between which was a stage door opening on a projecting iron balcony. Above the columns a cornice and a balustrade were carried over the stage openings; above these was painted a flow of crimson drapery and the arms of the United States and the commonwealth blended with emblems tragic and comic. A ribbon depending from the arms bore the motto, All the world's a stage.'

"The boxes were hung with crimson silk, and their balustrade gilded; the walls were tinted azure, and the columns and fronts of the boxes straw and lilac. At the end of the building was a noble and elegant dancing pavilion, richly ornamented with Corinthian columns and pilasters. There were also spacious card and tea rooms and kitchens with the proper conveniences."

Great state was observed in performances here. The "guests" were met by a bewigged and bepowdered master of ceremonies and escorted to their boxes. Thence, however, they could see the stage but dimly at best in the feeble light of candles or by means of the more objectionable, because smoky, illumination of whale-oil lamps. Moreover, they might freeze in winter, for all the effective heating apparatus provided. Very likely it was to keep warm that the gallery gods threw things. At any rate, the orchestra was obliged to insert a card in the newspaper requesting the audience to be more restrained in the matter of pelting the musicians with apple cores and oranges. The music, by the way, was of high standard, Reinagh of Philadelphia being director. In short, though Boston had come on slowly, it was now conceded to possess the finest theatre in the country.

None the less, the new venture was a constantly losing one at first, and at the end of the second season Powell retired in disgust and bankruptcy. He chose to consider himself a much injured person, too, from the fact that the managers of the Boston, who were Federalists, were, as he believed, using their playhouse to offend their political opponents, the Jacobins. His grievance seemed so real to him that he was able to make it real to his friends, and they promptly set about erecting a new playhouse for him near the site of the present Tremont Theatre. This was called The Haymarket; it was opened to the public December 26, 1796, the bill offered being "The Belle's Stratagem."

Though very plain on the outside, the new house was capacious and elegant within, and if Boston had been large enough at this time to support two theatres, The Haymarket might have had a long and a prosperous career. As it was, however, the neck-and-neck race which Powell proceeded to run with the Federal Street house, at a rate of expense which was simply ruinous, soon swamped the younger venture, which lacked the financial backing of its rival. At the end of a few seasons The Haymarket was abandoned, and in 1803 the building was razed.

1 Even the destruction of the Federal Street Theatre by fire (February 2, 1798) did not seriously hamper its success. For the structure was promptly rebuilt, and it re-opened October 29, 1798, continuing as a theatre until 1835, when it was converted into a lecture room under the name of the " Odeon." It re-opened as a theatre, under its old name, in 1846. In April, 1852, it was sold and disappears from theatrical annals.

I think it has now been incontrovertibly established, that even in Boston the theatre had risen to the dignity of an "American institution," by the dawn of the nineteenth century.

CHAPTER IV

THE CURIOUS ADVENTURES OF CERTAIN EARLY ENGLISH STARS

AMERICAN managers who have written books about the stage are all agreed upon at least one point: that the downfall of profitable and artistically successful stock companies is directly traceable to the introduction of the "star" system. The employment of eminent actors for a limited period on large terms began, we are told, with the famous Mrs. Oldfield, and was next known in Garrick's and Macklin's cases. Its progress thus early however, was slow and was confined to actors of transcendent merit. In America Mrs. Henry was the first star of which we know, and in her case the distinction seems to have been due to the fact that her husband was a manager. Then followed Fennell (in 1796) for a short time, and in 1803 Cooper made a try at this experiment, succeeding so well that he was never again content to be a stock actor.

The attractiveness of these last-named tragedians created no jealous feeling among the regular performers, however, for it was recognized that there must be Hamlets and Richards and Othellos each season for a short time in every city. Nor was the unhappiness very acute