FOOTNOTES:

The conclusions arrived at are so startling that though, like Mr. Hyndman, I have never been in India, I, as an alarmed Englishman, have tried to test the strength of the basis upon which they rest. The onlydataI have at hand are taken from the figures in the last year's report of the Punjab. The number of cultivated acres there agrees with those quoted by Mr. Hyndman—say 21,000,000 acres—and I adopt his average value of 1l.14s.per acre.The Government assessment is 1,905,000l., to pay which one-sixth of the wheat crop [the produce of 1,120,000] would have to be sold and exported. There would remain for consumption in the country the produce of 5,500,000 acres of wheat and of 12,000,000 acres of other grain, the two sufficing to yield for a year 2 lb. per head per day for the population of 17,000,000, which is more than double the weight of corn eaten by the people of this country. Besides this, they would have for consumption their garden vegetables and milk; and beyond it the money value of 845,000 acres of oil-seed, 720,000 acres of cotton and hemp, 391,000 acres of sugar-cane, 120,000 acres of indigo, 69,000 acres of tobacco, 88,000 acres of spices, drugs, and dyes, 19,000 acres of poppy, and 8,800 acres of tea; the aggregate value of which, without touching the corn, would leave nearly twice the Government assessment.Mr. Hyndman has committed the error of arguing from an English money value at the place of production upon articles of consumption, the true value of which is their food-sustaining power to the people who consume them.

The Government assessment is 1,905,000l., to pay which one-sixth of the wheat crop [the produce of 1,120,000] would have to be sold and exported. There would remain for consumption in the country the produce of 5,500,000 acres of wheat and of 12,000,000 acres of other grain, the two sufficing to yield for a year 2 lb. per head per day for the population of 17,000,000, which is more than double the weight of corn eaten by the people of this country. Besides this, they would have for consumption their garden vegetables and milk; and beyond it the money value of 845,000 acres of oil-seed, 720,000 acres of cotton and hemp, 391,000 acres of sugar-cane, 120,000 acres of indigo, 69,000 acres of tobacco, 88,000 acres of spices, drugs, and dyes, 19,000 acres of poppy, and 8,800 acres of tea; the aggregate value of which, without touching the corn, would leave nearly twice the Government assessment.

Mr. Hyndman has committed the error of arguing from an English money value at the place of production upon articles of consumption, the true value of which is their food-sustaining power to the people who consume them.

When an argument is thus found so completelypecher par sa base, it is needless to pursue it further. But I conceive that Mr. Hyndman, when studying this overwhelming refutation, must feel somewhat conscience-stricken when he reperuses such sentences of his own as the following:—"In India at this time, millions of the ryots are growing wheat, cotton, seeds, and other exhausting crops, and send them away because these alone will enable them to pay their way at all. They are themselves, nevertheless, eating less and less of worse food each year, in spite, or rather by reason, of the increasing exports." Thus a farmer is damaged by finding new markets for his produce! And he sells his wheat, which is the main produce of his arable land in those parts of India where it flourishes, to buy some cheaper grain which his land does not grow! The youngest assistant in a collector's establishment could inform Mr. Hyndman that the food of the agricultural population of India consists of the staple most suitable to the soil of the district: in the Punjab wheat, in Bengal and all well-watered lowlands rice, on the tablelands of the Deccan jowári (holcus sorghum) and bájri (panicum spicatum), on the more sterile plateau of Southern India the inferior grain rági (eiuesyne coracauna).

It must have been under the dominion of the idea produced by Mr. Dádobhai's statistics as to the thoroughly wretched state of the agricultural population of India that Mr. Hyndman has been led into exaggerated statements which his own article shows he knew to be inaccurate. A dreadful case of misgovernment existed in India, and, thoroughly to arouse his countrymen to the fact, it was necessary to pile up the agony. Thus, in one part of his article he states that the "enormous debt" of India amounts to 220,000,000l., but in a later portion he admits that it is only 127,000,000l., and he knows full well that the amount of 100,000,000l.of guaranteed railway debt is not only not a present debt due from Government, but is a very valuable property, which will probably bring in some millions of revenue when they exercise their right of buying up the interests of the several guaranteed companies.

