a queen with little to do or say, but still a queen. To denote sovereignty my friend persisted in adorning me with brass curtain-fasteners, "bosses," and mock pearls, till I must have resembled Mrs. Merdle's jewel-stand. For another dress she insisted on decorating me with stiff white satin rosettes. "It will give the dress character" she said approvingly; and certainly if character in costume depends on rosettes, my dress, when finished, must have been a part in itself. Then we laid in many pounds of coloured glass bugles, and a conservatory-full of the very cheapest kind of artificial flowers, which were to fill any blanks that might occur in the bugles and the rosettes. Next we bought several wigs of divers colours, and made a visit to a select and mysterious female pawnbroker who lived up many winding stairs, somewhere, I think, among "the dusty purlieus of the Law." This lady appeared to buy wholesale from the aristocracy, or, rather, from their maids, and retail at half-price. She seemed to do an uncommonly good business. Her room was lined with closely-filled chests; some of the dresses were hardly worn, and all extremely elaborate. "You're just exactly the build of the Countess of X." said this lady to me with a persuasive smile. "Ere's a box full of her dresses. I think she's per'aps too fond of trimmin' to suit you altogether, but we can alter that a bit." I was exactly "the build" of the Countess of X. and we soon arranged matters. Just as I was going, the lady turned to me, and said amiably "Been in the perfession long? No? I thought not. Well, I've got a son in it; he does comic songs and dances, the variety line, y'know. I thought per'aps you might come across him you'd be sure to git on together if you did 'appen to meet !" : ; If bugles, and rosettes, and mock jewellery could have made me succeed, I ought to have made a great actress; and yet I must confess at once, to my shame, that I never rose to any real eminence in the profession; my name was never "starred" in the bills. However, in spite of this (or perhaps I may say for that very reason, such is human nature) I was beloved by all. Our first tour was to last four months, from August till Christmas. Our company, to whom I was introduced on the road, were very friendly. All the ladies travelled together, and all the men by themselves; and our train was duly labelled "The Happy Family Company," which I thought very grand indeed, until I met many other trains similarly labelled. We carried scenery and all with us, for ours was a répertoire company; that is to say, we played different pieces every night. Our leading lady was Agneta Delaval, an experienced provincial actress of some personal attractions, capable but feline. Then there was Aurelia de Vere (Mrs. Brooks) whose husband was in the company, and who did "second lead " and ingénue parts, and was always a little treacherously sweet; and Natalie Brydges, a girl of some ability and of an amiable disposition, but sleepy and with a bad habit of being late for everything; Alice Browne, who played attendants, maids, and anything in that line; and Lilian Evans, a girl of twenty, like myself a novice, very pretty and very ambitious; poor girl, there were many troubles in store for her, before her ambition was to be satisfied. Then there was Nancy Davis (or "Hop o' my Thumb," as we called her, because she was small), a versatile and clever little person, who did any and every part that might happen to be called for, from a fairy to a page-boy; and there SO was Miss de Montmorency, who on the other hand couldn't act at all, but stood about gracefully in Greek attitudes, and was generally troublesome and emancipated. Dick Wilder was our Manager; we always called him Dick among ourselves, and were generally, except when things upset him very much, and he was driven to bad language, on the best of terms with him. The jeune premier was Mr. Evelyn de Lisle, a gentleman who also has now risen high in the profession. Mr. de Lisle had the good fortune to be beloved by all the ladies of the company from Miss Delaval to the dresser, nay, even by the very charwomen who cleaned the theatres. Natalie Brydges did indeed pretend indifference, but she was known to be eccentric; and besides, nobody believed her. Mr. de Lisle had, it was said, great charm of manner; the charm consisted in his absolute want of manner. Like Mr. Rochester he was entirely forgetful of other existences but his own, and, figuratively, was much given to wiping his boots on his adorers' dresses. Every one of us quarrelled as to who should arrange his Greek drapery; and he used to come as naturally to us to have his arms powdered for Coriolanus as a child to its mother. Tony Blenkins, on the other hand, was not so much adored. He meant well, but was one of the sort who can never speak to a girl without taking her hand, or putting an arm round her waist. I my self always preferred Tony when he was made up for a villain,-say for Shylock. Then there were Scroggins and Martin, who were middle-aged and oppressed by the cares, or at any rate by the consciousness, of large and expensive families at home; and there was Willie Fleming, who did weak-kneed Roman soldiers, gaolers, and "the third son of old Sir Roland"; I have always wondered, by the way, why that member of Sir Roland's household should bear so little resemblance to the rest of the family, being generally feeble in the legs and husky. Willie Fleming always gave me the impression of having been sent on to the stage by a well-directed kick from the wings. Finally, there was Billy Barlow, a boy of eighteen, who did "third Murderers," footmen, and “ the mob," and who, like the celebrated Mrs. Grudden, appeared in the playbills under any and every name that