WEL

'card of invitation' which I had received. But, still my 'invitation' to attend the Reading of a Play in the Green-room' was quite as much deserving of the appellation as are the invitations of the hundreds of young gentlemen who, anxious to show their dainty persons in what are called ' good houses' in London Society, 'tout' for the coveted privilege with a zeal, a persistence, and an indefatigable effrontery, which are frequently rewarded with the happiest ends to their aims.

Now, all the success obtained by the young gentlemen above mentioned has seldom the result of actually bringing them permanently within the pale of good society; and as little did the success of my modest efforts to obtain an entrance within the sacred precincts of a theatre-the goal of my ambition-place me permanently in that close communion with the stage, and all its elements, for which I had so ardently longed. My first, my last, my only introduction within one of those mysterious temples of dramatic art, the dingy interiors of which were to my imagination halls of dazzling light, was in this wise.

From my earliest childhood all my thoughts, all my aspirations, all my day-dreams have, by some mysterious influence, been riveted on the drama and the stage. I say 'mysterious,' because nothing in education or early association can account for its power over me. It seemed like a gift, for good or

for evil, bestowed on me, at my birth, by a fairy godmother. It was an inborn instinct, I assert, in spite of any wise philosophical or psychological theory to the contrary. What volumes of plays have I not read, as soon as I could read for my own amusement, when other boys hankered after books of travel or works of fiction! What sets' of scenes have I not discovered in valley and rock, and river and terraced stairs! With what awe, mixed with deferential admiration, have I not gazed on a man of no very prepossessing appearance, when I was told he was actually a 'live actor;' wondering all the while how such a mighty being could tread the common streets like other common mortals.

was

Chance one day threw me in the way of that 'gifted creature'he was a 'gifted creature' in my esteem-a dramatic author! My delight, when the wonderful man actually addressed me in familiar terms, can never be forgotten. That we should ever be friends an idea then beyond all my most ardent hopes. Yet friends we did become, spite of the shyness of my homage. I heard from him of the stage, of the actors of the day, of the interiors of theatres-and I drank in his every word with a wildly beating heart. I was never wearied of a conversation which he jeeringly called 'shop-talk.' But now wild aspirations began to spring up within me. Could I possibly, by the influence of the 'gifted creature,' ever penetrate

'behind the scenes?' My vague and modest hints to this intent did not seem to meet with any promise of a possible fulfilment of my desires, however; and I was even told that managers were very adverse to the admission of 'outsiders' within their mysterious realm.

My faint hopes had grown so faint as almost to have died of inanition, when one day I received a letter-I have ventured to call it a card of invitation.' It has been framed and glazed, and hung up in my pet sanctum, as I have known to be done by ambitious ladies with an invitation to Court. And yet it was no such great work of literary merit. It ran as follows (the words have been long since stereotyped on my brain):

'If it doesn't bore you, old fellow, you can come with me behind the scenes to-morrow-not at an evening performance, for that's no go, you know, besides being the dullest thing in life. But I am about to read a new play, which has just been accepted, in the Green-room of the theatre to-morrow at twelve. I told old Briggs, the manager, that you were my collaborateur, and must be present at the reading. So, if you like to come, you must put on the airs of a co-author, and not blow the gaff. Call for me at the G—, 11·45 sharp.'

If it didn't bore me! Good heavens! wasn't one of my most audacious hopes about to be realised? And I was to appear as an author-a dramatic author! What a halo, although an altogether false and spurious one, seemed suddenly to have been shed around my brow! I was to come before a dramatic public-a limited one, it is true-as a 'gifted creature' myself. How was I to demean myself? what 'airs' was

nervousness on debating these doubtful questions in my mind. To my shame, I must confess my utter want of all scruple in usurping a crown of glory which was not-never would be-mine. But I seemed lured on by a witchspell.

I slept little that night; and my dreams were feverish and wild.. On the next day I presented myself at the club, before the appointed hour, in my fear of being too late. My friend was not there. Had he forgotten his invitation to me? There was distraction in the thought. The appointed hour went by; and I had begun to despair, when I saw the gifted creature' coming along the street. I had expected to see him in a state of feverish excitement. He wore the calmest aspect imaginable. To what will not long habit bring a man? I thought. He simply said, 'Ah! here you are, old boy! Come along!' as he took my arm, and walked leisurely and impassively in the direction of the theatre. ventured, as we proceeded, to express my surprise at seeing him so little nervous. 'Not nervous?" he answered, with a laugh, ‘Of course I am awfully nervous. The reading of one's own play in a green-room is one of the most trying episodes in an author's career. Why, I am going to be put on the rack-thumb-screwed -tortured-flayed alive. You'll just see, my dear fellow. Not nervous? I should think I am, indeed! But you know the old saying about the skinning of eels.'