Again, he speaks throughout his article of the excessive taxation imposed on the poor, half-starved cultivators; and he gives the following table as showing the amount "taken absolutely out of the pockets of the people:"—

Land revenue£21,500,000Excise2,500,000Salt6,240,000Stamps2,830,000Customs2,720,000

He thus maintains that the portion of the rent paid to Government for occupation of the land is a tax upon the cultivator, which is about astrue as to state that the 67,000,000l.of rental in the United Kingdom is a special tax on the farmers of this country. The amount derived from excise is chiefly produced by the sale of intoxicating liquors, the use of which is forbidden by the social and religious views of the natives; and any contribution to the revenue under this head is clearly a voluntary act on the part of the transgressor. The revenue from stamps proceeds chiefly from what may be called taxes on justice; they are, in my opinion, extremely objectionable, but weighty objections may be urged against nearly every tax, and a large portion of this tax falls on the wealthier class of suitors. The amount contributed by the population under the head of customs, although it may take money out of the pocket of the rayat, actually adds to his store; for, unless he could buy in the bazaar a piece of Manchester long-cloth cheaper than an article of domestic manufacture, it is manifest that he would select the latter. There remains only the single article of salt on which the cultivator undoubtedly is taxed, and which forms the sole tax from which he cannot escape. This tax also is extremely objectionable in theory, more perhaps than in practice, for it amounts to about 7-1/2d.per head. But even if we take the whole amount of taxation as shown by Mr. Hyndman, excluding the land revenue or rental of the land, the average per head is only 1s.6d., of which more than one-third can be avoided at the pleasure of any individual consumer. It is not, then, a misstatement to aver that the population of India is more lightly taxed than any population in the world living under an orderly government.

I have thus far thought it my duty to expose what I believe to be grave errors in Mr. Hyndman's sensational article. But I should do him great injustice if I did not admit that he has brought out in vivid colours some very important facts. It is true that these facts are well known to Indian administrators, but they are facts disagreeable to contemplate, and are therefore slurred over willingly; but they have such important bearing on the proceedings of Government in India that they cannot be too frequently paraded before the public eye.

The first of these truths is the undeniable poverty of the great bulk of the population. But here Mr. Hyndman does not appear to me to have taken full grasp of the fact, or to have ascertained its causes. The dense population of India, amounting in its more fertile parts to six and seven hundred per square mile, is almost exclusively occupied in agricultural pursuits. But the land of India has been farmed from time immemorial by men entirely without capital. A farmer in this country has little chance of success unless he can supply a capital of 10l.to 20l.an acre. If English farms were cultivated by men as deficient in capital as the Indian rayats, they would be all thrown on the parish in a year or two. The founder of a Hindu village may, by aid of his brethren and friends, have strength enough to break up the jungle, dig a well, and with a few rupees in his pocket he may purchase seed for the few acres he can bring under the plough. If a favourable harvest ensue, he has a large surplus, out of which he pays thejammaor rentto Government. But on the first failure of the periodical rains his withered crops disappear, he has no capital wherewith to meet the Government demand, to obtain food for his family and stock, or to purchase seed for the coming year. To meet all these wants he must have recourse to the village money-lender, who has always formed as indispensable a member of a Hindu agricultural community as the ploughman himself.

From time immemorial the cultivator of the soil in India has lived from hand to mouth, and when his hand could not supply his mouth from the stores of the last harvest he has been driven to the local saukár or money-lender to obtain the means of existence. This is the first great cause of India's poverty. The second is akin to it, for it exists in the infinite divisibility of property which arises under the Hindu system of succession, and which throws insuperable obstructions to the growth of capital. The rule as to property in Hindu life is that all the members of a family, father, grandfather, children, and grandchildren, constitute an undivided partnership, having equal shares in the property, although one of them, generally the eldest, is recognised as the manager. It is in the power of any member to sever himself from the family group, and the tendency of our Government has been to encourage efforts of what may be called individualism. But the new stock is but the commencement of another undivided family, so strong is the Hindu feeling in favour of this time-honoured custom. It is obvious that where the skill, foresight, and thriftiness required for the creation of capital may be thwarted by the extravagance or carelessness of any one of a large number of partners, its growth must be seriously impeded.

