Mr. Trapman's stairs on autumn evenings, troop
portly matrons who have passed almost their
entire life upon the stage, and who at five years
of age made their first appearance as flying
fairies; sharp, wizen-faced, little old ladies, who
can still "make up young," and are on the lookout
for singing chambermaids' situations; heavy
tragedians with books full of testimonials
extracted from the pungent criticism of provincial
journals; low-comedy men, whose own laughter,
to judge from their appearance, must, for some
period, have been of that description known as
"on the wrong side of the mouth." There you
may see them all day long, lounging in Rouge-
street, leaning against posts, amicably fencing
with their ashen sticks, gazing at the playbills
over the metropolitan theatres, and wondering
when their names will appear there.

One more advertisement and I have finished.
"To Barristers, Clergymen, and Public Speakers.
—Mr. Cicero Lumph, Professor of Elocution,
Principal Orator at the various universities, and
for upwards of thirty years connected with the
principal London theatres, begs to represent that
he is prepared to give instruction in public
speaking by a method at once easy and efficacious,
and that he can point with pride to some
of the first orators of the day as his pupils.
N.B. Stammering effectually cured." Many
years ago, Cicero Lumph was a dashing captain
of dragoons with a handsome face, a fine figure,
and splendid expectations from an old aunt who
adored him. His craze was theatrical society,
and he was at home in every green-room, called
all actors and actresses by their Christian names,
and spent his money liberally upon them. The
old aunt did not object to this, she rather liked
it, and used to revel in her nephew's stories
of those "humorous people, the performers."
But when the captain so far forgot what was
due to himself and his station as to enter into
an alliance with one of these humorists (he
married Bessie Fowke, a meek little coryphée of
the Hatton-garden ballet), the old lady's rage
was terrific; and she only had time to alter
her will and to leave all her property to a
Charitable Society, before her rage brought on a
fit of apoplexy and she expired. Poor Lumph,
finding all supplies thus summarily cut off, was
compelled to resign his commission, and of course
took to the stage, but the stage did not take
to him, and he failed; then he became secretary
to Mr. Tatterer, the great tragedian, wrote
all his letters, made all his engagements, and
(some said) prepared all the newspaper criticisms
which appeared on that eminent man. When
Tatterer came up to London and took the
Pantechnicon Theatre, where the early Athenian
drama was revived at such an enormous expense,
and with so much success, Lumph became his
treasurer and continued his toady, and then
Tatterer died in the heyday of his triumph.
Lumph found that he had netted a considerable
sum of money, and that he could pass the
remainder of his life without any very hard
exertion; so he became an instructor in elocution.
He is an old man now, with a small wig
perched on the top of his head, bushy
eyebrows overhanging little grey eyes, and a
large cavernous mouth, with three or four teeth
sticking upright and apart in the gums, like
rocks. His body is bloated and his legs are
shrivelled, but he has still the grand old Tatterer
stride, the Tatterer intonation of the voice, the
Tatterer elevation of the brow, the Tatterer
swing of the arm, all imitated from his great
master. He lives in a handsome old-fashioned
house in Hotspur-street, Douglas-square, and
his knocker all day long is besieged with
candidates for instruction. Thither come blushing
young curates who have stammered along well
enough in the country parishes to which they
were originally licensed; but who having
obtained preferment, think they must be polished
up for the London or watering-place congregation
which they are to have in care; thither come
stout members of Parliament, big with intentions
of catching the Speaker's eye, but doubtful
of their powers of execution when they have
ensnared that visual organ; thither come
amateur Othellos, Falstaffs, and Sir Peter Teazles,
who are about to delight their friends with private
theatricals: and the door is often blockaded
by stout vestrymen or obnoxious churchwardens
anxious to show bravely in a forthcoming tournay
in some parochial parliament. There, in a
large drawing-room, do they mount an oaken
rostrum and thunder forth the orations of Sheridan,
and Burke, and Curran; there, does the
sofa-bolster become the dead body of Cæsar, and
over it do they inform Lumph, who is sitting by
and critically listening, that they are no orator
as Brutus is.

I could go on for pages upon pages about my
favourite journal and those whose interests it
supports, but no more shall be said than this
—Deal gently with these poor players. That
they are the "chronicles and abstract of the
time" now, whatever they were in Shakespeare's
day, I cannot pretend; for perhaps among no
other set of human creatures will so pure and
thorough a system of conventionality, handed
down from generation to generation, be found
to exist; but they are almost universally honest,
kindly, hard-working, self-supporting, and
uncomplaining. And in no other class will you
find more zeal, gentle-heartedness, and genuine
philanthropy, than among those whose life is
passed in Holding up the Mirror.

On the 15th of October will be published, price
5s. 6d., bound in cloth,
THE THIRD VOLUME
OF
ALL THE YEAR ROUND,
Containing from Nos. 51 to 76, both inclusive.
Volumes the First and Second are to be had of all
Booksellers.