me at the time, and is inextricably mixed up with my Newman Street memories.
It was not until I had been at Leigh’s some little time that I entered a theatre. Surprising as this statement may appear, it must be remembered that I had been strictly brought up, and taught to look on a theatre as a temple of sin, to be shunned by all good boys and girls. An old school-fellow called one evening for me at Newman Street, as he wished to have my advice on some subject which could only be told to my private ear. He asked if I would take a walk with him ; we pre- sently found ourselves near what was then called the Queen’s Theatre in Tottenham Street, an obscure enough place then, since made famous under the management of the Bancrofts. At the time of which I write, it was irreverently termed the Royal Pill-Box or the Royal Dust-Hole, the former title in allusion to its size, the latter, I pre- sume, because its pretensions to cleanliness were not conspicuous. The evening was sufficiently advanced for the hour of half-price to have begun. My friend proposed we should enter. Curiosity having been aroused, I required little persuasion, and in we went. Here indeed was a new world to me ; it seemed a compendium of all the fairy tales I had ever read, the “Arabian Nights,” and Scott’s novels. At this distance of time I well