occurred to the Manager as looking well in print. I have myself seen Billy act under six different aliases. I lived, on tour, conjointly with Lilian Evans and Natalie Brydges, and our board and lodging came to about fifteen shillings a week each. It is almost impossible to live cheaper than that. Our salaries only ran to about thirty shillings each; so that, though our travelling expenses were of course paid by the Management, we did not save much. Mr. Evelyn de Lisle, it was well known, lived always at smart hotels; but we could not all be so grand, and most of the company, ourselves included, frequented dingy lodgings down suicidal streets, lodgings that were let to professionals all the year round, with furniture that shed its stuffing, chimneys that smoked, and other drawbacks. Landladies, that is to say, theatrical landladies, are a study in themselves. The worst type of them may be perhaps dilapidated and addicted to drink; but the best are delightfully original people, with a great turn for dramatic narrative. Their parlours are generally decorated with photographs, in costume, of the Margate High-Kicker, the Ten Little Niggers, and other ornaments of the profession. They live, indeed, in rather melancholy streets in one town we were just under a railway-arch, in another over a mews, and in a third next door to a public-house, whose wooden spirit-cases, piled in a vast heap, nearly blocked up our entrance; but they are always ready to enliven you by their conversation, and two attentions, at least, they never omit; one is, to bring a cup of tea to your bedside in the morning, the other to fetch the beer from the public-house at night. So well have they become inured to the wants of the profession! Then the Visitor's Book, a black, commercial-looking volume, filled with large sprawling entries, is a constant joy. On one page you read that "Long Harry, bright Gracie, and little Vick found this house a home." Who was little Vick, the poodle, or the baby? Perhaps a second Infant Phenomenon. Then, "The Three Slashers found Mrs. G.'s grub excellent." Again, "The Rowdy-Dowdy Swells found this house a Home from Home, and count the landlady and her family among the dearest of their friends.""Which I can't return, axin' their parding," said the landlady on my enquiries; "for the Rowdy-Dowdy Swells,―you've come across 'em per'aps? Well, they're in the nigger line, and of all the dirtiest, noisiest fellers as ever I see, but there, I always say, I don't 'old with taking niggers in, for it takes pretty nigh all they pay to wash after 'em,-a-dirtyin' all the sheets and a-muckin' everything up with their 'orrid blackin'." Home." Once indeed, when lodging alone, I had gently but firmly to decline the landlady's suggestion that I should share the parlour with a theatrical gentleman in the music-hall line, just to make it homelier-like for us both. But I was generally on very good terms with my landladies; one, a dear old lady, was much afflicted at the idea of such young girls as Lilian and myself going on the stage. "Do'ee leave that temptatious perfession," she would say, "there's dears; now do'ee. You'd far better marry; now ain't there any one as you might fix your minds on?" The first regular rehearsal awed me mightily. It took me some time to get accustomed to the dim, religious light that only half disclosed the dirty theatre, with the company sitting or standing about, in costumes of varying dinginess, nibbling macaroons or sandwiches. The auditorium was shrouded in darkness; in front of the stage, near the footlights (only no footlights were lit), sat Dick Wilder, promptbook in hand, and a kind of sevenbranched candlestick flaming behind him, vaguely suggesting an altar. The whole impression was so churchlike that I quite expected to hear the organ strike up. Near Wilder stood his secretary, a beardless youth but armed with stern authority, who repeated everything Wilder said in stentorian tones, just as the man with the wooden leg did for Mr. Creakle. How alarming it all was at first! We poor trembling wretches who were novices had to act our parts each time, while our more experienced companions simply raced through their speeches. After a while I learned that provincial rehearsals are much more hap-hazard affairs than London ones, to which they bear much the same relation that a sketch does to a finished picture. In the provinces a play is rehearsed perhaps for a week, where six weeks would be required in town. Sometimes, indeed, when pressed for time, Wilder would give us only one day for rehearsal; one long day, sustained only by, perhaps, if we were lucky, a stale Bath bun! And the Provinces have a quite different taste in acting from the Town. They like both their sentiments and their style to be somewhat exuberant. "Keep it up!" Wilder used to cry. "Give it out; let 'em have it!" His great horror was always lest a scene should be "let down." Sheer physical force, indeed, was often needed to keep up a scene properly. I remember being cast in one play for the messenger who announces bad news, and my entrance was to bring down the curtain. Mr. de Lisle was playing the hero, and on one occasion, when my voice gave out slightly, he declared bitterly that I had "let the scene down," and lost him "three rounds at least!" Actors and actresses are extremely sensitive on the subject of these "rounds." It might be supposed, by the uninitiated, that one "call" after the scene would be enough; but no, they count eagerly the number of times the curtain is raised, and sometimes as many as six or even eight calls hardly content them! I was My first important part was Jessica in THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. deadly nervous; my hands seemed swelled to twice their