in the cast; and the critics. It is a
source of great joy to my cousin to see that on these occasion the
managers know how to put the critics in their proper places, grouping
them, for instance, in rows of stalls bearing the more remote letters of
the alphabet, whilst between them and the footlights come the deadheads
of the other varieties.

Personally, I wonder whether it is wise to put the gentry of the pen in
seats from which they often hear with difficulty, and see without
accuracy, in rows of seats normally belonging to the pit, and merely
posing, _pro hoc vice_, as stalls, and situate in the headachy region
underneath the dress circle.

According to my cousin, the first-night deadheads, as a body, are
unpunctual and unappreciative. They chatter a good deal and seem more
interested in the audience than the play, and might well be replaced by
the many people who would be glad to plank down their money for a seat.
Let them go; and I warrant the managers will be none the worse--I
should, indeed, except the gentlemen of the Fourth Estate.

The case of myself and the deadheads of other nights is quite different.
The managers will find it difficult to do without us.

We are present as much for their benefit as for our pleasure.

_Constatons les faits_, if I may borrow another phrase from the French.
Under what circumstances are we invited? When a play is doing good
business? Certainly not. It is when the company are discussing in
whispers whether the notice will go up or not, that the Fiery Cross is
sent round to us and we come and fill the house. Without us there would
be an aching void, and the few paying people, aghast at the gloom, would
spread very bad reports. Managers, like nature, abhor a vacuum. Our
presence saves the situation and the face of the management. No doubt
our assistance is often vain, but the cases are numerous when, thanks to
us, the management has been able to tide over a bad week or two during a
run.

"They also serve who only sit and watch" is our motto, taken, you will
see, from a line by the "organ-mouthed voice of England." Would not
_Dorothy_ have died young but for our intervention? Would not _The Lion
and the Mouse_ have enjoyed the success it deserved if we had been
called in to dress the house until the public had discovered the piece?
Many are the cases where, during weeks of bad weather or sudden gloom
we have rallied loyally to the theatre and kept a play going.

Do services