmishes ... the spectators frequently mounting the stage, and making a more bloody catastrophe among themselves than the players did.”  Occasionally, it appears, the audience compelled the actors to perform, not the drama their programmes had announced, but some other, such as “the major part of the company had a mind to:  sometimes ‘Tamerlane;’ sometimes ‘Jugurtha;’ sometimes ‘The Jew of Malta;’ and, sometimes, parts of all these; and, at last, none of the three taking, they were forced to undress and put off their tragic habits, and conclude the day with ‘The