the humblest; and the
less imposing titles of Jenkins, Walker, Thomson, Barker, Solomons, &c.,
are completely laid aside. There is something imposing in this, and it
is an excellent apology for shabbiness into the bargain. A shrunken,
faded coat, a decayed hat, a patched and soiled pair of trousers--nay,
even a very dirty shirt (and none of these appearances are very uncommon
among the members of the _corps dramatique_), may be worn for the purpose
of disguise, and to prevent the remotest chance of recognition. Then it
prevents any troublesome inquiries or explanations about employment and
pursuits; everybody is a gentleman at large, for the occasion, and there
are none of those unpleasant and unnecessary distinctions to which even
genius must occasionally succumb elsewhere. As to the ladies (God bless
them), they are quite above any formal absurdities; the mere circumstance
of your being behind the scenes is a sufficient introduction to their
society--for of course they know that none but strictly respectable
persons would be admitted into that close fellowship with them, which
acting engenders. They place implicit reliance on the manager, no doubt;
and as to the manager, he is all affability when he knows you well,--or,
in other words, when he has pocketed your money once, and entertains
confident hopes of doing so again.

A quarter before eight--there will be a full house to-night--six parties
in the boxes, already; four little boys and a woman in the pit; and two
fiddles and a flute in the orchestra, who have got through five overtures
since seven o'clock (the hour fixed for the commencement of the
performances), and have just begun the sixth. There will be plenty of
it, though, when it does begin, for there is enough in the bill to last
six hours at least.

That gentleman in the white hat and checked shirt, brown coat and brass
buttons, lounging behind the stage-box on the O. P. side, is Mr. Horatio
St. Julien, alias Jem Larkins. His line is genteel comedy--his father's,
coal and potato. He _does_ Alfred Highflier in the last piece, and very
well he'll do it--at the price. The party of gentlemen in the opposite
box, to whom he has just nodded, are friends and supporters of Mr.
Beverley (otherwise Loggins), the _Macbeth_ of the night. You observe
their attempts to appear easy and gentlemanly, each member of the party,
with his feet cocked upon the cushion in front of the box! They let them
do these thing