er entrance; C., centre of the
stage; R.C., right of centre; CD., centre-door. That to go D.S. or U.S.
was an intimation that you would do well to go down stage or up stage,
while an X. to C. was a terse request for you to cross to the centre of
the stage, and that a whole lot of other letters meant a whole lot of
other directions that would only bore a reader.

I understood how many illusions were produced, and one of the proofs that
I was meant to be an actress was to be found in my enjoyment of the
mechanism of stage effects. I was always on hand when a storm had to be
worked, and would grind away with a will at the crank that, turning a
wheel against a tight band of silk, made the sound of a tremendously
shrieking wind, which filled me with pride and personal satisfaction. And
no one sitting in front of the house looking at a white-robed woman
ascending to heaven, apparently floating upward through the blue clouds,
enjoyed the spectacle more than I enjoyed looking at the ascent from the
rear, where I could see the tiny iron support for her feet, the rod at
her back with the belt holding her securely about the waist (just as
though she were standing on a large hoe, with the handle at her back),
and the men hoisting her through the air, with a painted, sometimes
moving, sky behind her.

This reminds me that Mrs. Bradshaw had several times to go to heaven
(dramatically speaking), and as her figure and weight made the hoe
support useless in her case, she always went to heaven on the entire
paint-frame or gallery, as it is called--a long platform the whole width
of the stage that is raised and lowered at will by windlass, and on which
the artists stand while painting scenery. This enormous affair would be
cleaned and hung about with nice blue clouds, and then Mrs. Bradshaw,
draped in long, white robes, with hands meekly crossed upon her ample
breast and eyes piously uplifted, would rise heavenward, slowly, as so
heavy an angel should. But, alas! there was one drawback to this
otherwise perfect ascension. Never, so long as the theatre stood, could
that windlass be made to work silently. The paint-gallery always moved up
or down to a succession of screaks unoilable, untamable, blood-curdling,
that were intensified by Mrs. Bradshaw's weight, so that she ascended to
the blue tarlatan empyrean accompanied by such chugs and long-drawn
yowlings as suggested a trip to the infernal regions. Mrs. Bradshaw's
face remained calm and