ared the same stage, dividing the hours between them. Will's manager had his own theatre and the rehearsals were all-day affairs. Will studied his part at night after "the family" ha

lore. Will was the faery prince. Sometimes I wondered just how Experience reconciled Will's morning grumpiness with her preconceived notion of a hero. I recall how after seeing Will in a new r?le he had asked her how she liked him. She expressed herself as pleased with the play in general and with him in particular. But after he l

-page interviews had from time to time printed his recipes for evolving successful stars as well as money-making plays. One thrilling account in particular-supposedly his own words-told of the strenuous training of the tyro; how he aroused in his actors the precise degree of emotion necessary to a given scene. "I dragged her by the hair!" or "I pictured her own mother lying dead, foully murdered, before her until she cried aloud at the picture I had conjured." Again, "I tied my wrists together, I rolled about the floor, struggling to free myself; I wanted to feel just what a man would feel under similar conditi

ing." The frightened expression of his face; the quick, nervous walk; the almost inaudible voice when he thanked his audience, "on behalf of the star, the author (or co-author), the musicians, the costumers, the scenic artists" and so on down the line; this with his mannerism of tugging at a picturesque forelock, this alone was worth the price of admission. First and last he was a good showman. The star who was the stepping stone to his fame and fortune was a lady with a past. She had entered the stage door through the advertising medium of the divorce court. After several unsuccessful attempts at starring she placed herself under the tuition of the manager, then a

players look old and insignificant. The blue white light has a cruel way of exposing the lines and seams. They sit about or stand in groups, the blue-covered typewritten parts in hand awaiting the call of the first act. A youngish man, probably the assistant stage-ma

On twenty dollars a week she carries a maid-and a jewel case. No, she does not have to work for a living; neither is she the spoilt child of a multi-millionaire. She belongs to that great class of women who have no class. Time hangs heavily on her hands. It looks better to be connected with some kind of a profession; a legitimate profession. Besides, her vanity makes her "want to do something." The stage has always appealed to her. With a little "influence" she gets a part. Salary is no object. Perhaps the management has saved five or ten dollars a week on th

tage marriages which have endured. Perhaps it is the very rarity of the case which makes them so popular and well-beloved. One hears the

s American cousin. It all depends on what kind of a gentleman the r?le demands. When an Englishman is called upon to portray a gentlemanly officer of the United States Army the effect is incongruous

found in nearly every company. Too proud for the ribbon counter, too erratic for commercial life, he drifts into the profession because he feels the call

e heavy men who never have been leading men; these, however, come under the head of character heavies. The gentlemanly heavy unfailingly aspires to heroic r?les. The present incumbent of villainy had "fallen on his feet." Some seasons previously he had play

man. "Call that acting?" demands the man behind the make-up. "

to walk on and be perfectly natural. I'd like to see some of you fellows who hide behind your wigs and

the Booth and Barrett days. She, herself, had lisped some childish lines with them. Later, she had become a soubrette and a star in merry little plays in which she sang and danced and "emoted," all in one evening. There are no soubrettes nowadays. The term has degenerated into a slangy sobriquet. "Ingénue" has replaced it; nothing is required of an ingénue but saccharine sweetness and vacuous prettiness-and youth, youth, youth! O, the harvest of age! T

d of an effective entrance. She punctuates her animated conversation with the manager with smiles and nods. That meek-looking pers

lls the prompte

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gement. The guests included several critics from certain New York journals. One of these had an ambitious wife who was a member of the company. The other, rumour had it, was on the salary list of the management. This may or may not have been true. Subsequent ef

as exhibiting a brand new litter of kittens. "Everyone of 'em black; just like their mother. Your show'll be a big success-talk about your mascots!" Stage-folk are as superstitious as a nigger mammy. A whole chapter might be devoted to their lore. One of the greatest hoodoos is to speak the tag

rs over the stage like a searchlight at sea. Green, yellow, red and blue slides are tried and a weird waving moving picture effect brings a shout of laughter from the privileged watchers in front. In the dressing-rooms the players are making up. The wardrobe mistress hurries from one to another, needle and thread in hand. There are impatient calls for the head costumer; "Props" taps at the doors and delivers the properties to be carried by the various actors in the play. The actors talk across the partitions or run through lines of a "shaky" scene. "Fifteen minutes-fifteen minutes!

arsal to an abrupt halt. The dialogue stops like a megaphone suddenly shut off. The director hurries down the centre aisle, the prompter's head appears at the proscenium arch. "Loved I not honour more!" r

rberates about the s

re is a rush of stage hands in the direction indicated. Simultaneously Mr. Jones appears L. I. E. "I'm sorry," he says, "but I could

go back to Miss Melon's entrance." Miss Melon enters. The scene starts flatly enough. It is d

reception which the ushers start at the psychological moment. Many persons are backward about applauding for fear of making a mistake: just follow the usher. The supporting actors understand that they are expected to "humour" the applause, either upon an entrance or for a s

gger?" she demands, dropping the r?le as one would step out of a petticoat. The man about to be killed joins in the hunt for the deadly weapon. "I can't kill you very well without a knife, can I, Jack? Unless I stab you with a hatpin-" There is something

" a chorus

continuing to mix the si

st thing not to forget it!" fu

a little side-play with her heavy man. "Miss Blank," he begins with punctuation marks between each word, "Miss Blank, di

heavy. "Just before you say, 'Darling, my life, my love, you're mine at last!' And Jack-I hope your wooden chest protector is in place, for I'm going to strike to-night just as I am going to do to-morrow night and turn it r-r-round and r-r-round, as if I lo

Mr. Hartley smiles to himself as he disappears in the wings; he is "on-to" the little tricks of stars and leading ladies. To make a vis-à-vis play the sce

cuss the play and the performance with their friends. I recall an instance which will exemplify the jealousy of one star for another, especially those under the same management. During the early years of Will's career he had played with a summer stock company. The leading woman of the organization was now one of the stars under

he predicted. "How do

the heavy makes circles all around him. If I had read the p

whole show.... When I think of the also-ran I am playing for a star part ... let me tell you-just between ourselves-that he'll have to hand me out something fatter next season or there'll be something doing in a

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and relatives are sent out for sandwiches and "something to wash 'em down." At this stage of the siege one becomes a mere machine. There is no attempt at acting. It is now a mechanical perfection. When the scenic effects refuse to act on cues or "anticipate" the same, or

with its undercurrent of tension; the opening night with nerves tuned to the hig

y has "caught on" or not. Favourable, even laudatory, reviews will not drag the public into the theatre if they do not like the offering. Stars ma

d out. Music was a passion with me. I went through a whole season of the Opera treat I had promised myself for years. Will was fond of music, too, and sometimes we would go together to the Sunday night concerts at the Metropolitan. Of course there were still the dinner-parties and the supper-parties and matinées for benevolent purposes. Will seemed to have tired of the parties and spent more and more of his time at the Lambs. He never came home to supper after the theatre nowadays. I missed my little talks with h