the name is no doubt derived from the general character of its unprofessional visitors."

This was the English green-room in the days of Peg Woffington. An American green-room, like every thing else American, has peculiarities of its own; and Peg Woffington's salle d'au dience differs as greatly from the green-room of Edwin Booth, as the prim court of Victoria is in contrast with the profligate one of the Second Charles. The "unprofessional visitor" is a personage almost unknown in our native green-room, and for that reason that greatest of all charms-the charm of mystery—is thrown over the hallowed precinct where the bloodthirsty Lady Macbeth becomes human enough to weep over her lap-dog's indigestion, and Belvidera pays by personal annoyance, if not in current coin, for her too reckless indulgence in milliners' wares. That the name was derived from the habit of hanging this room with green, is obvious. The reason for the selection of the color is equally obvious, and one which is still strong enough to cause its being chosen by the upholsterer for the study of his wealthy patron, green being the softest tint with which the student-eye is acquainted. Here, then, assemble the players to study, to laugh, to chat, to put the finishing touches to what was begun in the dressing-room, to condole with each other, to be merry, to be sad, to go through the thousand and one emotions which constitute life among players as among common folk. The rallying cry which brings the actors together is a small slip of paper, technically known as a "call," distributed every morning on which a rehearsal is to take place, by an humble functionary who may have a cognomen of individuality, but who is never spoken of except as the "call-boy." He may be a call-man, but he is never so called. Like the garçon of the French restaurant, he retains his boyhood forever. On this paper or "call," the hour for rehearsal, the piece to be rehearsed, and the part to be performed by the actor who receives it, are all clearly written out. Ten o'clock in the morning is the usual hour of rendezvous, and ten minutes' grace is given to allow for difference in time-pieces; any one coming later than that is subject to a fine. A set of rules, remarkable for their stringency, printed and framed, and hanging in grim silence in a glass case, is an inevitable ornament of every green-room. Another ornament, and one which, besides the immense looking-glass for general use, forms the only other decoration of the walls of the green-room, is a small, square, green

lined, glass-covered box, called the "cast-case." Viewing the contents of this case, many a heart has beat high with ambitious throb, many a breast felt the bitter chill of disappointment. From it the leading tragedian learns whether he is to play Iago or Othello, Hamlet or the shadowy, murdered father of the melancholy Dane. It tells the saucy chambermaid that she may put off cap and ribbons, and, by virtue of her singing powers, be permitted to don the conventional white muslin dress of the stage madwoman, crown her disheveled hair with wisps of straw, and play Ophelia. But how if the leading tragedian is "cast" for some other part besides the "leading" one? What, after the arrogation of the part of Hamlet by the predatory "star," is the leading part in Hamlet? The manager, perhaps, leans toward the "ghost" the "leading man" yearns to disport himself as "Laertes." Here, however, the "juvenile man" steps in, and strife begins. But authority conquers, in the green-room as elsewhere. The cast-case issues a fiat against which there is no appeal. However, this does not prevent the uttering of appeals, nor the making of threats of instant departure, of leaving the theatre with the name of the offended party in the bill for the night, (a gross contravention of stage-laws,) and other terrors. But the manager generally holds firm.

At Wallack's Theatre, not long ago, the comedy of The Wonder was up in the cast-case, and Mrs. Hoey was cast for Donna Violante, the leading "female" part. The representation of the piece was deferred, and the benefit season came on. Another member of the company, Miss Fanny Morant, said she regretted not being able to choose The Wonder for her benefit, as Donna Violante, of all comedy parts, was her favorite. In a pleasant spirit of camaraderie, Mrs. Hoey offered to relinquish her right of playing this part, allowing Miss Morant to play it for her benefit. Mr. Wallack was consulted, and agreed to the arrangement. Some other obstacle occurred, however, preventing the representation of the piece for Miss Morant's benefit, and The Wonder was temporarily set aside, only, after a short lapse of time, to be replaced with the name of Miss Henriques as Donna Violante. Here was a blow! The leading lady could scarcely believe her eyes. Insolent cast-case! If it were possible to believe that the inanimate object had of itself planned and executed this dire affront, the lady would have believed it rather than suspect her long-time friend, her on-the-stage lover for ten years back, Manager Lester

Wallack, of thus deposing her. Mrs. Hoey sought redress, but found none. "You relinquished the part," said Mr. Wallack, with inimitably complaisant demeanor. "Yes," said the lady, "but only in favor of Miss Morant, and for one occasion-her benefit. The part was mine by right. I am the leading lady." "That is indisputable," Mr. Wallack admitted graciously. "You are the leading lady; but you resigned the part, and, having resigned it, I am at liberty to give it to another." In vain Mrs. Hoey's remonstrances. Mr. Wallack was firm. "You will please accept the resignation which I now offer," said the leading lady at last, and "As you please, madam," returned the manager.

