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It happened to be the Tide, and going into the Gas Field I fell in with the proprietor of a travelling theatre, a Frenchman, rejoicing in the name of “Billy Shanteney.” He asked me to join his company, which I eventually did. At night, before the performance commenced, I paraded on the platform outside as a gay spangled warrior, and while thus engaged I was somewhat astonished to behold my uncle Joshua making his way to what seemed the entrance, but he darted on to me and attempted to drag me, as he himself said, “back home.” However, I didn’t go back home, and we went on with the performance. At the close of the Tide week, the company went to Idle, and I went with them; and thence to the Bradford Fairground. It goes without saying that when Bill o’th’ Hoylus End was playing as a king one night and next morning getting a red herring to his breakfast, there was something radically wrong somewhere. Still I had a hearty reverence for the “silvery fish,” as will be apparent from the sentiments in the following