As I was walking one morning with Buckthorne, near one of the Principal
theaters, he directed my attention to a group of those equivocal beings
that may often be seen hovering about the stage-doors of theaters. They
were marvellously ill-favored in their attire, their coats buttoned up
to their chins; yet they wore their hats smartly on one side, and had a
certain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike air, which is common to the
subalterns of the drama. Buckthorne knew them well by early experience.
These, said he, are the ghosts of departed kings and heroes; fellows
who sway sceptres and truncheons; command kingdoms and armies; and
after giving way realms and treasures over night, have scarce a
shilling to pay for a breakfast in the morning. Yet they have the true
vagabond abhorrence of all useful and industrious employment; and they
have their pleasures too: one of which is to lounge in this way in the
sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals, and make hackneyed
theatrical jokes on all passers-by.
Nothing is more traditional and legitimate than the stage. Old scenery,
old clothes, old sentiments, old ranting, and old jokes, are handed
down from generation to generation; and will probably continue to be
so, until time shall be no more. Every hanger-on of a theater becomes a
wag by inheritance, and flourishes about at tap-rooms and six-penny
clubs, with the property jokes of the green-room.
