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And no doubt she had the pas, for the Lady Mayoress is queen of the river to within a certain distance of Temple Bar; but the good lady little knew of how much merriment she was the occasion.

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Some of our more fashionable friends in London complained of Somerset House “being a long way off,” that ambiguous term which, I suppose in those days, meant a long way from exclusive Mayfair. So indeed it was, but it was not far from the theatres, which, in my estimation, represented Elysium. We had two cousins, both influential in regard to position and fortune, but whose grandeur came home to me as being part proprietors of Drury Lane and the Lyceum. My father was a great lover of the drama, and would often apply for one or other of our kinsmen’s boxes. I can still recall the thrill of joy with which I used to see, on our return from a walk or drive, the large silver ticket, looking more like some official badge, which the Duke of Devonshire had sent us, lying on the hall table, promising a night of rapture—for my father generally stipulated that little Mary should be of the party. I well believe that if I gave myself a little trouble I could bring back to my mind the names of almost every play, and every actor and actress I ever saw in those schoolroom days. One piece in particular captivated my girlish fancy: it was called The Cornish Miners, and it is worth my while to remember it, for in that play I first saw those matchless artistes, the Keeleys (hear it, ye gods!) before their marriage. Yes, Mrs Keeley, I venture to hope you will honour this poor tribute with a perusal. It was there I saw Miss Howard, as the boy hero who volunteered to go down the shaft and rescue his comrades, from what peril, and in what manner, I cannot say. My father predicted the future success of the charming young actress, and I can recall even now the delightful comedian who ere long became her husband, with his laughter-provoking face, and lackadaisical air, carrying a lighted candle in the band of his miner’s cap.