As I was walking one morning with Buckthorne, near one of the Principal theaters, he directed my attention to a group of those equivocal beings that may often be seen hovering¹ about the stage-doors of theaters. They were marvellously ill-favored in their attire², their coats buttoned up to their chins; yet they wore their hats smartly on one side, and had a certain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike air, which is common to the subalterns of the drama. Buckthorne knew them well by early experience.  
These, said he, are the ghosts of departed kings and heroes; fellows who sway sceptres and truncheons; command kingdoms and armies; and after giving way realms and treasures over night, have scarce a shilling to pay for a breakfast in the morning. Yet they have the true vagabond abhorrence⁴ of all useful and industrious⁵ employment; and they have their pleasures too: one of which is to lounge in this way in the sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals⁷, and make hackneyed theatrical⁸ jokes on all passers-by.
 
Nothing is more traditional and legitimate⁹ than the stage. Old scenery, old clothes, old sentiments, old ranting¹¹, and old jokes, are handed down from generation to generation; and will probably continue to be so, until time shall be no more. Every hanger-on of a theater becomes a wag by inheritance, and flourishes about at tap-rooms and six-penny clubs, with the property jokes of the green-room.
 
While amusing ourselves with reconnoitring this group, we noticed one in particular who appeared to be the oracle¹². He was a weather-beaten veteran, a little bronzed by time and beer, who had no doubt, grown gray in the parts of robbers, cardinals¹³, Roman senators, and walking noblemen.
 
“There’s something in the set of that hat, and the turn of that physiognomy, that is extremely familiar to me,” said Buckthorne. He looked a little closer. “I cannot be mistaken,” added he, “that must be my old brother of the truncheon, Flimsey, the tragic¹⁴ hero of the strolling company.”
 
It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs that times went hard with him; he was so finely and shabbily dressed. His coat was somewhat threadbare, and of the Lord Townly cut; single-breasted, and scarcely capable of meeting in front of his body; which, from long intimacy¹⁵, had acquired the symmetry and robustness¹⁶ of a beer-barrel. He wore a pair of dingy¹⁷ white stockinet pantaloons, which had much ado to reach his waistcoat; a great quantity of dirty cravat¹⁸; and a pair of old russet-colored tragedy boots.
 
When his companions had dispersed¹⁹, Buckthorne drew him aside and made Himself known to him. The tragic veteran could scarcely recognize him, or believe that he was really his quondam associate “little gentleman Jack²⁰.” Buckthorne invited him to a neighboring coffee-house to talk over old times; and in the course of a little while we were put in possession of his history in brief.
 
He had continued to act the heroes in the strolling company for some time after Buckthorne had left it, or rather had been driven from it so abruptly²¹. At length the manager died, and the troop was thrown into confusion. Every one aspired²² to the crown; every one was for taking the lead; and the manager’s widow, although a tragedy queen, and a brimstone to boot, pronounced it utterly²³ impossible to keep any control over such a set of tempestuous²⁴ rascallions.
 
Upon this hint I spoke²⁵, said Flimsey—I stepped forward, and offered my services in the most effectual way. They were accepted. In a week’s time I married the widow and succeeded to the throne. “The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth²⁶ the marriage table,” as Hamlet says. But the ghost of my predecessor²⁷ never haunted me; and I inherited crowns, sceptres, bowls, daggers²⁹, and all the stage trappings and trumpery³⁰, not omitting the widow, without the least molestation³¹.
 
I now led a flourishing life of it; for our company was pretty strong And attractive, and as my wife and I took the heavy parts of tragedy, it was a great saving to the treasury³². We carried off the palm from all the rival shows at country fairs; and I assure you we have even drawn³³ full houses, and being applauded by the critics at Bartlemy fair itself, though we had Astley’s troupe³⁴, the Irish giant, and “the death of Nelson” in wax-work to contend against.
 
I soon began to experience, however, the cares of command. I discovered that there were cabals³⁵ breaking out in the company, headed by the clown, who you may recollect³⁶ was a terribly peevish³⁸, fractious fellow, and always in ill-humor. I had a great mind to turn him off at once, but I could not do without him, for there was not a droller scoundrel on the stage. His very shape was comic, for he had to turn his back upon the audience and all the ladies were ready to die with laughing. He felt his importance, and took advantage of it. He would keep the audience in a continual roar, and then come behind the scenes and fret³⁹ and fume⁴⁰ and play the very devil. I excused a great deal in him, however, knowing that comic actors are a little prone⁴¹ to this infirmity of temper.
 
I had another trouble of a nearer and dearer nature to struggle with; which was, the affection of my wife. As ill luck would have it, she took it into her head to be very fond of me, and became intolerably jealous. I could not keep a pretty girl in the company, and hardly dared embrace an ugly one, even when my part required it. I have known her to reduce a fine lady to tatters, “to very rags,” as Hamlet says, in an instant, and destroy one of the very best dresses in the wardrobe; merely because she saw me kiss her at the side scenes;—though I give you my honor it was done merely by way of rehearsal⁶.
 
This was doubly annoying, because I have a natural liking⁴³ to pretty faces, and wish to have them about me; and because they are indispensable to the success of a company at a fair, where one has to vie with so many rival theatres. But when once a jealous wife gets a freak in her head there’s no use in talking of interest or anything else. Egad, sirs, I have more than once trembled when, during a fit of her tantrums, she was playing high tragedy, and flourishing her tin dagger²⁸ on the stage, lest she should give way to her humor, and stab some fancied rival in good earnest.
 
