Mr.
Collier quotes from Brome's comedy, "The Antipodes," 1640, a curious account of the contents of the "tiring-house" of that time.

Byeplay, an actor, one of the characters, is speaking of the hero Peregrine, who is in some sort a reflection of Don Quixote: He has got into our tiring-house amongst us, And ta'en a strict survey of all our properties.
* * * * * Whether he thought 'twas some enchanted castle, Or temple hung and piled with monuments Of uncouth and of varied aspects, I dive not to his thoughts....
But on a sudden, with thrice knightly force, And thrice thrice puissant arm, he snatched down The sword and shield that I played Bevis with; Rusheth among the foresaid properties, Kills monster after monster, takes the puppets Prisoners, knocks down the Cyclops, tumbles all Our jigambobs and trinkets to the wall.
Spying at last the crown and royal robes I' the upper wardrobe, next to which by chance, The devils vizors hung and their flame-painted Skin-coats, these he removed with greater fury, And (having cut the infernal ugly faces All into mammocks), with a reverend hand He takes the imperial diadem, and crowns Himself King of the Antipodes and believes He has justly gained the kingdom by his conquest.
A later dealing with the same subject may be quoted from Dr.
Reynardson's poem of "The Stage," dedicated to Addison, and first published in 1713: High o'er the stage there lies a rambling frame, Which men a garret vile, but players the tire-room name: Here all their stores (a merry medley) sleep Without distinction, huddled in a heap.
Hung on the self-same peg, in union rest Young Tarquin's trousers and Lucretia's vest, Whilst, without pulling coifs, Roxana lays, Close by Statira's petticoat, her stays....
Near these sets up a dragon-drawn calash; There's a ghost's doublet, delicately slashed, Bleeds from the mangled breast and gapes a frightful gash....
Here Iris bends her various-painted arch, There artificial clouds in sullen order march; Here stands a crown upon a rack, and there A witch's broomstick, by great Hector's spear: Here stands a throne, and there the cynic's tub, Here Bullock's cudgel, and there Alcides' club.
Beards, plumes, and spangles in confusion rise, Whilst rocks of Cornish diamonds reach the skies; Crests, corslets, all the pomp of battle join In one effulgence, one promiscuous shine.
Hence all the drama's decorations rise, Hence gods descend majestic from the skies.
Hence playhouse chiefs, to grace some antique tale, Buckle their coward limbs in warlike mail, &c.

&c.
Of the theatrical wardrobe department of to-day it is unnecessary to say much.

Something of the bewildering incongruity of the old "tiring-room" distinguishes it--yet with a difference.

The system of the modern theatre has undergone changes.