It will be seen, if the above arguments are sound, that the obstructions which oppose themselves to the formation of capital arise out of immemorial usages, and are irremediable by any direct interference of Government. But whatever may be the causes of this national poverty, the fact is undoubted, and it cannot be too steadily contemplated by those who desire to rely on fresh taxation for their favourite projects, whether it be for improved administration, for magnificent public works, or for the extension of our dominions. Mr. Hyndman also points out the great expensiveness of a foreign government, and his remarks on this subject are undoubtedly true. The high salaries required to tempt Englishmen of suitable qualifications to expatriate themselves for the better part of their lives, and the heavy dead weight of pensions and furlough charges for such officials, form, no doubt, a heavy burden on the resources of India. The costliness of a European army is, of course, also undoubtedly great. But these are charges which, to a less or greater degree, are inseparable from the dominion of a foreign government. The compensation for them is to be found in the security they provide against a foreign invader or against internal disturbances, and the protection they afford, in a degree hitherto unknown in India, to life, property, and character. But Mr. Hyndman'sdiatribes are useful in pointing to the conclusion that all the efforts of Government should be directed towards the diminution of these charges, where compatible with efficiency, and his striking contrast of the home military charges in 1862-63, which then amounted to 28l.3s., and now have risen in the present year to 66l., deserves most serious consideration.

There is only one other statement of Mr. Hyndman which I desire to notice. He declares the general opinion of the natives to be that life, as a whole, has become harder since the English took the country, and he adds his own opinion that the fact is so. Mr. Hyndman, as we have seen, knows but little of the actual life of the agricultural population, and of their state under native rule he probably knows less. But I am inclined to think he fairly represents a very prevailing belief amongst the natives. A vivid indication of this native feeling is given in the most instructive work on Hindu rural life that I have ever met with.[14]Colonel Sleeman thus recounts a conversation he held with some natives in one of his rambles—

I got an old landowner from one of the villages to walk on with me a mile and put me in the right road. I asked him what had been the state of the country under the former government of the Jâts and Mahrattas, and was told that the greater part was a wild jungle. "I remember," said the old man, "when you could not have got out of the road hereabouts without a good deal of risk. I could not have ventured a hundred yards from the village without the chance of having my clothes stripped off my back. Now the whole country is under cultivation, and the roads are safe. Formerly the governments kept no faith with their landowners and cultivators, exacting ten rupees where they had bargained for five whenever they found their crops good. But in spite of all thiszulm(oppression) there was then moreburkul(blessings from above) than now; the lands yielded more to the cultivator."

Colonel Sleeman on the same day asked a respectable farmer what he thought of the latter statement. He stated: "The diminished fertility is owing, no doubt, to the want of those salutary fallows which the fields got under former governments, when invasions and civil wars were things of common occurrence, and kept at leasttwo-thirds of the land waste."

The fact is that, under an orderly government like ours, the causes alluded to above as impeding the growth of capital become very much aggravated. Population largely increases, waste lands are brought under the plough, grazing grounds for stock disappear, and the fallows, formerly so beneficial in restoring fertility to the soil, can no longer be kept free from cultivation. All these considerations form portions of the very difficult problems in government which day by day present themselves to the Indian administrator. But does Mr. Hyndman think they are to be solved by recurrence to the native system of government; by the substitution of a local ruler, sometimes paternal, more frequently the reverse, for the courts of justice which now administer the law which can be read and understood by all; by civil contracts being enforced by the armed servant of the creditor, instead of by theofficers of a court acting under strict surveillance; by the land assessment being collected year by year through the farmers of the revenue according to their arbitrary will, instead of being payable in a small moderate[15]sum, unalterable for a long term of years? If he thinks this—and his allusion to the system of the non-regulation provinces favours the conclusion—he will not find, I think, an educated native in the whole of India who will agree with him.

There are great harshnesses in our rule, there is a rigidity and exactitude of procedure which is often distasteful to native opinion, there are patent defects arising out of our attempts to administer justice, there is great irritation at our constant and often ill-conceived experiments in legislation, there is real danger in the fresh burdens we lay upon the people in our desire to carry out apparently laudable reforms. But with all these blemishes, which have only to be distinctly perceived to be removed from our administrative system, the educated native feels that he is gradually acquiring the position of a freeman, and he would not exchange it for that which Mr. Hyndman appears to desiderate.