I went on better, however, than could be expected, considering the weakness of my flesh and the violence of my rib³⁷. I had not a much worse time of it than old Jupiter, whose spouse⁴⁴ was continually ferreting out some new intrigue⁴⁵ and making the heavens almost too hot to hold him.
 
At length, as luck would have it, we were performing at a country fair, when I understood the theatre of a neighboring town to be vacant. I had always been desirous to be enrolled⁴⁶ in a settled company, and the height of my desire was to get on a par³ with a brother-in-law, who was manager of a regular theatre, and who had looked down upon me. Here was an opportunity not to be neglected. I concluded an agreement with the proprietors⁴⁷, and in a few days opened the theatre with great eclát.
 
Behold⁴⁸ me now at the summit of my ambition, “the high top-gallant of my joy,” as Thomas says. No longer a chieftain of a wandering tribe, but the monarch⁴⁹ of a legitimate throne—and entitled to call even the great potentates⁵⁰ of Covent Garden and Drury Lane cousin.
 
You no doubt think my happiness complete. Alas⁵¹, sir! I was one of the Most uncomfortable dogs living. No one knows, who has not tried, the miseries⁵² of a manager; but above all, of a country management—no one can conceive the contentions⁵³ and quarrels within doors, the oppressions and vexations from without.
 
I was pestered⁵⁴ with the bloods and loungers of a country town, who infested⁵⁵ my green-room, and played the mischief⁵⁶ among my actresses. But there was no shaking them off. It would have been ruin to affront⁵⁷ them; for, though troublesome friends, they would have been dangerous enemies. Then there were the village critics and village amateurs, who were continually tormenting⁵⁸ me with advice, and getting into a passion if I would not take it:—especially the village doctor and the village attorney; who had both been to London occasionally, and knew what acting⁵⁹ should be.
 
I had also to manage as arrant⁶⁰ a crew of scapegraces as were ever collected together within the walls of a theatre. I had been obliged to combine my original troupe with some of the former troupe of the theatre, who were favorites with the public. Here was a mixture that produced perpetual ferment⁶¹. They were all the time either fighting or frolicking with each other, and I scarcely knew which mood was least troublesome. If they quarrelled, everything went wrong; and if they were friends, they were continually playing off some confounded prank⁶² upon each other, or upon me; for I had unhappily acquired among them the character of an easy, good natured fellow, the worst character that a manager can possess.
 
Their waggery at times drove me almost crazy; for there is nothing so Vexatious as the hackneyed tricks and hoaxes⁶³ and pleasantries of a veteran band of theatrical vagabonds. I relished⁶⁴ them well enough, it is true, while I was merely one of the company, but as manager I found them detestable. They were incessantly⁶⁵ bringing some disgrace upon the theatre by their tavern⁶⁶ frolics, and their pranks⁶⁷ about the country town. All my lectures upon the importance of keeping up the dignity of the profession, and the respectability of the company were in vain. The villains⁶⁸ could not sympathize with the delicate feelings of a man in station. They even trifled with the seriousness of stage business. I have had the whole piece interrupted, and a crowded audience of at least twenty-five pounds kept waiting, because the actors had hid away the breeches of Rosalind, and have known Hamlet stalk solemnly on to deliver his soliloquy, with a dish-clout pinned to his skirts. Such are the baleful consequences of a manager’s getting a character for good nature.
 
I was intolerably annoyed, too, by the great actors who came down starring, as it is called, from London. Of all baneful⁶⁹ influences, keep me from that of a London star. A first-rate actress going the rounds of the country theatres, is as bad as a blazing comet, whisking about the heavens, and shaking fire, and plagues, and discords⁷⁰ from its tail.
 
The moment one of these “heavenly bodies” appeared on my horizon, I was sure to be in hot water. My theatre was overrun by provincial⁷¹ dandies, copper-washed counterfeits⁷² of Bond street loungers; who are always proud to be in the train of an actress from town, and anxious to be thought on exceeding good terms with her. It was really a relief to me when some random⁷³ young nobleman would come in pursuit of the bait, and awe⁷⁴ all this small fry to a distance. I have always felt myself more at ease with a nobleman than with the dandy of a country town.
 
And then the injuries I suffered in my personal dignity and my managerial authority from the visits of these great London actors. Sir, I was no longer master of myself or my throne. I was hectored and lectured in my own green-room, and made an absolute nincompoop on my own stage. There is no tyrant⁷⁵ so absolute and capricious as a London star at a country theatre.
 
I dreaded⁷⁷ the sight of all of them; and yet if I did not engage them, I was sure of having the public clamorous⁷⁸ against me. They drew full houses, and appeared to be making my fortune; but they swallowed up all the profits by their insatiable demands. They were absolute tape-worms to my little theatre; the more it took in, the poorer it grew. They were sure to leave me with an exhausted⁷⁹ public, empty benches, and a score or two of affronts⁸⁰ to settle among the townsfolk, in consequence of misunderstandings about the taking of places.
 
But the worst thing I had to undergo in my managerial career was patronage⁸¹. Oh, sir, of all things deliver me from the patronage of the great people of a country town. It was my ruin. You must ............