One does not now look to find members of the administration or cabinet ministers occupying seats in the pit.  Yet the “Journals of the Right Honourable William Windham,” some time Chief Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and afterwards Colonial Secretary, tell of his frequent visits to the pit of Covent Garden.  Nor does he “drop into” the theatre, after dining at his club, as even a bachelor of fashion might do without exciting surprise.  Playgoing is not an idle matter to him.  And he is accompanied by ladies of distinction, his relatives and others.  “Went about half-past five to the pit,” he records; “sat by Miss Kemble, Steevens, Mrs. Burke, and Miss Palmer,” the lady last named being the niece of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who afterwards married Lord Inchiquin.  “Went in the evening to the pit with Mrs. Lukin” (the wife of his half-brother).  “After the play, went with Miss Kemble to Mrs. Siddons’s dressing-room:  met Sheridan there, with whom I sat in the waiting room, and who pressed me to sup at his house with Fox and G. North.”  Assuredly “the play,” not less than the pit, was more highly regarded in Windham’s time than nowadays.

Though apart from our present topic, it is worth noting that Windham may claim to have anticipated Monsieur Gambetta as a statesman voyaging in a balloon.  Ballooning was a hobby of Windham’s.  He was a regular attendant of ascents, and inspected curiously the early aerial machines of Blanchard and Lunardi.  Something surprised at his own temerity, he travelled the air himself, rose in a balloon—­probably from Vauxhall—­crossed the river at Tilbury, and descended in safety after losing his hat.  He regretted that the wind had not been favourable for his crossing the Channel.  “Certainly,” he writes, “the experiences I have had on this occasion will warrant a degree of confidence more than I have ever hitherto indulged.  I would not wish a degree of confidence more than I enjoyed at every moment of the time.”

To return to the pit for a concluding note or two.  Audiences had come to agree with Hazlitt, that “it was unpleasant to see a play from the boxes,” that the pit was far preferable.  Gradually the managers—­sound sleepers as a rule—­awakened to this view of the situation, and proceeded accordingly.  They seized upon the best seats in the pit, and converted them into stalls, charging for admission to these a higher price than they had ever levied in regard to the boxes.  Stalls were first introduced at the Opera House in the Haymarket in the year 1829.  Dissatisfaction was openly expressed, but although the overture was hissed—­the opera being Rossini’s “La Donna del Lago”—­no serious disturbance arose.  There had been a decline in the public spirit of playgoers.  The generation that delighted in the great O.P. riot had pretty well passed away.  Such another excitement was not possible; energy and enthusiasm on such a subject seemed to have been exhausted for ever by that supreme effort.