laugh; the sleigh is out of the beaten track, and close to a huge mound of soft snow; another shriek goes up-the very stars seem to twinkle mischievously, and the next moment the sleigh is upset, and the girls are rolling over and over into the snow, considerably more frightened than hurt.

Here is a pretty how d'ye do-such a scene as we should like to have some skilful comic limner embody. The "fellows assist the ladies to rise, some of them looking desperate at the driver, who forthwith is christened "a naughty, naughty man. Others do not know now, as they are aware they are not hurt, whether to treat the matter seriously or as a good joke. However, thinking it the wiser part to appear pleased, they soon laugh it off, and declare that "it was capital fun, if the snow had not been so cold." Others, more courageous, and greater fun-lovers, would give the world to be served so again, if they were not afraid of spoiling their clothes, and the men unanimously pronounce it the climax capped, with the exception of the two young gentlemen more directly interested in the "spill," who, in order to avoid suspicion, rate the driver soundly for his awkward clumsiness, and threaten never to hire him again, at the same time nudging him, and bidding him in a whisper, "not to let on for the world, but say that the horses shied at something black in the road."

Once more we are all ensconced without accident, unless it be that one of the ladies has lost perhaps a link out of her ear-drop, or snapped her silken watch-cord—we did hear something, a familiar sound, just as the sleigh was toppling, and we supposed it was a kiss; but let that pass, there is no harm done, and we are now nearly home.

We next inquire, in order, the residences of each of the ladies, that we may drop them at their respective doors, and see them safe home. One by one, or twain by twain, as the case may be, as noiselessly as possible, so as not to disturb the old folks, the belles are handed out and wished "good night," until the sleigh is emptied of the greater part of its burden; and then the men, whom it is presumed are chiefly unmarried, form what is called a "bachelor party," and dash away entirely on their own hook to the outskirts of the city, where after a mild banquet of oysters roasted, and "waffles -an indescribable winter-cake, being a cross between a bun and a sallylunn-cigars are produced and enjoyed without reserve, the whole party returning as it were in a whiff to their starting point, there to part for the night, all, we hope, delighted with their sleigh ride. As spots of grey must by this time be dappling the drowsy east, it is fair to be presumed that all the sleighers have retired to rest; if they are not, they should be; so with orders to put up the sleigh and take the bells off the horses, and see them in their house, we will also bid the reader "good night," or, more properly, "good morning," with the assurance that we have endeavoured to give him, to the hurried best of our abilities, a faithful account of an American sleigh-ride.

22

JONATHAN BEHIND THE SCENES.

Actors are famous jokers, verbal and practical. There is the lowcomedy man of your provincial establishment, for example, the delight of the children and the gay companion of the men-convulsing by his grimaces, and producing any quantities of mirth by his odd capers and ancient green-room jests. There is your "heavy father" and "first old man," with a burly cane, telling a story with an agony of attitudes. There is your dancer and Harlequin, practising an absurd pirouette by way of burlesque; and standing at the stage-door with a cut-away coat, smart scarf, though somewhat the worse for wear, yet glossy from a recent iron, is the "light comedian"—the Rover, the Dick Dashall, and Young Rapid of the playhouse. He is reciting a snatch of Massinger, and swearing it reminds him of Shakspeare. Then he introduces a new reading of the line

"Honest, my lord?"

by pausing deliberately after the first word, and dwelling significantly on my―

Honest? my lord!

at which the surrounding histrions leer and gradually drop in through the door to look after rehearsal.

And actors seem to tell a joke with more zest than most other people. They enter into the spirit of it with deliberate self-possession, throw in the varied tones required to enamel it, dilate their eyes and contract the brows if the story demands it, and in fact act the part off the stage with an agreeable power. Your would-be-funny man is a nuisance; and an actor's appreciation of the shades of humor seems to strengthen his judgment and regulate his manner in repeating a jest.

