5d Lodgings in the Stra7id. {[July, 



^vorld the great stage on which their " exits and their entrances" are 

 made, and let their " little hour" be swelled to the duration of a life. 

 There is then no manager, decked with a little brief authority, to come 

 between them and the public — no partial critics to write down their 

 merits — no capricious audience to conciliate ; no one sees the exertions 

 they make, and therefore it is in no one's power to interfere with them. 

 How many dislike the society of an actor, merely because he is an actor, 

 although probably a very amiable man ! " We wish," say they, " for no 

 collision with such characters — they are very well in their way — that is to 

 hear and see ; but who would think of admitting, as intimates, professed 

 dissimulators, and therefore dangerous associates ? Can we expect that 

 there is one ingenuous sentiment remaining within those whose whole 

 study is imitation, whose highest ambition is to be transformed into fac- 

 similes of others.''"' Should this poor wight pi'ofess a warm and 

 generous friendship in real life, there are twenty to exclaim, " How 

 natural — but recollect what an excellent Pierre or Antonio he makes !"i 

 Should he come as a sympathizer in misfortune — " Capital ! lago to the 

 life !" A lover — Romeo, Icilius, et hoc genus omne; — in all, he only gains 

 credit for playing a part, and his success is adequate to what it would be 

 " in his proper sphere." How different is his case who preserves all the 

 paraphernalia of stage trickery within himself, who is obliged to no 

 sensible helps, and can, on occasion, alone " play many parts," or even 

 press some of his audience into his dramatic corps, without their being 

 privy to the capacity they fill. Such is the actor of real merits and in 

 London there are many such. 



I am one of them — start not, reader, I am not going to act upon you, 

 at least not to your disadvantage, I hope. I have an extensive circle of 

 acquaintances ; a large connection being a primarj' requisite in all pro- 

 fessions, but an indispensable one in mine. I have my breakfast ac- 

 quaintances, my dinner acquaintances, and my supper acquaintances ; 

 these compose my gallery, box, and pit audience. In the first class are 

 young men in chambers and lodgings, literary persons, whose finances 

 have not reached the matrimonial degree ; and even, in the session, some 

 members of parliament, come to town without their wives. The ladies are 

 seldom included in my matin speculations ; however, they enter largely 

 into the next class ; that is composed of mothers, who love shop- 

 ping and a cicisbeo, misses whose sway at home extends to an invitation 

 for dinner, brothers ditto, bon-vivants who need a boon companion, and 

 authors aspiring only to fame, delighted to secure an after-dinner victim 

 to their lucubrations ; this is bj' far the most numerous class, and, as is 

 proper, is my staple resource. The third and last is more heterogeneous 

 and undetermined ; being made up, for the most part, of the other two, 

 with a few stragglers, peculiarly its own — such as tavern friends, street- 

 acquaintances accidentally encountered, and three or foiu* old maids, 

 who, by a supper, reward the exertions of a novel-reader, when his 

 throat refuses to squeak forth a line more after five or six hours' uninter- 

 rupted duty. This tiers t-tut completes the list. 



But the reader, if he knows me, will say, " How did you contrive to 

 get into so much, and such good company ? You have no means of return- 

 ing all those breakfasts, dinners, and suppers?" — True, but there lies the 

 secret ; I have lodgings in one of the best houses in the Strand — witness 

 my inviting ticket ; and who knows that I mai/ not one day entertain. 

 Look at the mansion I inhabit ; the first floor of it lets for four guineas 



