soon released from durance by the kindly intervention of Lord Chancellor Thurlow, whose daughters Astley had taught riding. Subsequently the chancellor was instrumental in obtaining a license for Astley's Amphitheatre, and the magistrates saw fit to sanction the opening of the Royal Circus. The two theatres now entered upon a course of rivalry of a most active kind.

Astley, jealous of his "birthright," as he was wont to consider his precedence in establishing an amphitheatre on the Surrey side of the Thames, now followed the example of the Royal Circus, and added a stage to his ring. He embellished his house after a new fashion, painting the interior to resemble foliage, and gave the theatre the new name of the Royal Grove. A substantial roof now protected the circus or riding-school. The timber employed in this improvement he obtained on very moderate terms. In those days, after a Westminster election, it was the privilege of the mob to pull down and appropriate the planks and poles that had composed the hustings in Covent Garden. Astley announced his willingness to purchase these materials, and was soon the possessor of a sufficient supply.

During the intervals of his seasons at the Royal Grove, Astley carried his troupe of equestrians and voltigeurs to Dublin and Paris, and established amphitheatres in both those cities. In Paris he originated the cirque known to modern times as Franconi's. It was in 1786 that young Astley had the honour of exhibiting his feats of strength and agility in the presence of the Court of Versailles. The king and queen, much impressed with his skill as an equestrian, his grace of port and symmetry of figure, presented him with a gold medal set with diamonds, and surnamed him the English Rose, in allusion to the title of the French Rose, which had been bestowed upon that most renowned of male dancers, the elder Vestris. In Paris, however, Astley brought upon himself the interference of the police. His endeavour to erect a stage was met by a prohibition at the instance of a M. Nicolai, the proprietor of a rival entertainment. But Astley discomfited opposition by so contriving that his stage rested upon the backs of sixteen horses, harnessed, tackled, and arranged after a plan of his own. Upon this platform he could exhibit such feats and tricks as seemed good to him, while the entertainment was still within the terms of his license to present equestrian performances only.

The man's life was one of unremitting

enterprise and energy. Occasionally, however, his passion for speculation ended disastrously. He attempted to establish floating baths in the Thames off Westminster, and with this view constructed a covered vessel of enormous proportions. This great bathing machine, however, found little favour-it was not a washing generation. After a few years the scheme was abandoned, and the floating bath broken up and sold for firewood. On the king's birthday he gave a grand display of fireworks from barges moored in the centre of the Thames off Lambeth. So many accidents resulted from this exhibition that it was in time abandoned. In lieu of it he established a boat-race, and gave a wherry as a prize to the winner. He was an expert swimmer, and one day for a wager floated on his back in the Thames from Westminster Bridge to Blackfriars, with a flag erect in each hand.

The French Revolution hindered for some time his performances in Paris. His amphitheatre was converted into barracks. After the peace of Amiens, however, he prosecuted his claims before the First | Consul, regained possession of his premises, and obtained rent for the whole period of their occupancy by the troops of the Revolution.

He had previously resumed his old profession, and served on the Continent in the army of the Duke of York. And the veteran trooper had anew distinguished himself. In a retreat, by a spirited manoeuvre, he had recaptured a piece of ordnance, drawn by four horses, which the French were carrying away. The royal commander, greatly pleased, straightway I gave him the four horses as a reward for his activity. Astley immediately sold the steeds by auction on the field, and expended the proceeds in refreshments for the comrades of his troop.

