the theatre night after night, naturally demanding that
constant change of programme which so distinguished the old stage, and
has been so completely omitted from modern theatrical arrangements,
and were almost personally known to the actors. This, of course, only
refers to the visitors to the pit and boxes; the galleries were always
presumed to be occupied by footmen and apprentices, and persons of no
consideration whatever, while stalls were not yet in existence.
Strangers from the country were few--those from foreign parts fewer
still. The theatre was regarded, as it were, from a household point of
view; was in some sort supplementary to a man's home, and he therefore
considered himself entitled to be heard and to take a personal
interest in regard to its concerns and proceedings. Necessarily this
feeling diminished as London grew in size and the audience increased
in numbers, and finally became impossible. An actor knew at last his
admirers only in the mass; while they lost inevitably all individual
and private interest in his success. But long after the London
players had ceased to make calls and to solicit patronage for their
benefits, the practice still obtained in the provinces, and could on
no account be abandoned. Thus, in early life, when a member of the
country company of which her father, Roger Kemble, was manager, the
great Mrs. Siddons has been seen, as a contemporary writer describes,
"walking up and down both sides of a street in a provincial town,
dressed in a red woollen cloak, such as was formerly worn by menial
servants, and knocking at each door to deliver the playbill of her
benefit." And to come to a later instance, the reader may bear in mind
that before that ornament of Mr. Crummles's company, Miss Snevellici,
took her benefit or "bespeak" at the Portsmouth Theatre, she, in
company with Nicholas Nickleby, and, for propriety's sake, the Infant
Phenomenon, canvassed her patrons in the town, and sold tickets to Mr.
and Mrs. Curdle, Mrs. Borum, and others.

In pursuance of this principle, we find a notice in the bill for Mr.
Bickerstaff's benefit, at Drury Lane, in May, 1723: "Bickerstaff being
confined to his bed by his lameness, and his wife lying now dead, has
nobody to wait on the quality and his friends for him, but hopes
they'll favour him with their appearance." And when, just before Mr.
Ryan's benefit at Covent Garden in 1735, he had been attacked by a
footpad and seriously injured--severa