Monsieur de la Motte, soon after the representation of his “Ines de Castro,” which was very successful, although much censured by the press, was sitting one day in a coffee-house, when he heard several of the critics abusing his play.  Finding that he was unknown to them, he joined heartily in abusing it himself.  At length, after a great many sarcastic remarks, one of them, yawning, said, “Well, what shall we do with ourselves this evening?” “Why, suppose,” said de la Motte, “we go to the seventy-second representation of this bad play.”

The Sailor and the Actress.—­“When I was a poor girl,” said the Duchess of St. Albans, “working very hard for my thirty shillings a week, I went down to Liverpool during the holidays, where I was always kindly received.  I was to perform in a new piece, something like those pretty little dramas they get up now at our minor theatres; and in my character I represented a poor, friendless orphan girl, reduced to the most wretched poverty.  A heartless tradesman prosecutes the sad heroine for a heavy debt, and insists on putting her in prison unless some one will be bail for her.  The girl replies, ‘Then I have no hope, I have not a friend in the world.’  ’What? will no one be bail for you, to save you from prison?’ asks the stern creditor.  ‘I have told you I have not a friend on earth,’ is the reply.  But just as I was uttering the words, I saw a sailor in the upper gallery springing over the railing, letting himself down from one tier to another, until he bounded clear over the orchestra and footlights, and placed himself beside me in a moment.’  Yes, you shall have one friend at least, my poor young woman,’ said he, with the greatest expression in his honest, sunburnt countenance; ’I will go bail for you to any amount.  And as for you (turning to the frightened actor), if you don’t bear a hand, and shift your moorings, you lubber, it will be worse for you when I come athwart your bows.’  Every creature in the house rose; the uproar was perfectly indescribable; peals of laughter, screams of terror, cheers from his tawny messmates in the gallery, preparatory scrapings of violins from the orchestra, were mingled together; and amidst the universal din there stood the unconscious cause of it, sheltering me, ’the poor, distressed young woman,’ and breathing defiance and destruction against my mimic persecutor.  He was only persuaded to relinquish his care of me by the manager pretending to arrive and rescue me, with a profusion of theatrical banknotes.”

Kean.—­In the second year of Kean’s London triumph, an elderly lady, whose sympathy had been excited by his forlorn condition in boyhood, but who had lost sight of him in his wanderings till his sudden starting into fame astonished the world, was induced, on renewing their acquaintance, to pay a visit of some days to him and Mrs. Kean, at their residence in Clarges-street.  She made no secret of her intention to evince the interest she felt in his welfare