There is a movement, I am told, in certain critical circles in favour of the system which obtains in Parisian theatres of the _répétition générale_. This, as most playgoers know, is a final “dress rehearsal” held on the evening (at the Français, where evening performances must be continuous, on the afternoon) of the day before the actual “first night” production, or _première_, of the play. The seats, including the exceptionally large number allotted in Paris to the Press, are filled by invitation. It is the real “first night”; only there is no “money” in the house. Notoriously, there is a formidable cohort of Parisians who regard their seat at a _répétition générale_ as a kind of vested interest, and who would be affronted by having to put up with the _première_. A very remarkable public this is, the public of the _répétition générale_, with its members virtually all known to one another, filling the _foyer_ with chatter and much scent, and patiently sitting through a performance which is apt to begin a good half-hour after the advertised time, and to end in the small hours of the morning. The inter-acts are of inordinate length, perhaps in the interests of the buffet, more likely because of the inveterate leisureliness of the Parisians. The whole thing, at any rate as I have found it, is a weariness to English flesh. But then the gentlemen (and ladies) of the Press have the advantage of being able to go home straight to bed, and of having all next day to think over their “notices.” That is the reason, I suppose, why some critics would like to see the system introduced in London. They want more time. They want to sleep on it. They would write, they think, better in the morning. Let me leave that point, however, for the moment to turn to what an incorrigibly commercial world will probably think a more important one, the question of finance. To the theatrical manager the introduction of this system would mean the loss of a whole night’s receipts. With theatre rents and expenses at their present height, could they possibly contemplate so heavy a sacrifice? They are already complaining that theatre seats at their present prices do not pay—and here they would be giving away, for one night, the whole house. Further, however they might gratify the friends whom they invited, nothing could save them from the wrath of those who were left over. Some of these, perhaps, might be mollified by a subsequent invitation—for the “deadhead” habit becomes an insidious disease, and, I am told, the Paris theatres groan under the hordes of playgoers who consider themselves entitled to gratuitous admission. On the whole, I think our managers would be ill-advised to countenance the suggested change.