e play reflecting
real life.

But surely I have given instances enough in illustration of my original
claim that the most dramatic scenes in plays are generally the mere
reflections of happenings in real life; while the recognition of such
scenes often causes a serious interruption to the play, though goodness
knows there are plenty of interruptions from other causes.

One that comes often to my mind occurred at Daly's. He once tried to
keep the theatre open in the summer-time--that was a failure. Two or
three plays were tried, then he abandoned the scheme. But while "No
Name" was on, Mr. Parks was cast for a part he was utterly unsuited for.
He stamped and stammered out his indignation and objection, but he was
not listened to, so on he went.

During the play he was found seated at a table; and he not answering a
question put to him, his housekeeper knelt at his side, lifted his hand,
and let it fall, heavily, then in awed tones exclaimed, "He is dead!"

Now there is no use denying that, clever actor as he was, he was very,
_very_ bad in that part; and on the third night, when the housekeeper
let his hand fall and said, "He is dead!" in clear and hearty response
from the gallery came the surprising words, "Thank God!"

The laughter that followed was not only long-continued, but it broke
out again and again. As one young woman earnestly remarked next day:
"You see he so perfectly expressed all our feelings. We were all as
thankful as the man in the gallery, but we didn't like to say so."

Parks, however, was equal to the occasion. He gravely suggested that Mr.
Daly would do well to engage that chap, as he was the only person who
had made a hit in the play.

Parks was, by the way, very droll in his remarks about theatrical
matters. One day Mr. Daly concluded he would "cut" one of the acts we
were rehearsing, and it happened that Parks's part, which was already
short, suffered severely. He, of course, said nothing, but a little
later he introduced a bit of business which was very funny, but really
did not suit the scene. Mr. Daly noticed it, and promptly cut that out
too. Then was Parks wroth indeed.

After rehearsal, he and Mr. Lewis were walking silently homeward, when
they came upon an Italian street musician. The man ground at his movable
piano, the wife held the tambourine, while his leggy little daughter
danced with surprising grace on the stone walk. As she trotted about
gathering her harvest of pennies, P