On the 16th of August, 1794, the Royal Grove Theatre was burnt to the ground. The duke, reading an account of the fire in the newspapers, at once gave Astley leave of absence to return home, and, if possible, retrieve his heavy loss. With extraordinary activity he set to work to rebuild his house in Lambeth, and meanwhile engaged the old Lyceum Theatre for equestrian performances. On Easter Monday, 1795, he was enabled to open a new Amphitheatre of Arts greatly superior in size, elegance, and convenience to his former house. He now advanced the rate of charges for admission, and ventured upon performances of a more pretentious character. On the

score of his military achievements, he obtained the patronage both of the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York, and in 1798 was permitted, for the first time, to bestow upon his establishment the title of Astley's Royal Amphitheatre. After the peace he acquired great popularity by admitting soldiers of all ranks gratis to his performances, and providing special seats adjoining the orchestra for their accommodation. The audience crowded the theatre merely to look at the troops fresh from the war, and a spectacle of the Siege of Valenciennes, produced with great completeness, attracted all London. It may be added that, previous to the real siege, Astley had been of service to the government in superintending the shipping of the horses of the artillery from Greenwich and Woolwich. When King George and his sons returned from witnessing the disembarkation of the victorious army, they passed the doors of the amphitheatre, and received the salute of its manager, attired in the Windsor uniform, and mounted upon a splendidly caparisoned charger.

Who is that, Frederick ?" asked the king.

"Mr. Astley, sir," explained the Duke of York; "one of our good friends-a veteran-one that fought in the German war." Thereupon the sovereign bowed in his most gracious manner to the equestrian. Astley's delight was extreme. For days he could say nothing to his friends but, "The king bowed specially to me. What do you think of that, my dear boy ?"

But the brief peace brought great peril and fresh troubles to Astley. He was in Paris on the eve of the issue of the famous decree for the detention of all English subjects in France. News reached him that his amphitheatre had again been destroyed by fire. A passport could not possibly be procured. He feigned illness, and obtained permission to proceed to Montpellier to drink the waters. From thence, accompanied by two of his nieces, he journeyed to the frontier, and by constantly exhibiting a brace of pistols he compelled the postilion to force his horses to their topmost speed. The frontier crossed, he proceeded more leisurely to Frankfort, where he learned of the death of his wife. From Frankfort he journeyed north, and at length was able to take ship for England. His safe arrival excited the greatest surprise. His friends had all concluded that he was one of the unfortunates made prisoners under the Milan decree.

The second burning of the amphitheatre

involved a loss of thirty thousand pounds, of which little more than a sixth was covered by insurance. Very shortly after his return, however, Astley laid the first stone of a new building, which was completed in sufficient time to open on Easter Monday, 1804. He was his own architect, and supervised the works unceasingly. Early or late, hail, rain, frost, snow, or sunshine impeded him not. There he was, drilling the men at their work, as if he had been training a regiment of soldiers for the rigid duties of a winter's campaign." So writes a member of his company.

Astley now retired from active interest in the control of the establishment, still receiving, however, one clear half of the annual profits. The other half went to young Astley, who was manager, and had for partners Messrs. Parker, Hardy, Crossman, Smith, and Davis, who had probably found the capital requisite for the reconstruction of the theatre. But the elder equestrian could not long endure to be idle. He was old, bent, and grey, had grown very rotund of figure, and suffered severely at times from the wound he had received in his youth. Still he felt there was life in him yet. He could not hope to present himself any more in the circus as a performer, but the career of a manager was still open to him. Why should he not establish a new amphitheatre on the Middlesex side of the Thames? He obtained a sixty years lease, from the Earl of Craven, of a shapeless piece of ground in Wychstreet, Strand, which had recently been cleared by the removal of a rookery of unsavoury tenements, and set to work to build the Olympic Pavilion. Some old naval prizes being then on sale, he purchased the timber of a French man-of-war (he always described the vessel as the "Wheel de Parry'), and with the masts, yards, and bowsprit, he formed the main props and supports of his new playhouse. Seated in his one-horse chaise, barely spacious enough to contain his redundant portliness, he was in attendance day after day, directing his workmen, and, with his old vehemence, urging on the completion of the building. There was little brickwork, the interior being in the form of a tent, and the roof of tin. The accommodation for the audience consisted of one tier of boxes and a pit, in the rear of which was what was called the gallery, separated from the pit by iron chains. The theatre, which cost him eight hundred pounds only, was opened to the public in 1806, under a license obtained through the influence of