I

We arrived, by a narrow, dirty lane, before a dingy portal, on which were still discernible the half- obliterated letters, 'Stage Door.' Could this shabby, flapping block of wood be the entranceto the paradise of light, which I

aspired to see beyond? No time for thought. A nod and a word from my friend to a very shady old gentleman in a black nightcap, who sat behind a sort of glazed counter. I afterwards learned that this was an official dignified by the name of door keeper,' and I found myself dragged down some very rickety steps, which seemed to have remained unwashed since the Deluge, and then into a strange place, which at first looked to me like the abode of Chaos. A few straggling gleams of what might be sunlight without, but within seemed only streaks of faintly - lighted dust, made darkness visible.' Strange gaunt rows of woodwork and canvas were just discernible; glimpses of bare walls here and there the rest a mystery of depressing gloom. A sort of intuition seemed suddenly to reveal to me that I stood on the actual stage! Could this be? My foot on the boards of a stage! Could this chaotic space be the illuminated temple, in which I had so often worshipped, at a discreet distance, from the great altar of the drama? I trembled with a strange fever, swerved a little from the path along which I followed, stumbling, and caught sight of a semi-circular dark cavern beyond, draped with white sheets-a spectral cavern! I had scarce time to reflect whether it were possible that this might be the gorgeously painted and gilded auditorium, the 'hall of dazzling light' in which I had so often sat, a humble neophyte-when my friend the author seized me by the hand, and with the cry, 'Hallo! where are you going? This way, old boy,' pulled me in my bewildered state through a doorway, at which I again stumbled on a step, and nearly fell.

Where was I? In a narrow

room, furnished only with benches round the walls, a table flanked by a chair or two, a glass over a mantelpiece, an old piano, and a water-tap in a corner, with a small basin. It was not at first that I took in these scanty accessories of the scene. The room, with its dingy drab paper, conveyed at first a very indistinct impression, imperfectly lighted as it was by a window looking out on a lane. It was only by degrees that the consciousness forced itself on me that this was the redoubtable 'green - room,' the mysterious sanctuary where celebrated actors and actresses-they were all 'celebrated' in my esteem-congregated at night in gorgeous attire; where wit and pleasant jest abounded nightly-such, at least, was the vain fancy of my inexperience and where the 'gifted creature' was about to read that dramatic work which was to bring him additional fame. Alas, how my previous illusions fell! This the

green-room' of a theatre! This dreary and prosaic hole the sanctuary of sanctuaries! Where, too, was the traditional colour of the walls? There was nothing 'green' about the place, except in the baize cloth on the table, and -if the stale joke may be pardoned me in the inexperienced mind of the novice to the scene. By-the-way, I resolved to ask 'Notes and Queries' although my constitutional diffidence has prevented my doing so as yet— whence was derived the totally misleading epithet of 'green' bestowed on these appendages to theatres.

Two or three men, chiefly attired in shabby black suits, stood in the room. My friend nodded to them familiarly. 'Utility gents,' he whispered to I smiled, without exactly understanding the expression.

me.

Still, I had a vague idea that he somehow meant that they were useful members of the company. 'No one here,' said the author, impatiently — rather cruel the phrase, I thought, to the poor men already assembled - 'why, Hopkins!' A sharp-visaged, rather careworn - looking little man bustled in. The prompter,' said my friend to me, in an explanatory stage aside.' 'Why, Hopkins,' he pursued, pulling out his watch, and then pointing to a written notice on the chimney-piece, ‘the reading was called at 12. It is now a quarter past, and no one here!' 'Well, sir' began Hopkins, in a deprecatory tone. He was cut short by the entrance of a portly gentleman, gorgeous with velvet collar and an exuberance of watch-chain, who shook hands cordially with the author. 'Mr. Briggs, our respected manager. My collaborateur, you know, Briggs,' said the 'gifted creature,' with a slight wink at me. I was thus introduced to the great potentate, and had the honour of having my hand clasped in his. 'Why, Hopkins,' commenced Mr. Briggs, likewise pulling out his watch. Everybody here, sir, I believe,' anticipated Hopkins; and he bustled out of the room.

Several ladies and gentlemen, apprized probably by the prompter, now began to put in an appear

ance.

The author nodded, smiled, shook hands, and now and then introduced my embarrassed and blushing individuality in an off

hand way.

I knew them all; although, I must confess, it was not without difficulty that I sometimes identified the personage before me with the individual whom, from a distance, I had gazed on with admiration when on the stage. The heavy man,' whom I had generally seen with truculent

visage, smiled on me with a round, benign face, much flushed, especially about the nose. The juvenile'-the passionate young lover, so admired by the female portion of the audience-seemed to have had the weight of twenty additional years, at least, stamped on his face since I last saw him 'from the front.' Was it possible? Could that sallow-faced, melancholy-looking, frowning man be the low comedian' who had so often made the tears run down my cheeks with laughter? Yes, it was so! The comic old man,' too, so hearty and genial on the stage, only responded to my courteous salutation with a grunt, and looked as if he would have resented my intrusion by a blow from his heavy stick. Again; how unlike was the 'walking lady,' with her seal-skin cloak, profuse jewelry, and rather noisy laugh, to the sentimental object of my homage, in white muslin and pink sash, whom I had seen so harshly treated by flinty-hearted fathers! In that still more gorgeouslyattired lady, with the double eye-glass on her nose, and haughty air, I had still greater trouble in recognising my smart chambermaid,' whom I had been accustomed to applaud in her neat cotton gown and her trim apron. One pleasant-looking gentleman I failed to recognise at all, spite of all my efforts. I might have spared myself any trouble. I had never seen him before; for I learned afterwards that it was the scene painter, nowadays considered as essential at a 'reading' as any actor concerned in the new play.

I had scarcely time to take this rapid inventory of the company, when the great Mr. Briggs broke in with 'Come, come, let's begin.' The company ranged themselves on the benches round the room.