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“Don’t you do it,” shouted one earnest Student of the Drama, from the Gallery; “she’s all right. Keep her there!”

The old idiot paid no attention to our advice; he argued the matter to himself. “‘Tis but a trifling request,” he remarked; “and it will make her happy.”

“Yes, but what about us?” replied the same voice from the Gallery. “You don’t know her. You’ve only just come on; we’ve been listening to her all the evening. She’s quiet now, you let her be.”

“Oh, let me out, if only for one moment!” shrieked the poor woman. “I have something that I must say to my child.”

“Write it on a bit of paper, and pass it out,” suggested a voice from the Pit. “We’ll see that he gets it.”

“Shall I keep a mother from her dying child?” mused the turnkey. “No, it would be inhuman.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” persisted the voice of the Pit; “not in this instance. It’s too much talk that has made the poor child ill.”

The turnkey would not be guided by us. He opened the cell door amidst the execrations of the whole house. She talked to her child for about five minutes, at the end of which time it died.

“Ah, he is dead!” shrieked the distressed parent.

“Lucky beggar!” was the unsympathetic rejoinder of the house.

Sometimes the criticism of the audience would take the form of remarks, addressed by one gentleman to another. We had been listening one night to a play in which action seemed to be unnecessarily subordinated to dialogue, and somewhat poor dialogue at that. Suddenly, across the wearying talk from the stage, came the stentorian whisper–

“Jim!”

“Hallo!”

“Wake me up when the play begins.”

This was followed by an ostentatious sound as of snoring. Then the voice of the second speaker was heard–

“Sammy!”

His friend appeared to awake.

“Eh? Yes? What’s up? Has anything happened?”

“Wake you up at half-past eleven in any event, I suppose?”

“Thanks, do, sonny.” And the critic slept again.

Yes, we took an interest in our plays then. I wonder shall I ever enjoy the British Drama again as I enjoyed it in those days? Shall I ever enjoy a supper again as I enjoyed the tripe and onions washed down with bitter beer at the bar of the old Albion? I have tried many suppers after the theatre since then, and some, when friends have been in generous mood, have been expensive and elaborate. The cook may have come from Paris, his portrait may be in the illustrated papers, his salary may be reckoned by hundreds; but there is something wrong with his art, for all that, I miss a flavour in his meats. There is a sauce lacking.

Nature has her coinage, and demands payment in her own currency. At Nature’s shop it is you yourself must pay. Your unearned increment, your inherited fortune, your luck, are not legal tenders across her counter.

You want a good appetite. Nature is quite willing to supply you. “Certainly, sir,” she replies, “I can do you a very excellent article indeed. I have here a real genuine hunger and thirst that will make your meal a delight to you. You shall eat heartily and with zest, and you shall rise from the table refreshed, invigorated, and cheerful.”

“Just the very thing I want,” exclaims the gourmet delightedly. “Tell me the price.”

“The price,” answers Mrs. Nature, “is one long day’s hard work.”

The customer’s face falls; he handles nervously his heavy purse.

“Cannot I pay for it in money?” he asks. “I don’t like work, but I am a rich man, I can afford to keep French cooks, to purchase old wines.”

Nature shakes her head.

“I cannot take your cheques, tissue and nerve are my charges. For these I can give you an appetite that will make a rump-steak and a tankard of ale more delicious to you than any dinner that the greatest chef in Europe could put before you. I can even promise you that a hunk of bread and cheese shall be a banquet to you; but you must pay my price in my money; I do not deal in yours.”