round upon a tight-rope while playing most sweetly upon a virginal.
Last, but far the best in my estimation, was the grand play at the
Portsdown Fair, entitled 'The true and ancient story of Maudlin, the
merchant's daughter of Bristol, and of her lover Antonio. How they were
cast away on the shores of Barbary, where the mermaids are seen floating
upon the sea and singing in the rocks, foretelling their danger.'
This little piece gave me keener pleasure than ever in after years I
received from the grandest comedies of Mr. Congreve and of Mr. Dryden,
though acted by Kynaston, Betterton, and the whole strength of the
King's own company. At Chichester once I remember that I paid a penny
to see the left shoe of the youngest sister of Potiphar's wife, but as
it looked much like any other old shoe, and was just about the size to
have fitted the show-woman, I have often feared that my penny fell into
the hands of rogues.

There were other shows, however, which I might see for nothing, and yet
were more real and every whit as interesting as any for which I paid.
Now and again upon a holiday I was permitted to walk down to
Portsmouth--once I was even taken in front of my father upon his pad
nag, and there I wandered with him through the streets with wondering
eyes, marvelling over the strange sights around me. The walls and the
moats, the gates and the sentinels, the long High Street with the great
government buildings, and the constant rattle of drums and blare of
trumpets; they made my little heart beat quicker beneath my sagathy
stuff jacket. Here was the house in which some thirty years before the
proud Duke of Buckingham had been struck down by the assassin's dagger.
There, too, was the Governor's dwelling, and I remember that even as I
looked he came riding up to it, red-faced and choleric, with a nose such
as a Governor should have, and his breast all slashed with gold. 'Is he
not a fine man?' I said, looking up at my father. He laughed and drew