be inveigled into partaking of the flowing bowl,
there is no knowing but that under the generous
influence of liquor you might 'see' that notion
of his and accept it." Further, I would have
said, "When you see an author—if you ever
should consent to see one—give him an
interview in your own business-room, and don't have
a fire. Chill him by cold words, an empty grate,
and the sight of a cartload of rejected
manuscripts." If I refrained from giving my young
friend this lecture, it was in the belief that he
would learn it all from experience in due time.

"Come and see my theatre," he said, when
the greetings were over.

"With all heart," I replied, and away we
went.

How eagerly, with what a quick step, he led me
to the well-remembered place! Anxious, I see,
to show me the wonders of his world. I quite
envy him as he skips up the box-stairs, past money
and check takers, without pausing either to pay
or to parley. Fancy bouncing into a theatre that
way, all the officials clearing out of your path
and touching their hats to you! The money-taker
is a little doubtful about me, until my friend,
the manager, gives him a nod, when he lets
me pass, somewhat sulkily, as if he felt it
was not right to let everybody bounce up
the stairs in that fashion. My friend takes a
great bunch of keys from his pocket—the keys
of those gates of Delight, the private boxes, and
the private door through to the stage—that
mysterious little closed portal which we meaner
mortals gaze at with so much awe when we
pass down to the stalls. I begin to regard my
friend as a sort of St. Peter.

He takes me into the manager's box—sacred
place—and bids me look at the—not the stage,
the pride of the manager is upon him now—at
the house. "Look, look," he says, "at the
gallery—at the pit—at the boxes—at the stalls."
A brave "house" truly, a sight to do a
manager's heart good. But, dear, dear, how our
notions change! I have known the time when
my friend had no eyes but for the stage. Now
he turns his back to the stage, and gazes with
beaming eyes upon the "house;" upon those
unwashed noisy boys in the gallery. In other
times, when he was a dramatic author pure and
simple—very simple—he would have cursed
those noisy gallery boys. But now he doesn't
mind their noise at all; he is thinking of their
sixpences.

When I am permitted to look at the stage, I
see a performance quite up to the London mark
in all its leading features. The scenery, dresses,
properties, and appointments strike me as being
superior to the general run of such things in
the great centre. But, just as I am getting
interested in the play, I am hurried away to see
another theatre. If I were not being hurried
along so, I am sure I should be struck with awe.
Just fancy holding the keys—all the keys—of
two theatres. I am gasping out in an apostrophe
to my friend, "Great Being," when he opens
the door of the manager's box, pushes me in and
says:

"Look at the house! look at the gallery!
look at the pit! look at the boxes!" He cannot
say, look at the stalls, for there are none;
but I notice that he always begins with the
gallery first. O ye gods, seated in the worst
seats, placed at the greatest distance from the
stage, offensively kept in awe by policemen,
insulted by printed intimations not to whistle and
crack nuts—did ye but know your value, your
virtue in the eyes of the manager! Hereditary
bondsmen, know ye not that you are the
thews and sinews of the theatrical land; that
ye are the mainstay and support of the state
dramatic; that in your dirty shirt-sleeves, with
all your nut-cracking, and whistling, and "up
with them borders," ye are more loved by the
manager than all those genteel people in the
upper boxes, with opera-cloaks and white kid
gloves, aye, better than a good many of the
genteel people in the stalls and dress circle?
They come in with orders; ye pay your six-
pences like men—nay, like gods, as ye are. As
regards theatricals in the kingdom of Coin, Six-
pence is King.

I do look at the gallery, at the pit, at the
boxes. A crowded house is at all times an
exhilarating spectacle, even when you are not
interested in the sixpences. It is well known
that actors are depressed by a poor attendance.
They say they act better when the house is full.
We, spectators, can readily understand this;
for is not our enjoyment of a play enhanced
when we are among many? On the other
hand, we all know how poor and cold the
performance seems when the audience is thin.
I believe in animal magnetism and electro-
biology so far; there is a vivifying power in
a multitude of eyes and animated faces. The
sight acts as a stimulant. Try it, one of these
pantomime nights, from the boxes of Drury
Lane or Covent Garden. They cannot present
you with anything half as wonderful on the
stage side of the house.

My young friend, philosopher, guide, and
manager has yet another theatre, which also
owns him lord, to show me. We don't want
a cab; all the three theatres are within a
stone's throw of each other. A light-comedy
skip or two across the flags, and we enter
a covered carriage-way, leading to the
principal entrances. No one shall ever get wet
here waiting for a cab or carriage. Through
the entrance-hall, up a flight of stone stairs,
and I found myself in a noble saloon—not a
place made flashy by mirrors and gilding, but
a handsome apartment, designed, decorated,
and furnished in the best taste. The doors and
panels are chastely inlaid; the huge marble
fireplace is a work of art, not of mere masonry;
the carpet and hangings are of the richest
materials. I want to linger here to wonder and
admire; but I am dragged on to view the house.

Another bunch of keys. The third! Mercy
on us! How is it that my young friend is still
here on earth? How is it that he has not gone
up, balloon-like, and settled in the seventh
heaven, a constellation for all men to admire at