sibly be required, and that I was ready to "come out." But here the question very naturally arose, "How can I get out?" My first idea was to write to one of the leading managers, tell him frankly my ambition, and state my abilities in a modest but straightforward manner. To this, I argued, he would reply by requesting me to call upon him, and let him see for himself what I could do. I should then go to the theatre at the time appointed, and send up my card. He would ask me into his private room, and, after a little general conversation on the weather, and the latest murder, etc., etc., he would suggest my rehearsing some short scene before him, or reciting one or two speeches. This I should do in a way that would quite astonish him, and he would engage me on the spot at a small salary. I did not expect much at first, but fancied that five or six pounds per week would be near the mark. After that, the rest would be easy. I should go on for some months, perhaps a year, without making any marked sensation. Then my opportunity would come. A new play would be produced, in which there would be some minor part, not considered of any importance, but which in my hands (I had just read the history of "Lord Dundreary," and believed every word of it) would become the great thing in the play, and the talk of London.
I should take the town by storm, make the fortune of my manager, and be the leading actor of the day. I used to dwell on the picture of the