E. Perry,in Nineteenth Century.

FOOTNOTES:[1]This rock on its eastern face contains the decrees of Asoka, who began to reign 263b.c.; on the western face is the inscription of Rudradáman, one of the Satrap-rulers under an Indian Greek dynasty, circa 90b.c.; and the northern face presents the inscription of Skandagupta, 240a.d.[2]Preface toVishnu Purana.[3]Elphinstone,History of India, vol. i. p. 511.[4]See Aitcheson,Treaties, vol. vi. p. 18.[5]A Hindu Gentleman's Reflections.Spiers, London, 1878.[6]Widow-burning.[7]The swing-sacrifice.[8]Views and Opinions of General John Jacob.London, 1858.[9]October 1865, and October 1866.[10]England and Russia in the East.Murray.[11]59 Geo. III. c. 55, s. 43.[12]Report on East India Public Works, p. 85.[13]The career of Mr. Dádobhai Naoroji illustrates in a remarkable manner the operation of the system of education introduced under our government. A Parsi, born in Bombay of very poor parents, he received his education at the Elphinstone College, where he displayed so much intelligence that in 1845 an English gentleman, desirous to open up a new career for educated natives, offered to send him to England to study for the bar if any of the wealthy merchants of his community would pay half the expenses. But in those days the Parsis, like the Hindus, dreaded contact with England, and the offer fell to the ground. Dádobhai continued at the College, where he obtained employment as a teacher, and subsequently became professor of mathematics, no native having previously filled such a post. In 1845 he left scholastics and joined the first native mercantile house established in London. This firm commenced with great success, and Dádobhai no sooner found himself master of 5,000l. than he devoted it to public objects in his native city. The house of Messrs. Cama subsequently failed, and Dádobhai returned to Bombay, where, as above noted, he took an active part in municipal affairs, and was subsequently appointed Dewan to the Gaekwar. He is now carrying on business as a merchant on his own account in London.[14]Rambles of an Indian Official, 1844.[15]So long ago as the period when Colonel Sleeman wrote, the principle was fully established as to the moderation to be observed in the Government assessment. He says: "We may rate the Government share at one-fifth as the maximum and one-tenth as the minimum of the gross produce." (Rambles of an Indian Official, vol i. p. 251.) In the Blue Book laid before Parliament last Session on the Deccan riots, it will be seen that the Government share in the gross produce of those districts where a high assessment was supposed to have created the disturbances was only one-thirteenth.

[1]This rock on its eastern face contains the decrees of Asoka, who began to reign 263b.c.; on the western face is the inscription of Rudradáman, one of the Satrap-rulers under an Indian Greek dynasty, circa 90b.c.; and the northern face presents the inscription of Skandagupta, 240a.d.

[2]Preface toVishnu Purana.

[3]Elphinstone,History of India, vol. i. p. 511.

[4]See Aitcheson,Treaties, vol. vi. p. 18.

[5]A Hindu Gentleman's Reflections.Spiers, London, 1878.

[6]Widow-burning.

[7]The swing-sacrifice.

[8]Views and Opinions of General John Jacob.London, 1858.

[9]October 1865, and October 1866.

[10]England and Russia in the East.Murray.

[11]59 Geo. III. c. 55, s. 43.

[12]Report on East India Public Works, p. 85.

[13]The career of Mr. Dádobhai Naoroji illustrates in a remarkable manner the operation of the system of education introduced under our government. A Parsi, born in Bombay of very poor parents, he received his education at the Elphinstone College, where he displayed so much intelligence that in 1845 an English gentleman, desirous to open up a new career for educated natives, offered to send him to England to study for the bar if any of the wealthy merchants of his community would pay half the expenses. But in those days the Parsis, like the Hindus, dreaded contact with England, and the offer fell to the ground. Dádobhai continued at the College, where he obtained employment as a teacher, and subsequently became professor of mathematics, no native having previously filled such a post. In 1845 he left scholastics and joined the first native mercantile house established in London. This firm commenced with great success, and Dádobhai no sooner found himself master of 5,000l. than he devoted it to public objects in his native city. The house of Messrs. Cama subsequently failed, and Dádobhai returned to Bombay, where, as above noted, he took an active part in municipal affairs, and was subsequently appointed Dewan to the Gaekwar. He is now carrying on business as a merchant on his own account in London.