The "first old man" is sure to have a store of anecdotes at his finger's end about other "old men" that have gone before him, and when he refers to them he puffs out his cheeks and twists his mouth as they were supposed to have done. The low comedian has a number of eccentric stories to tell of Liston, Reeves, et id omne, and imitates with tolerable accuracy the tone of voice of Buckstone, Keeley, Owens, and others in his "line of business." The light comedian experiences a peculiar gusto in talking of departed Dashalls and defunct Benedicts. He remembers how so-and-so was playing Romeo on one occasion, and Juliet jumped, in the intensity of her feelings, from the balcony into his arms. heard his father say that Elliston's Charles Surface was a miracle of elegance; and he has a personal cognizance of Charles Mathews being able to act the gentleman. The clown is pregnant with the capers of Grimaldi and Ferrantini; and the walking gentleman of small salary has numberless cases to tell of when he "threw up parts" that were far beneath his talents.

He has

The "leading man" is prolific in stories of his quarrels with various

managers of how this one wanted him to do De Mauprat instead of Richlieu, Pythias instead of Damon, Julius Cæsar instead of Brutus, Iago instead of Othello, for which latter part he has an hallucination he was expressly created. If he had come into the world with a label dangling at his toe, on which was written "made to order for Othello," he could not be more sanguine in his belief. He also tells anecdotes of his experience when overstocked managers desired to break their engagements because he did not draw-how he held them to their bond, and fretted through a tragedy every evening. All of these things the "leading man" remembers, beside compliments that different stars-the Keans, Booths, Andersons, Phelps, Pitts of the trade-have bestowed on him when he "did" the seconds at their last engagement.

The man that enacts the villains comes in for his share of melodramatic vaunt. He tells a story of having played Glenalvon one night so naturally that the audience hissed him. Then the low comedian, who is standing by, wants to know whether it was the fidelity of the impersonation or his bad acting that commanded the hisses; after which inquiry he winks his right eye waggishly at a young lady who is practising coups in book-muslin and tights, which causes "little Sis," as she is termed, to turn her head and fairly go into convulsions.

But we must not keep the stage of our sketch waiting too long, or our audience may grow dissatisfied and manifest their disapprobation. We started by saying that actors were famous jokers, and so they are, in a practical sense, when a pretentious or verdant subject presents himself for honours.

Some time ago an ignorant, long-legged Yankee, with a countenance that looked as if it had been bunglingly chiselled out of underdone piecrust, presented himself at the stage door of one of the New York theatres, and desired in a two-keyed voice to see the manager. He was conducted to a private apartment, where he was soon waited on. "Do you wish to see me?" said the manager.

"Aair yeou the owner of this show?"

66

Show, sir, what do you mean by show ?"-with a mouthful of italics.

"Show! I mean the play-actin' biz'nas," placidly replied Mr. Yank, with an expression that ancient putty might be induced to assume, with considerable working.

66

'Well, sir, what's your business?"

Why, they all a-been tellin' me up in Casco I've got a heap of talent for takin' off people, and I want to see if you can't give me a chance."

The manager had a bit of fun in his nature, and thought he would humour the applicant. He remarked

two.

"Act! yes, yes, I see-you want to play characters for a night or Good idea! You've got a brilliant face for the stage." "So everybody tells me, and that's why I want to try my hand at it. They say lookin' a part's half the fight."

yes, quite, if not seven-eighths. What did you think of' opening in'?" interrogated Crummles.

"In a the-a-tre if I could," said the Down Easter,

"Some wuz

advisin' me to try a Thespy Ann S'ciety; but I can't see any signs up around town for sich things, and so I think I'll try a the-a-tre if its cheap."

This last word was the entamure of a new idea at which the manager caught with wonderful avidity. His exchequer was not particularly overloaded (the last spectacle being so dull, nobody could set through it), and this might be some wandering good fortune in the shape of a stage-struck rustic Godsend, with a barren noddle and a full purse. The manager took the idea in an instant.

"Well, I can only say, my good fellow," observed the manager affectedly," if you want to play, you can have me as your manager for a few nights very cheap, and choose your own parts."

"Exactly so."

"Do you propose Shakspearian characters ?"