So frequent are disputes of this character that an effort is now being made to do away with the offensive cast-case altogether, by keeping the players in ignorance of the cast until each is notified of the part he is required to play through the medium of the "call." This innovation finds no favor with actors; for they are creatures of tradition, and such they will ever remain.

It would be useless in the writer of this paper to ignore, however much she might wish to do so, the social prejudice which exists against the body theatrical. How ill-grounded, how much a matter of fashion is this prejudice, how many good and worthy people find themselves both misunderstood and unappreciated through its workings, perhaps none but one who has dwelt in the mimic world can deeply feel. Like injustice in all its forms, this prejudice is very inconsistent; for, while the name of a poor "stock actress" is, with some people, almost a synonym for what is lax in the sex, those of Ristori and Charlotte Cushman (good and noble women in their way, and great artists without a doubt, but in point of moral worth not one whit superior to nine tenths of other women of the theatre) are, by the same people, lauded and sung almost ad nauseum. But who can account for the prejudices which are a matter of fashion?

Formerly much of the odium which now falls on the actress found its object in the milliner girls. To this day, both in London and Paris, something of this opprobrium still clings to the pretty modiste. Women of severe principles, governed by popular prejudice, prefer any trade to that of bonnet-making. Ab surd tyranny! In the School for Scandal, it will be remembered, the lady who was hidden behind the screen in Joseph Surface's room is described by that hypocritical moralist as a "milliner,"

and the name is, of itself, sufficient to satisfy the good-natured Sir Peter that the person's character is none of the best. But, as it happens, the "petticoat" which Sir Peter "vowed he saw" was Lady Teazle herself, and thus, as not unfrequently happens, the poor milliner who was not present shouldered the fault of the fine lady who was.

It is rather extraordinary that in America, where we are supposed to have no aristocracy, the art of turning up the nose at struggling merit has reached a perfection elsewhere unknown. While Money-Grub of Wall street would feel horrified if you were to propose bringing an actor to his house, we have only to refer to the chronicles of the different periods to find that Ben Jonson was distinguished by favors from James the First, King of England and Defender of the Faith; that another actor, one Shakespeare, was not despised by a queen of the same country and its dependencies, Elizabeth. The history of Great Britain is full of these intimacies between court and stage. More than one coroneted head in England at the present day has worn the bauble-jewels of the "mobled queen." Charles Mathews, traveling through Italy cheek by jowl with Lord and Lady Blessington and Count D'Orsay, could scarcely have been made to feel that his social status was much beneath that of his titled companions; for, on investigation, we find that the actor, the merry, laughing, "shoulder-slapping fellow," was the real lion of the party, distin guished as it was. Sydney Lady Morgan was extremely proud of her father and mother, both players, and of their profession. She herself acted in her early youth; but by the production of the Wild Irish Girl, when she gave evidence of that brilliant literary facility which entitles her to so prominent a place among English women of letters, we are led to believe that it would not be unjust to apply to her a criticism which a friend has passed on the writer of this article-that the pen was mightier than the comedienne. Let me forestall that comment which wonders by ratiotaking this article as a measuring stand-point-how poor the comedienne must be, by frankly acknowledging that she is very poor indeed.

In France, where actresses receive much censure, and deserve it, a distinction is still made in favor of the good. Those greenroom satellites who are without reproach may also be entirely without fear. Rose Cheri, a charming actress, whose early death all true lovers of the art must deplore, was welcome to any cir

cle in Paris, however exclusive. Mademoiselle Delaporte, an ingenuous young creature connected with the Gymnase Theatre, is known and respected as a worthy and amiable girl. Mlle. Victoria, of the same theatre, received an ovation from the titled world of France on the night of her reappearance after her marriage with an actor of the company. Belonging, root and branch, to a theatrical family; born, figuratively speaking, in the greenroom, I have not on that account been deemed unworthy to break bread at an imperial table, nor to take the hand of friendship extended by an English lordly divine. My reader may perhaps feel like reminding me that such players as Edwin Booth, Ristori, Lester Wallack, Forrest, Eliza Logan, Fanny Kemble, and Charlotte Cushman have not felt social ostracism in this country, and that their reception by the beau monde is a partial refutation of my strictures. But I scarcely recognize that this is the case. It appears that we are no longer permitted to use the old adage, that "exceptions prove the rule;" nevertheless, when these solitary instances are strongly insisted upon, we can but feel that it would not be so much a matter of comment for a few actors to be well received, if it were not altogether cus tomary to taboo the majority. I am making myself now the mouth-piece of a class of people; its "shining lights," like the shining lights of other classes, require no champion. But the point is here it is not the good in whose favor distinctions are made in America, but the great. Players like those I have mentioned are quietly segregated from the ranks in which they be long, and the bulk of the profession remains under the social ban.

AWAY.

I WOULD I were on that silent sea,

Sailing away, away;

I'd reck not where 'twould carry mế,

Only away, away.

I would I were in that nameless ship,

Sailing away, away;

And in a dream I'd softly slip

Adown the molten field,

Nor muse on joys that others sip,

To me forever sealed.