three weeks' preparation is supposed to be a liberal allowance—and with one imperfect scene rehearsal, and no dress rehearsal at all, the piece is presented to the public. It probably passes muster on the first night, whatever its merits may be; in a week or ten days the actors begin to "do something" with their parts; and in a fortnight the piece is probably at its best.
There is much, very much, fault to be found (so Facile says) with the system—or rather the want of system—that prevails at rehearsals in this country. In the first place every actor and every person engaged in the piece should have a perfect copy of the piece, and that copy should be printed, not written. It costs from five to six pounds to print a three-act comedy, and in return for this trifling outlay, much valuable time and an infinity of trouble would be saved, not only to the prompter, but to the actors and the author. It is absolutely necessary that every actor should have the context of his scenes before his eyes as he studies them. He also says (does Facile) that it is a monstrous shame and an unheard-of injustice to place three-act pieces on the stage with fewer than thirty rehearsals, in ten of which the scenes should be set as they will be set at night, and in five of which every soul engaged should be dressed and made up as they will be dressed and made up at night.
As it is now, Jones, who is always fearfully nervous on "first nights," is embarrassed to find himself called upon to repeat his scarcely learnt lines in a spacious and handsomely furnished apartment, blazing with gas and gold-foil, instead of the cold, dark, empty stage on which he has been rehearsing them. This is of itself
