the respectful distance of several millions of
miles? Once more I am taken into the
manager's box. The third manager's box, but the
same manager. Once more—the third time of
asking—he bids me look at the house, look at
the gallery, look at the boxes, look at the stalls.
He does not bid me look at the pit; for it is a
peculiarity of this new theatre that it has no
pit. The whole of the ground-floor is occupied
by stalls, and those who usually occupy the pit
are put into a large amphitheatre immediately
above the dress circle, and immediately under
the gallery. Before I make any remark upon
this arrangement, I must give vent to the feeling
of delight and surprise with which a look at
the new house immediately inspired me. I
thought it was the most comfortable, the most
elegant, the most luxuriously appointed theatre
I had ever seen. Everything had been done
with the most lavish hand to secure two things
—comfort and elegance in the front of the
house. It has often struck me as being very
odd that managers of theatres should expect
their fashionable and aristocratic visitors in
stalls and private boxes to be content with
sitting accommodation considerably inferior to
that which is to be found in a penny ice-shop—
muslin curtains of the very commonest quality,
scraps of imitation tapestry carpet of the thin-
nest and cheapest description, narrow
uncomfortable chairs, covered with American leather
cloth, and triumphantly decorated with vulgar
broad-headed brass nails. Society never comes
in contact with such mean things anywhere
else. It never touches, it never sees, such
a cold, shabby, miserable thing as painted
cotton—mockingly called leather—except in the
theatre. This new theatre, at Liverpool, has
evidently been designed and furnished to afford
to its visitors in the best places all the
comfort, elegance, and refinement which they are
accustomed to in their own drawing-rooms.
At the back of the dress circle there is a wide
open promenade (in sight of the stage) softly
carpeted, and in the centre of this promenade
there is a large fireplace, enclosed in a
magnificent frame of pure white marble. The
stalls are furnished in the same manner. The
carpet and the chairs are worthy of a palace.
The private boxes are dainty little boudoirs, so
dainty that you might imagine they were
designed for ladies only. The refreshment and
retiring rooms are commodious and elegant, and
all the passages leading to them are richly
carpeted.

This elegant and comfortable theatre is the
outcome of a great theatrical revival in Liverpool.
The revival began about five years ago.
Previous to that time there were only two
recognised theatres in the town. There was a
notion that Liverpool could scarcely support two
theatres. The drama was in this dull and stagnant
state, having greatly fallen away from the
activity of former years, when a gentleman
arrived from Australia with new ideas and new
experience of theatrical affairs. This gentleman,
casting eyes upon a desolate lecture-hall,
resolved, madly as everybody believed, to turn it
into a theatre for the performance of vaudevilles,
burlesques, and farces. With astonishing energy,
and in an astonishingly short space of time, he
accomplished the task which he had set himself;
and the public, on the night of opening, going
in sparsely and doubtfully, found, to their
delight and surprise, in the place of the dingy
desolate hall, a smart, bright, cheerful little
theatre. The enterprise of the manager
developed as time went on. He attracted to his
little theatre all the travelling stars in succession.
He gave his patrons comedy and drama, as
well as burlesques; he even had the courage
to produce new pieces by London authors. He
set the example of doing things well; and those
who imitated his policy in other provincial towns
speedily found their reward.

The elegance and comfort of the new theatre,
while fulfilling the prime object which its builders
had in view, are, oddly enough, in certain
quarters a subject of complaint. Stars complain that
room is wasted, and that the theatre might be
made to hold a great many more persons—that is
to say, pounds sterling. Actors generally hold
that audiences enjoy a play more when they are
crowded and uncomfortable than when they have
plenty of space. When they have ample elbow-
room, and can lie back and stretch out their legs,
they give themselves up to lazy ease, and don't
trouble themselves to applaud. Another special
cause of complaint is the arrangement which
devotes the whole of the ground area to the cold
genteel stall people, and relegates the warm
impulsive pitites to a distant region above-stairs.
Both parties are dissatisfied. The actors long
to be near the pit, and the pit longs to be near
the actors. They know how to appreciate each
other; but, being so far separated, a coldness
ensues which is particularly depressing to the
occupants of the stage, the breath of whose
nostrils is applause.

When, at half-past ten o'clock, I parted from
my enterprising young friend, he heaved a deep
sigh. I understood what it meant. He sighed
because he had no more theatres to show me.

          CHILDREN'S PARTIES.

The influence of blood in animals is not to be
denied. You cannot make a racer out of the
colt of a cart-horse; but I question sometimes
if this applies to the superior animal, man.
Here are two babies, swaddled in dainty clothes,
as it befits all babies to be. The one is the
child of a princess, the other is the child of a
washerwoman. Come, tell me which is which?
Look into the eyes of both children. They are
equally bright, equally blue, or black, or grey,
as the case may be—little clear windows both,
of pure little souls within, looking out wonderingly
upon a world of sin and sorrow as yet
unknown. Would you not think they had been
cast in the same delicate mould? In this world
of toil you know what the hard-working hand
becomes—broad, rough, rugged, an ugly mass
of strength, with not a line of beauty left. But
look at the hand of this common child, whose