Thus the “building” stood revealed and complete, and round the pillars ran an open space, enclosed as it were by the walls. What with the gloom and the general mystery, the whole would pass, even to those standing by, as a very imposing structure. [27] One morning, during the preparations, I found myself in the painting-room, where Mr. Craven was busy with one of the interesting little models of scenery by which the effect can be tested. The reader may not know that the scenic artist has his model theatre, a foot or so wide, but made “to scale.” He has also ground-plans of the stage, showing all the exits, etc., also done to scale. By these aids the most complicated scenes can be designed and tried. I was struck with the careful, conscientious fashion in which the manager discussed a little Venetian scene, rudely painted in water-colours, which had just been set. He saw it in connection with the entrances of the actors, and was not quite satisfied with the arrangement. He tried various devices, and proposed a gateway, which entailed making a new design. This he suggested to the painter with pleasant persuasion and kindly apologetic courtesy, but was, as always, firm in his purpose. If a second experiment did not satisfy, it must be tried again. _Suaviter in modo_, etc., is certainly his maxim. [28] This performer is associated with the best traditions of the good old school; and is linked with many interesting associations. It is curious, too, to think that he belongs, or belonged, to the Society of Friends. We have, and have had, a good many Jews upon the stage, but a Quaker is a rarity. When he was in America, he related the story of his life to an inquirer: “I was attending a public school in Yorkshire. It was a Quaker school at Ackworth, although boys not of Quaker parentage attended it. Somehow I was always selected to recite some piece for the visitors—some of those old pieces, you know, such as _The Roman Gladiator_, or _Paul before Agrippa_. In this way I acquired my first liking for the stage. One night I went with my cousin John to the Old Drury Lane Theatre to see Kean, who was then creating a _furore_ by his magnificent acting. In those days, you know, they sold good seats in the gallery for a shilling; so I and my cousin Jack paid our shilling—the usual half-price—and went into the gallery. I shall never forget that night. The playing opened, I think, with the third act. I see Kean as plainly as if it were only yesterday. There he sat, a small man, upon his throne in the middle of the stage. Well, after leaving the theatre, Jack and I had to cross a bridge on our way home. I sat down in the recess of the bridge, almost overcome by my emotion, and said, ‘John, I am going to be an actor.’ He tried to dissuade me, and laughed at the folly of the idea, but my mind was made up.” One of the most striking incidents at a recent production of ‘King Lear’ was the ‘ovation,’ as it is called,