[14]Rambles of an Indian Official, 1844.

[15]So long ago as the period when Colonel Sleeman wrote, the principle was fully established as to the moderation to be observed in the Government assessment. He says: "We may rate the Government share at one-fifth as the maximum and one-tenth as the minimum of the gross produce." (Rambles of an Indian Official, vol i. p. 251.) In the Blue Book laid before Parliament last Session on the Deccan riots, it will be seen that the Government share in the gross produce of those districts where a high assessment was supposed to have created the disturbances was only one-thirteenth.

If little seeds by slow degreePut forth their leaves and flowers unheard,Our love had grown into a tree,And bloomed without a single wordI haply hit on six o'clock,The hour her father came from town;I gave his own peculiar knock,And waited slyly, like a clown.The door was open. There she stood,Lifting her mouth's delicious brim.How could I waste a thing so good!I took the kiss she meant for him.A moment on an awful brink—Deep breath, a frown, a smile, a tear;And then, "O Robert, don't you thinkThat that was rather—cavalier?" [London Society.

If little seeds by slow degreePut forth their leaves and flowers unheard,Our love had grown into a tree,And bloomed without a single word

I haply hit on six o'clock,The hour her father came from town;I gave his own peculiar knock,And waited slyly, like a clown.

The door was open. There she stood,Lifting her mouth's delicious brim.How could I waste a thing so good!I took the kiss she meant for him.

A moment on an awful brink—Deep breath, a frown, a smile, a tear;And then, "O Robert, don't you thinkThat that was rather—cavalier?" [London Society.

It is a generally received opinion that all stage wardrobes are made up of tawdry rags, and that the landscapes and palaces that look so charming by gaslight are but mere daubs by day. But there are wardrobesandwardrobes, scenery and scenery. The dresses used for some great "get up" at the opera houses, or at the principal London and provincial theatres, are costly and magnificent; the scenery, although painted for distance and artificial light, is really the product of artists of talent, and there is an attention to reality in all the adjuncts that would quite startle the believers in the tinsel and tawdry view. A millionaire might take a lesson from the stage drawing-rooms of the Prince of Wales and the Court theatres, and no cost is spared to procure therealarticle, whatever it may be, that is required for the scene. These minutiæ of realism, however, are quite a modern idea, dating no farther back than the days of Boucicault and Fechter. Splendid scenery and gorgeous dresses for the legitimate dramas were introduced by John Kemble, and developed to the utmost extent by Macready and Kean; but it was reserved for the present decade to lavish the same attention and expenses upon the petite drama. Half a century ago the property maker manufactured the stage furniture, the stage books, the candelabra, curtains, cloths, pictures, &c., out of papier mache and tinsel; and the drawing-room or library of a gentleman's mansion thus presented bore as much resemblance to the reality as sea-side furnished lodgings do to a ducal palace. Before the Kemble time a green baize, a couple of chairs and a table, sufficed for all furnishing purposes, whether for an inn or a palace.

In these days of "theatrical upholstery," we can scarcely realize the shabbiness of the stage of the last century. There were a few handsome suits for the principal actors, but the less important ones were frequently dressed in costumes that had done service for fifty years, until they were worn threadbare and frequently in rags. Endeavour to realise upon the modern stage such a picture as this given by Tate Wilkinson, of his appearance at Covent Garden as "The Fine Gentleman," in "Lethe." "A very short old suit of clothes, with a black velvet ground, and broad, gold flowers as dingy as the twenty-four letters on a piece of gingerbread; it had not seen the light since the first year Garrick played 'Lothario,' at the theatre. Bedecked in that sable array for the modern 'Fine Gentleman,' and to make the appearance complete, I added an old red surtout, trimmed with a dingy white fur, and a deep skinned cape of the same hue, borrowed by old Giffard, I was informed, at Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre, to play 'King Lear' in." When West Digges appeared at the Haymarketas Cardinal Wolsey, it was in the identical dress that Barton Booth had worn in Queen Anne's time: a close-fitting habit of gilt leather upon a black ground, black stockings, and black gauntlets. No wonder Foote, who was in the pit, exclaimed, upon the appearance of this extraordinary figure, "A Roman sweep on May-day!" When Quin played the youthful fascinating Chamont, in Otway's "Orphan," he wore a long grisly half-powdered periwig, hanging low down each side his breast and down his back, a huge scarlet coat and waistcoat, heavily trimmed with gold, black velvet breeches, black silk neckcloth, black stockings, a pair of square-toed shoes, with an old-fashioned pair of stone buckles, stiff high-topped white gloves, with a broad old scolloped lace hat. Such a costume upon a personage not in his first youth, and more than inclined to obesity, must have had an odd effect. But then, as is well known, Garrick played "Macbeth" in a scarlet coat and powdered wig; John Kemble performed "Othello" in a full suit of British scarlet regimentals, and even when he had gone so far as to dress "Macbeth" as a highlander of 1745, wore in his bonnet a tremendous hearse plume, until Scott plucked it out, and placed an eagle's feather there in its stead. The costumes of the ladies were almost more absurd. Whether they appeared as Romans, Greeks, or females of the Middle Ages, they dressed the same—in the huge hoop, and powdered hair raised high upon the head, heavy brocaded robes that required two pages to hold up, without whose assistance they could scarcely have moved; and servants were dressed quite as magnificently as their mistresses.

