It was a dingy-looking place, up a back street, with a barber’s shop on one side, and a coal shed on the other. A glorious spring sunshine made it look, by contrast, still more uninviting, and I likened it to the entrance to the enchanted palace in the fairy tales, where the gloomier the portal through which the prince passes, the more gorgeous the halls beyond. This was before I had seen the inside. But it wouldn’t do for me to stop there meditating. It was already two minutes past eleven and the rest of the company would be waiting for me. I laid my hand upon the latch, and---- A moment, please. Before I throw open that door and let daylight in upon the little world behind, let me offer a word or two of preparatory explanation. The theatrical world is a big world. From one of the leading London theaters to a traveling booth (I intend no slighting allusion to our talented American cousin) is a wide stretch, and embraces a great variety. My experience was confined to three or four of these varieties, and by no means extended to the whole. My short career was passed among the minor London theaters, and second and third rate traveling companies; and it is of these, and these only, that I shall speak. But of these--of what came under my actual observation, that is--I shall speak freely, endeavoring to record things exactly as I found them--nothing extenuating, nor setting down aught in malice. It may be that, in the course of my comments, I shall think it necessary to make a few more or less sensible and original remarks; to tell actors and actresses what they ought to do, and what they ought not to do; to explain to managers how they ought to manage their own business; and to give good advice generally all round. Therefore, at the outset, I wish to be clearly understood that, when so doing, I have in mind only that part of the theatrical world with which I am acquainted. As regards such theaters as, for example, the Lyceum or the St. James’s, they are managed quite as well, perhaps, as I could manage them myself, and I have no fault to find with them. Even if I had, I should not do so here, for in these reminiscences I intend to talk only about what I understand--an eccentric resolution for an author, I admit; but no matter, I like to be original now and then. With this understanding, we will push back the door and enter. I found a wheezy little old man inside, boxed up behind a glass partition, toasting a bloater before a small fire. On that morning, I felt kindly disposed toward all living things, and I therefore spoke kindly, even to this poor old buffer. I said: “Good-morning. It’s a fine day.” He said, “Shut the door, can’t yer; or else get outside.”