the manager of Covent Garden, who had complained of the insubordination of his company, "Why don't you serve your performers as I do mine? Never let 'em have anything to eat till they've done acting." When told by his master-carpenter that it would be impossible to produce a new play by the time he had fixed for its performance, he demanded angrily, "Who's Mr. Impossible, sir? I don't know him. I never heard of him. He don't live in this house, sir! and he never shall! Go to your work!" He was obeyed, and the piece was duly forthcoming at the stated date. "Do you think you are dealing with your horses?" John Kemble asked him once, with superb scorn, when a dispute had arisen in regard to the rent to be paid for the Liverpool Theatre, the property of the tragedian, which Astley had hired for a season. "D-n you, sir!" cried Astley, hotly, "and do you think you are going to play Richard the Third over me!" But, with all his peremptory speech and roughness of manner, he seems to have been affectionately regarded by the members of his company. He was straightforward in his dealings with them, and had real consideration for their interests. Still it was not advisable for them to run counter to his opinions as a stage-manager. Of the public he was certainly a most faithful servant, and laboured most assiduously for their entertainment. And he succeeded in winning a higher place in general regard for equestrian performances than they had ever previously attained. From first to last he constructed no fewer than nineteen amphitheatres.

CASTAWAY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "BLACK SHEEP," "WRECKED IN PORT," &c. &c.

BOOK III.

CHAPTER IX. A CRISIS.

On the morning after the dinner given by the directors of the Friendly Grasp Insurance Office, on the occasion of their half-yearly audit, at which Doctor Asprey and Mr. Delabole had been present, the last-named gentleman, attired in a gorgeous dressing-gown, now and then making a slight addition to his toilet, now and then taking stray snatches of breakfast from the well-laden table, and all the time glancing at the newspaper which he carried about with him, suddenly saw the end of a letter sticking out from the rack which formed the usual receptacle for his correspondence in his absence.

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'Strange," said Mr. Delabole, laying aside the newspaper, and advancing towards the rack, "that I did not notice this last night. It must have been there, but I must have overlooked it in my eagerness to get at Irving's reply. From my dear Philip, eh! Now, what can he want ?" he muttered, as he tore open the envelope and hastily perused its contents.

Mr. Delabole's eyebrows, at first uplifted, then contracted, betokened astonishment and dissatisfaction at what he read. "Two or three days away from London, and he's to be married to-morrow week, and to travel for at least a month. What can take him away just now? You're a slippery customer, Master Philip," continued Mr. Delabole, shaking his head as he apostrophised his absent friend, "a very slippery customer! And yet what a clever fellow! What an admirable notion that was of getting Asprey to insist on old Heriot's people keeping from the invalid all letters and telegrams, anything touching on business matters! That secures us from any chance of discovery during the next few days, which are all important. Irving has now been informed that his friend has signed the memorandum of association, thereby testifying to his belief in the soundness of the concern. He will probably write or telegraph at once to Springside, but neither his letter nor his message will be shown to his friend. In forty-eight hours, perhaps, in a week at furthest, according to Asprey's idea, old Heriot will be dead. His illness will be sufficient excuse for his not having replied to his friend's inquiry, and Mr. Irving will stand committed to the subscription of a good round sum to prop the falling fortunes of the Terra del Fuegos mine.

"That cutting off the invalid from all communication with the outside world was Vane's idea, and the signature-how admirably it was done! but Master Philip must not think that I am paid in full, or that I intend to make no further use of that information which I was lucky enough to obtain. Now that he has done what I require, he shall marry the widow without any unpleasant suggestion on my part of Miss What's-her-name, the actress, and the Chepstow register. But when he returns to town I shall have to talk to him like a parent about the investment of Mrs. Bendixen's sixty thousand pounds. Meanwhile, I wonder what can take him away just now? I will send for Gillman, andby Jove! I had forgotten it was Sunday!" he cried, as the ringing of the church bells

broke upon his ear; "Sunday, when Gillman is probably enjoying his domestic felicity at Camden Town, and would object to being disturbed. However, I will send for him to-morrow morning, and put him on the scent again."

