Should you not be in a running play, you may be an understudy for one or two of the ladies who are.  You will study their parts, be rehearsed in their “business,” and will then hold yourself in readiness to take, on an instant’s notice, either of their places, in case of sickness, accident, or ill news coming to either of them.  If the parts are good ones, you will be astonished at the perfect immunity of actresses from all mishaps; but all the same you may never leave your house without leaving word as to where you are going and how long you expect to stay.

You may never go to another theatre without permission of your own manager; indeed, she is a lucky “understudy” who does not have to report at the theatre at 7 o’clock every night to see if she is needed.  And it sometimes happens that the only sickness the poor “understudy” knows of during the whole run of the play is that sickness of deferred hope which has come to her own heart.

Not so very hard a day or night, so far as physical labour goes, is it?  But, oh! the sameness, the deadly monotony, of repeating the same words to the same person at the same moment every night, sick or well, sad or happy—­the same, same words!

A “one-play” company offers the worst possible chance to the beginner.  The more plays there are, the more you learn from observation, as well as from personal effort, to make the parts you play seem as unlike one another as possible.  A day like this admits of no drives, no calls, no “teas”; you see, then, a theatrical life is not one long picnic.

If there is one among my readers to whom the dim and dingy half-light of the theatre is dearer than the God-given radiance of the sunlight; if the burnt-out air with its indescribable odour, seemingly composed of several parts of cellar mould, a great many parts of dry rot or unsunned dust, the whole veined through and through with small streaks of escaped illuminating gas—­if this heavy, lifeless air is more welcome to your nostrils than could be the clover-sweetened breath of the greenest pasture; if that great black gulf, yawning beyond the extinguished footlights, makes your heart leap up at your throat; if without noting the quality or length of your part the just plain, bald fact of “acting something” thrills you with nameless joy; if the rattle-to-bang of the ill-treated old overture dances through your blood, and the rolling up of the curtain on the audience at night is to you as the magic blossoming of a mighty flower—­if these are the things that you feel, your fate is sealed:  Nature is imperious; and through brain, heart, and nerve she cries to you, ACT, ACT, ACT! and act you must!  Yes, I know what I have said of the difficulties in your way, but I have faith to believe that, if God has given you a peculiar talent, God will aid you to find a way properly to exercise that talent.  You may receive many rebuffs, but you must keep on trying to get into a stock company if possible, or, next best, to get an engagement with a star who produces many plays.  Take anything, no matter how small, to begin with.  You will learn how to walk, to stand still—­a tremendous accomplishment.  You will get acquainted with your own hands, and cease to worry about them.