The close of a theatrical season, which rarely exceeds forty weeks, and which terminates in the month of June, is always hailed by the prosperous actor as an occasion when he can find enjoyment and rest in some cosy spot; or if he is in the ranks, and is ambitious to be reckoned in the constellation of dramatic stars, he looks forward to his summer vacation as a time in which he will have opportunity to fix up his business for the coming season; or if he has not yet secured a manager—probably needing one with money—he can button-hole the financiers of the "Square," as the meeting-place and mart of the theatrical fraternity of the entire continent is termed. The stars are becoming so numerous, and, indeed, so insignificant, that even members of the variety profession with the thinnest pretensions in the world to dramatic distinction, and there are few on the legitimate stage above the ranks of utility, who have not aspirations of the same bright and twinkling kind. The beginning of every season finds a hundred or more new combinations, with little talent and less money, starting out on the road; and one, two, or three weeks brings them back, either "on their baggage," or "on their uppers,"—that is, the railroad company carries them home and holds the baggage for their fares, or they "count the railroad ties," which is a metaphoric way of saying they walk home. Very few of the cheap variety artists of the present day are worthy of even a mean place in the "legit.," as they designate the legitimate stage; and it may be said, too, that some stars who have succeeded in reaching the legitimate boards would scarcely be reckoned bright ornaments among the gems of the variety stage. This, however, is a subject beyond the purposes of this work, and so I will not go further into it.

The actor and actress who have settled down to the regular routine of general work are among the persons who get most enjoyment for their money during their summer vacation. Stars, male and female alike, who have made money and reached a satisfactory round on the ladder of fame, though they may not have cottages by the seaside, or summer residences of anything like a pretentious character, can also be counted among the number who "loaf and invite their souls" in a profitable and pleasurable manner. Most of the male stars have nice little nooks by river, lake, or seaside, in quiet, cool, and shady spots, while the tragediennes and comediennes of prominence and fortune seem to prefer either handsome residences in New York or other Eastern metropolis, or else a watering-place cottage. Maggie Mitchell prefers Long Branch. So does Mary Anderson, who lives a very secluded life at this gay resort. Most of her time is passed in playing with her little step-sister on the lawn of their pretty place. She rides on horseback a great deal, and takes an occasional short cruise on her new yacht, "The Galatea," which she has named after the latest role added to her repertoire. Minnie Palmer, about the only real rival Lotta has got, summers at Long Branch. Emma Abbott goes to Cape Ann. Lester Wallack devotes himself and his vacation to making short trips in his steam yacht. John McCullough hasn't settled down anywhere yet. Last year he went to England to work and win a London reputation; this year he is with Gen. Sheridan in the Yellowstone Valley. Fred. Marsden likes to go fishing at Salmon Lake. McKee Rankin has a stock farm at Bois Blanc, Canada, where he spends his summers. John W. Norton flies away to Coney Island, Long Branch, and a round of the Eastern watering-places, Mrs. Norton always accompanying him. And so the category might be lengthened out. But it is useless. Established stars have established fortunes as well as reputations only by dint of the hardest, and, I might add, in many cases, least appreciated kind of work, and they deserve the thousands of dollars they make every year. Few of the great stars fall less than $50,000 for a forty weeks' season, and there are few whose share goes under $1,000 a week. Joe Emmet accumulates money faster, probably, than any other man who plays to the same prices, and John McCullough and Mary Anderson are among the reapers of the richest harvests. Booth seldom plays a season through, but when he does he, of course, carries off the honors.

