r dramatic representations is generally of a very fervid and
uncompromising kind, must be recognised his pity for the money-taker,
forbidden by the cares of office to witness a performance, and his
envy of the musicians, so advantageously stationed for the incessant
enjoyment of the delights of the theatre. But he perceives, with
regretful wonder, that these gentlemen are habitually negligent of
their opportunities, and fail to appreciate the peculiar happiness of
their position; that they are apt, indeed, their services not being
immediately required, to abandon their instruments, and quietly to
steal away through the cramped doorway that admits to the mysterious
regions beneath the stage. He is grieved to note that for them, at any
rate, the play is _not_ "the thing." One or two may remain--the
performer on the drum, I have observed, is often very faithful in this
respect, though I have failed to discover any special reason why a
love of histrionic efforts should be generated by his professional
occupation--but the majority of the orchestra clearly manifest an
almost indecent alacrity in avoiding all contemplation of the displays
on the other side of the foot-lights. They are but playgoers on
compulsion. They even seem sometimes, when they retain their seats, to
prefer gazing at the audience, rather than at the actors, and thus to
advertise their apathy in the matter. And I have not heard that the
parsimonious manager, who proposed to reduce the salaries of his
musicians on the ground that they every night enjoyed admission to the
best seats, for which they paid nothing, "even when stars were
performing," ever succeeded in convincing his band of the justice of
his arguments.

The juvenile patron of the drama will, of course, in due time become
less absorbed in his own view of the situation, and learn that just as
one man's meat is another man's poison, so the pleasures of some are
the pains of others. He will cease to search the faces of the
orchestra for any evidence of "pride of place," or enjoyment of
performances they witness, not as volunteers, but as pressed men. He
will understand that they are at work, and are influenced by a natural
anxiety to escape from work as soon as may be. So, the overture ended,
they vanish, and leave the actors to do their best or their worst, as
the case may be. But our young friend's sentiments are not peculiar to
himself--have been often shared, indeed, by very experienced persons.