A shrunken, faded coat, a decayed hat, a patched and soiled pair of trousers--nay, even a very dirty shirt (and none of these appearances are very uncommon among the members of the _corps dramatique_), may be worn for the purpose of disguise, and to prevent the remotest chance of recognition.

Then it prevents any troublesome inquiries or explanations about employment and pursuits; everybody is a gentleman at large, for the occasion, and there are none of those unpleasant and unnecessary distinctions to which even genius must occasionally succumb elsewhere.

As to the ladies (God bless them), they are quite above any formal absurdities; the mere circumstance of your being behind the scenes is a sufficient introduction to their society--for of course they know that none but strictly respectable persons would be admitted into that close fellowship with them, which acting engenders.

They place implicit reliance on the manager, no doubt; and as to the manager, he is all affability when he knows you well,--or, in other words, when he has pocketed your money once, and entertains confident hopes of doing so again.
A quarter before eight--there will be a full house to-night--six parties in the boxes, already; four little boys and a woman in the pit; and two fiddles and a flute in the orchestra, who have got through five overtures since seven o'clock (the hour fixed for the commencement of the performances), and have just begun the sixth.

There will be plenty of it, though, when it does begin, for there is enough in the bill to last six hours at least.
That gentleman in the white hat and checked shirt, brown coat and brass buttons, lounging behind the stage-box on the O.P.side, is Mr.Horatio St.Julien, alias Jem Larkins.