of Romeo, no one more conscious of its entire unworthiness of Miss Kemble’s Juliet; but all I can say is, that I do not act the part by my own choice, and shall be delighted to resign it to either of you who may feel more capable than I am of doing it justice.”  The young gentlemen, though admiring me “not wisely, but too well,” were good-hearted fellows, and were struck with the manly and moderate tone of Mr. Abbot’s rebuke, and shocked at having unintentionally wounded the feelings of a person who (except as Romeo), was every way deserving of their respect.  Of course they could not swallow all their foolish words, and Abbot bowed and was gone before they could stutter an apology.  I have no doubt that his next appearance as Romeo was hailed with some very cordial, remorseful applause, addressed to him personally as some relief to their feelings, by my indiscreet partisans.  My friend G——­, not very long after this theatrical passion of his, became what is sometimes called “religious,” and had thoughts of going into the Church, and giving up the play-house.  He confided to my mother, who was his mother’s intimate friend, and of whom he was very fond, his conscientious scruples, which she in no wise combated; though she probably thought more moderation in going to the theater, and a little more self-control when there, might not, in any event, be undesirable changes in his practice, whether his taking holy orders cut him off entirely from what was then his principal pleasure, or not.  One night, when the venerable Prebend of St. Paul’s, her old friend, Dr. Hughes, was in her box with her, witnessing my performance (which my mother never failed to attend), she pointed out G——­, scrimmaging about, as usual, in his wonted place in the pit, and said, “There is a poor lad who is terribly disturbed in his own mind about the very thing he is doing at this moment.  He is thinking of going into the Church, and more than half believes that he ought to give up coming to the play.”  “That depends, I should say,” replied dear old Dr. Hughes, “upon his own conviction in the matter, and nothing else; meantime, pray give him my compliments, and tell him I have enjoyed the performance to-night extremely.”

Mr. Abbot was in truth not a bad actor, though a perfectly uninteresting one in tragedy; he had a good figure, face, and voice, the carriage and appearance of a well-bred person, and, in what is called genteel comedy, precisely the air and manner which it is most difficult to assume, that of a gentleman.  He had been in the army, and had left it for the stage, where his performances were always respectable, though seldom anything more.  Wanting passion and expression in tragedy, he naturally resorted to vehemence to supply their place, and was exaggerated and violent from the absence of all dramatic feeling and imagination.  Moreover, in moments of powerful emotion he was apt to become unsteady on his legs, and always filled me with terror lest in some of his headlong runs and