usual size with the heat and excitement, the paint would hardly stay on my face, and my throat grew curiously dry and husky. Waiting for your cue at the wings, when you are still a novice, is not unlike the uncomfortable feeling you experience when your bathingmachine is being slowly dragged over the grating shingle to the sea, and you sit shivering, in very inadequate garments, inside. "I can't do it!" I groaned to my Lorenzo who happened on this occasion to be Tony. "Rubbish," he cried angrily, "buck up!" Tony was usually polite almost to unctuousness; but I never loved him so much as at this moment. He restored my sinking courage, and I actually got a "round"! Our company was a perfect School for Scandal in the way of gossip. If, under the strictest vows of secrecy, I breathed a word to Natalie or to Lilian I was sure to hear of it again next day from Wilder, or from Hoppy, as we abbreviated Hop o' my Thumb. There were occasional spars and jealousies; but, whatever might be said in private, we were usually to outward view most polite and affectionate. There is said to be much insincerity about the stage, but it is so pleasant to be insincere. "I never myself believe in a woman who calls you 'dear heart' in the first week," said Hoppy, and I think she was right. Agneta Delaval and Aurelia de Vere (otherwise Mrs. Brooks) made themselves very sweet to Lilian and me at first; but as we began to get on, when Mr. de Lisle asked Lilian to pin on his Greek drapery, above all when Wilder set her to understudy Aurelia's parts, they changed their tone. Lilian was really made quite miserable. Aurelia and Agneta used to bully her terribly; they did not so much speak to her as at her (and she had to dress with them too, poor thing!), till I've often seen the tears making pathways down the rouge on her cheeks between the acts. Men are never so odious to one another as women are; they have not such petty ways of bullying; if they quarrel, they give one another a black eye and have done with it. Of course Mrs. Brooks must have known she couldn't play Juvenile Leads for ever. Now, I believe, she plays the Nurse in ROMEO AND JULIET, the landladies in farces, or anything else that comes handy; but she used to give Lilian a very bad time of it then. Mr. de Lisle said it was a shame; but he didn't know how bad it was. When you're dressing in the same room with other girls, you can't get away from their tongues. We were all very proud of our company, which we justly considered very superior to any other, certainly to those we met with on the road. Terrible caravans they were of painted and touzled females with festoons of yellow hair hanging down their backs; depressing trainfuls of frowsy humanity, labelled, as the case might be, The Scarlet Sin Company, The Blood-Trail Company, or The Human Vampire Company, with dirty children yelling out of the carriage-windows. You could, by the way, always gather the social status of a company by the number of children it carried in its van. Wilder would never allow a lot of children; he said it made a company look squalid. We only had one infant in ours, the property of Agneta Delaval, whose husband was touring in another company, and whose real name was Kate Smith; it was only seen on Sunday journeys with a nursegirl and a dirty white pelisse, and was carefully kept out of Wilder's way. But it was, I remember, once brought on as the infant in a modern comedy. This struck Wilder as a good opportunity for realism; but the baby infuriated Mr. de Lisle, who was its stage-parent, by yelling at a pathetic moment and making the gallery laugh. Indeed, so angry was Mr. Evelyn that he completely forgot his part (dried up, as they say in the profession); and this was therefore little Miss Smith's first and only appearance. "Why didn't you pick up the brat and stop its crying?" said Wilder angrily to Evelyn. "You engaged me to act; you didn't engage me as nurse," retorted Evelyn. "Turn on the moon!" bawled the stage manager to end the discussion; for a moonlight scene came next, and the quarrel was delaying the play. Hop-o'-my-Thumb was at first very friendly with Lilian and myself; but she gradually espoused the side of Aurelia and Agneta, the side of superior strength. Hoppy had a great sense of what was fair, and it hurt her feelings that a mere novice should get parts denied to a professional of long standing; she had begun her theatrical career at eight weeks old, as stage-infant in very superior melodrama. She had been born and lived in the profession, which perhaps accounted for her diminutive size. So Hoppy changed sides, and came to regard us with more or less embittered feelings. What nursed the spark almost into a blaze was the fact that at one town Lilian Evans's name had by some oversight been what is called "starred" in the bills. Now, starring is almost invisible to any but professionally jealous eyes, as it only means that the name of the actor or actress is printed in infinitesimally larger print at the end of all the others. The starring was doubtless some mistake, provincial programmes being always badly printed; and the catastrophe only occurred when we were playing in a miserable makeshift theatre (a fit-up in professional slang) at some wretched little seaside town; but it served its turn. were sitting in the green-room, during a wait, when Hoppy observed quite irrelevantly: "I saw Dick Wilder just now. We He said to me, 'Why are you looking so sad, Hoppy?' And I said, 'Isn't it just enough to make me sad to see people who can't act a bit, raised, and people who have been Pros for fifteen years, shunted?'" "It's quite sickening," said Mrs. Brooks, applying the powder-puff viciously; "but money does more than talent nowadays, and some people of |