ween the writer and the actor. The press and the stage are, in a
measure, dependent on each other. The newspaper looks to the theatre for
light, racy and readable items, with which to adorn its columns, like
festoons of flowers gracefully hung around columns of marble. The
theatre looks to the newspaper for impartial criticisms and laudatory
notices. Show me a convivial party of actors, and I will swear there are
at least two or three professional writers among them. I know many
actors who are practical printers, fellows who can wield a
composing-stick as deftly as a fighting sword. Long life and prosperity
to the whole of them, say I; and bless them for a careless, happy,
pleasure-loving, bill-hating and beer-imbibing race of men. Amen.

There is one point of resemblance between the hero of the sock and
buskin and the Knight of the quill. The former dresses up his person and
adopts the language of another, in order to represent a certain
character; the latter clothes his ideas in an appropriate garb of words,
and puts sentiments in the mouths of his characters which are not always
his own. But I was speaking of the Boston Players.

Admitting the foregoing argument to be correct, it is not to be wondered
at that I became extensively acquainted among the members of the
theatrical profession. My name was upon the free list of every theatre
in the city; and every night I visited one or more of the houses--not to
see the play, but to chat in the saloons with the actors and literary
people who in those places most did congregate. After the play was over,
we all used to assemble in an ale-house near the principal theatre; and
daylight would often surprise us in the midst of our "devotions." A
curious mixed-up set we were to be sure! I will try to recollect the
most prominent members of our club. First of all there was the
argumentative and positive Jim Prior, who might properly be regarded as
President of the club. Then came H.W. Fenno, Esq., the gentlemanly
Treasurer of the National. He, however, seldom tarried after having
once "put the party through." The eccentric "Old Spear" was generally
present, seated in an obscure corner smoking a solitary cigar. Comical
S.D. Johnson and his hopeful son George were usually on hand to enliven
the scene; and so was Jim Ring, alias J. Henry, the best negro
performer, next to Daddy Rice, in the United States. Chunkey Monroe, who
did the villains at the National; and, towering above him m