Mr. Delabole's guess as to the manner in which Mr. Gillman was spending his Sabbath was not entirely correct. In an In an ordinary way Mr. Gillman was in the habit of devoting himself to his family on a Sunday, and spending the morning in washing himself-a proceeding which, with him, was not daily but hebdomadal; getting rid of the growth of a straggling but stubborn beard, putting on his Sunday suit, consisting of swallow-tail black coat, rusty black trousers, and black satin waistcoat very much frayed at the pockets, and his Sunday shirt, which was exuberant in waving collar and bulging breast, but fell short in the matter of wristband. Thus magnificently arrayed, Mr. Gillman, after presiding over the one o'clock dinner, and smoking a long clay pipe, as he indoctrinated himself with the politics of the Sunday newspaper, and glowed with delight as he read the fulminations of Brutus against a dissipated aristocracy, would take the children for a very wretched and melancholy walk, from which they would all return draggled, and wearied, and cross; and Mr. Gillman would not recover his equanimity until, the children having been duly slapped and sent to bed, he and Mrs. G. would settle down to a quiet "bit of supper" and a glass of "something hot," over which they would discuss their family and their neighbours until bedtime.

This, however, was an extraordinary occasion. It was, indeed, one o'clock, and on Sunday; but instead of being at home, dispensing portions of the baked shoulder of mutton and the potatoes swimming beneath it in a brown dish, Mr. Gillman was seated in an up-stairs room of the Dog and Duck at Mortlake, an untouched glass of ale and a clean pipe on the table before him. Mr. Gillman was in his

working-day suit, which was merely a shabby repetition of his Sabbath garb, minus the black satin waistcoat. He was engaged on a secret mission, and it was most important that he should not be recognised; but though his whole life was passed in spying and dogging, in listening and marking down, Mr. Gillman never condescended to the adoption of disguise. He had a very mean opinion of the detective police in general, and of their conduct in such matters in particular. "What is the

use," he would remark, "of a policeman dressing up himself as a butcher or a cabman, or what not? He don't get rid of his policeman's hands, does he? he don't get rid of his policeman's feet, does he? You could swear to both of 'em anywhere, just as if they were in berlins and bluchers. Besides, if you don't want to be seen don't show yourself, leastways to make any mark. Did you see any one go by?' perhaps they ask. 'Yes,' says you, having noticed, I saw a butcher or a cabby.' No one can tell what I am; all they could say is, 'I saw a man, and not much of that neither.'"

Mr. Gillman's companion, however—for he was not alone-evidently did not entertain the same idea. When he first entered the room, his wideawake hat was pulled down over his brow, the collar of his coat was pushed up over his ear, and it was not until he had looked round and ascertained, without doubt, that they were quite alone, that he emerged from his wrappings, and showed the somewhat worn and anxious features of Mr. Philip Vane.

The conference between this worthy pair had been long, and, on Philip Vane's part, animated. He had asked his questions impetuously, cogitated over the replies, and expressed his determination with a vehemence which seemed to awake no response in Mr. Gillman's quiet little frame. Drawing hieroglyphical figures with the stem of the empty pipe on the beer-stained table before him, Mr. Gillman sat, speak || ing only when he was spoken to, and then packing his reply into the smallest possible

compass.

"And that was the last time you heard of her ?" asked Philip Vane, after a pause of some minutes' duration.

"The very last," replied Mr. Gillman. "Employed in the telegraph-office at Springside?"

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Exactly; she and her sister got in " there through the influence of a clergyman, name of–

"Never mind his name," interrupted Vane, "I don't want that now. All this coincides exactly with my own ideas upon the subject."

"I shall have a spare day or two this week, Mr. V., I expect," said Gillman, "and I could run down to Springside if you wish it, and-"

"No, not the slightest occasion for you to do that. You have brought the inquiry to a perfectly satisfactory conclusion. And there," laying the note on the table, are the ten pounds I promised you."