Actors and actresses, while generous as a class, save their money, and very few are found loitering around New York "broke," during the vacation months. Still there are cases of poverty. I have known a former popular Irish comedian, who belongs to a family of popular and prosperous members of the profession, to walk the streets of a Western town many a day without a cent in his pockets and nothing to look up to at night for shelter but the stars high and pitiless over his bald head. Everybody has read about the English actor, who, driven to distress, and standing at the door of starvation, donned an old gray wig, and was found singing and begging around Union Square. It was only when a policeman in arresting him accidentally pulled off his wig that the actor's identity and condition were known. The former was carefully concealed and the latter cheerfully and liberally relieved. I was at a banquet given by the press of St. Louis to Thomas W. Keene, the tragedian, during his first starring season, when among the few guests who sat down to the table, between Billy Crane and Stuart Robson, was a short, stout, gray-headed, and long gray-bearded man, whom nobody knew. The night was bitterly cold, still the old fellow wore only a long, gray linen duster over a thin, red woollen shirt, with a very queer pair of pantaloons and rough brogans. His high, battered and wide-brimmed hat rested under his chair as if he was afraid some of the company would steal it. He swept clean every dish set before him, emptied every glass of wine, and with bent head, and knife and fork in hand, was waiting anxiously for each course when it came. As soon as he was noticed the question passed around, "Who is the old gray?" and fun was poked at him ruthlessly; but it rebounded lightly from the folds of his linen duster, and he heeded not the blows. When the toasts went around the old man was asked to respond to one, and got up and spoke charmingly for half an hour or more, introducing the Marseillaise, both as a martial hymn, and as a song and dance. Then he explained how the city editor of a local paper had sent him to report the banquet; how he came shivering to the marrow of his bones to the door of the Club House—the most fashionable in the city—and asked permission to go into the kitchen to warm himself previous to appearing at the banquet board, a permission which was granted. The old man spoke so eloquently in telling a pitiful story of his poverty, Pat Short, treasurer of the Olympic, at the instigation, I think, of Manager Norton of the Grand Opera House, picked up a hat and took up a collection from the ten newspaper men and ten actors present. The collection netted $39.75, which was poured in the old man's two hands, while his eyes were wet with tears. Then he was freely plied with wine, and danced, sang, and gave phrenological examinations for two hours, when the crowd dispersed in the greatest good humor. Stuart Robson told this story to a Boston Times man who made a two-column article out of it that travelled all over the country, and in which all the credit of the charity with the figures greatly increased was appropriated unjustly, by Messrs. Robson & Crane. But this is not what I started out about.

"While the actor seeks deep shadows under the far-reaching arms of huge trees," writes the New York Dramatic Times man, "or leisurely smokes his pipe beneath heavy boughs, thick with scented buds and blossoms, some one is working out his programme for the next season. This 'some one' is often confounded with the actor himself, or is taken for the parasite who fosters and thrives on some indirect vein of the living and active theatrical body. The sturdy man of business, who by chance happens to pass the pavement between Broadway and Fifth Avenue, on the south side of Union Square, fancies that the crowd of well-dressed and, as a rule, quiet men, are idle professionals, lounging away a warm day between gossip and beer. He little knows that this is the theatrical exchange of the Western World, where business is carried on in the same honorable mode as at the Stock Exchange, without the Bedlam noises, and that the seeming drifters under the grateful shade of the Morton House are as shrewd in looking at the run of the theatrical market as any Wall Street broker. Every theatre or nomadic attraction throughout the United States has, at some time during the day, a 'some one' looking out for 'dates' and 'booking' memoranda for future contracts. Without any agreement to meet or transact business, the 'some one' appears with the June roses and makes it a point to pass the Rialto between the hours of ten A.M. and four P.M. The affairs of this exchange are gigantic (when for instance one manager gives bona fide evidence that he has cleared $40,000 in the past season), and though it would be impossible to make an estimate of the total amount, it is safe to say that millions are the result of these seemingly casual meetings.