"No, I wuz a-thinkin' Trakedy characters would suit me best," replied the Yankee.

"Ah! I comprehend. Are you familiar with the principal tragic parts?"

"Not much, but I've hearn great talk of 'em."

"Do you know, for example, William Tell at all?"

"William Tellitall?" repeated Down East, stretching his long neck till it seemed to curve like a swan's. 66 No, I don't know him, but I know Bill Tellabout well enough, and a hearty chap he is, with a knife and fork in his paws."

"You don't comprehend," emendated the manager, with a smothered chuckle. "I mean William T-E-L-L-Tell, the Swiss patriot."

"O now I take you. You mean the feller that was sich a tearin' good shot, and knocked a cabbage off the head of his brother or his son-or one of his relations-I forget now which it was."

"That's the man," concurred the other; "only the cabbage was an apple, and it was his son, not his brother."

"Dear me, is that a fact? It's a wunder he didn't knock the child's head off. I should't like to play that; for though I'm a saasy good shot, I might miss the mark and git into trouble."

σε Very true, I confess that never struck me with all of my experience. You've wonderful forethought."

Well, it's better to think of these things fust as last, isn't it?" "Decidedly."

"Wall now, about the price? I think I wouldn't care abeout actin' more than one night."

The stage-manager secretly concurred in the correctness of the decision, but of course remained silent.

"What do you feel you can give?

Remember I'le find dresses,

scenery, lights, and all the various things required.”

"Is your dresses showy and nice lookin'?"

"Amazingly so."

I want to wear somethin' startlin'-spangles is my sort, and acres of tinsill."

66

Precisely. We'll rig you out till you look as if you'd been hallkeeper to a fairy grotto.'

The Down Easter's imagination at this moment got the better of him, and jumping up, he roared

Crimini, wouldn't I like Lid Stebbins to see me.

I

guess she'd say

"About the terms then," said the manager, taking advantage of his candidate's rapture, and returning to the great point of the matter. "Can't we close?"

66

66

'What, the the-a-tre ?"

No, no, the agreement. To be plain, sir, can you afford to give me fifty dollars for one night's performance, and all you draw over four hundred dollars I'll return you.'

This was a safe proposal, when it is known the theatre only held when packed, three hundred and seventy-five dollars.

66

Fifty dollars!" mused the histrionic rustic.

"That's ahead of my

pile considerable. Can't go that, but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you three dollars and a half if you'll dress me up in purty things, and let me speak The House that Jack built' between the pieces."

The manager, with the prospect of a prize from the infatuated booby, grew suddenly angry at this proposition, and was on the eve of turning him, sans ceremonie out of the theatre. But a gleam of fun shooting across his mind, softened his rage in a moment. Without replying to the condition, he rang a bell, which had the effect of summoning the presence of a dingy lad, known as the "call boy.'

"What's rehearsing?"

The second act of The Bridal,'" replied the boy. "Is The Waterman' over ?"

"If he's not, send him to me."

The boy ran off, and immediately instituted a dim but industrious search among the green rooms, through the coulisses, behind shaded cut-pieces, bits of castles, halves of goblin caverns, and at length discovered Mr. Gleely leaning against a "pair of flats" in a dark corner, talking droll rubbish to a young woman in mouse-coloured gaiters, with cherry-coloured ribbon on a new straw bonnet.

The boy delivered his message, and Mr. Gleely, who was the low comedian of the theatre, making a couple of comic excuses to the young lady in the mouse-coloured gaiters, in order, of course, to make the young lady in the mouse-coloured gaiters laugh, proceeded to the manager's room.

"Ah! Mr. Gleely, I'm glad you've come.

Mr. Gleely bowed deferentially, being ignorant of his manager's desire.

"Permit me," continued the manager, winking aside to the comedian, which he " took" in a moment. "Permit me to introduce you to Mr. Garrick Talmarina Keanibus, our grand star."

"Powerful bleaged to you, sir, fering his gaunt digits to Mr. Gleely.

you.

said the Yankee, rising and of"I'm much obleeged to know