"A guide published last year gives a total of about four thousand five hundred theatres, that kept open their doors for an average of forty weeks. Taking the poor attraction, with the star that fills the theatre to overflowing, the average receipts would be about $150 for each theatre, or $675,000 paid every night for amusements throughout the United States. This would make a total for one week, of $4,050,000, or, for the entire season of forty weeks, $162,000,000, not counting matinees. Taking, then, an industry that brings in over $160,000,000 in round numbers during the season, the neatly dressed men that are said to 'hang around the Square' are the men that control or pull the wires and set the machinery in motion. The figures above are, after all, but approximate, and neither include matinees, which in themselves would count one million, nor does it include the circus world, which is not represented on the Rialto.

"On the other side of the ledger will be found twenty-eight thousand actors drawing their salaries from these receipts; and about twelve thousand more, consisting of carpenters, property-men, scene-shifters, the employees of the front of the theatre, etc. Twenty dollars a week each would make a fair average for the entire forty thousand, and would aggregate a total of $32,000,000 in salaries alone. Add to this the rent of the four thousand five hundred different theatres and halls which, at a moderate calculation of say $4,000 each, would make $18,000,000 for the year.

"The season having closed, actors seek secluded spots, revel in the enjoyment of flannel shirts and country life, enjoying a dolce far niente either by seashore or in wooded glens, and are described as 'resting.' In the nooks many have charming households, and under their roof-trees happiness reigns, without much reference to 'shop.' The manager or agent, however, as soon as one season ends, procures his 'booking' book and starts for the Square. His plan may be to play his attraction in the South. The end of his route will then likely be New Orleans. After having his date in that city, he will 'fill up' his time going and coming back. If the attraction be good, he fills his time by playing in larger cities for one week; if not, he makes one or two-night stands, which, interpreted, means that his company plays for one or two nights in a city. Starting in September, he works his way down by Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, and then in the beaten route through Richmond, Memphis, Atlanta, etc. This route fixing shows the experienced manager; for should he, for instance, have the week commencing February 1st in New Orleans, he would have a night in Mobile, Alabama, before reaching there. To a new man the Mobile manager might offer Saturday, giving the company time to reach New Orleans on Monday. If this be accepted, it would show inexperience in the route maker, as the fashionable night at Mobile is Friday, Saturday being 'niggers'' night. He should so time it as to reach Mobile on Friday, play that night to big business, have his matinee, and do the best he could with Saturday night. In other sections of the country he must know when the workman's pay-day is. In the oil and mining regions, for instance, the men are paid but every fortnight. The attraction which reaches there soonest after the pay-day fares the best.

"Another of the grave considerations is the question of railroad fares. All but the big attractions must take into serious consideration the general increase of railroad rates to the profession. Some of the roads have not joined in the pool, and still cater to theatrical custom. The cities on these routes are likely to have a rush of attractions this season, and, as a consequence, will before long yield poor receipts. At any rate there is a tendency, even among the best-paying companies, to take short 'jumps' this season (1882–3) and visit cities that would have been passed over with contempt a short time since. But the difference of travelling expenses one or three hundred dollars in a day, with a company of forty people, dragging extra baggage, means a big difference in profits.

"The man on the Square has to look out for all these things, as well as the printing of the company, one of the most important and expensive items of a travelling company, an item which will often make him pass wakeful days and sleepless nights. These contracts, of course, vary for the different organizations. The big theatrical gun as well as the smallest, either personally or through agents, keeps himself posted of the affairs of the Rialto. No matter as to how heavy calibre the big gun may be, he may tell his friend he don't visit the Square, but he does, or is sure to let it be known that he lives at the Union Square Hotel, or at some other hotel near by, where his booking is done. Managers of provincial theatres, eager to fill the time for their houses, travel eastward to the Mecca of theatredom, or have their booking done by local agents or firms engaged in this city in that specialty—the commission for an attraction being from $5 to $7. One firm of this kind in Union Square do the booking for more than fifty theatres, while another and larger one in Twenty-third Street controls entire circuits, and furnishes attractions for several hundred theatres. The manager having laid the foundation of his plan, takes the summer to complete it, changing a town here, or a date there, to make his route as complete as possible, and as convenient to travel over, so as to reach a town and have his company rest before appearing.