In scenery there was no attempt at "sets;" a drop, and a pair of "flats," dusty and dim with age, were all the scenic accessories; and two or three hoops of tallow candles, suspended above the stage, were all that represented the blaze of gas and lime-light to which we are accustomed. The candle-snuffer was a theatrical post of some responsibility in those days. Garrick was the first who used concealed lights. The uncouth appearance of the stage was rendered still worse on crowded nights by ranges of seats raised for spectators on each side. The most ridiculouscontretempsfrequently resulted from this incongruity. Romeo, sometimes, when he bore out the body of Juliet from the solitary tomb of the Capulets, had to almost force his way through a throng of beaux, and Macbeth and his lady plotted the murder of Duncan amidst a throng of people.

One night, Hamlet, upon the appearance of the Ghost, threw off his hat, as usual, preparatory to the address, when a kind-hearted dame, who had heard him just before complain of its being "very cold," picked it up and good-naturedly clapped it upon his head again. A similar incident once happened during the performance of Pizarro. Elvira is discovered asleep upon a couch, gracefully covered by a rich velvet cloak; Valverde enters, kneels and kisses her hand; Elvira awakes, rises and lets fall the covering, and is about to indignantly repulse her unwelcome visitor, when a timid female voice says: "Please,ma'am, you've dropped your mantle," and a timid hand is trying to replace it upon the tragedy queen's shoulders. Of another kind, but very much worse, was an accident that befell Mrs. Siddons at Edinburgh, at the hands of another person who failed to distinguish between the real person and the counterfeit. Just before going on for the sleep-walking-scene, she had sent a boy for some porter, but the cue for her entrance was given before he returned. The house was awed into shuddering silence as, in a terrible whisper, she uttered the words "Out, out, damned spot!" and with slow mechanical action rubbed the guilty hands; when suddenly there emerged from the wings a small figure holding out a pewter pot, and a shrill voice broke the awful silence with "Here's your porter, mum." Imagine the feelings of the stately Siddons! The story is very funny to read, but depend upon it the incident gave her the most cruel anguish.

It is not, however, to the uninitiated outsiders alone we are indebted for ludicrous stage contretemps; the experts themselves have frequently given rise to them. All readers of Elia will remember the name of Bensley, one of "the old actors" upon whom he discourses so eloquently—a grave precise man, whose composure no accident could ruffle, as the following anecdote will prove. One night, as he was making his first entrance as Richard III., at the Dublin Theatre, his wig caught upon a nail in the side scene, and was dragged off. Catching his hat by the feather, however, he calmly replaced it as he walked to the centre of the stage, but left hishairstill attached to the nail. Quite unmoved by the occurrence, he commenced his soliloquy; but so rich a subject could not escape the wit of an Irish audience. "Bensley, darlin'," shouted a voice from the gallery, "put on your jaisey!" "Bad luck to your politics, will you suffer awhigto be hung?" shouted another. But the tragedian, deaf to all clamour, never faltered, never betrayed the least annoyance, spoke the speech to the end, stalked to the wing, detached the wig from the nail, and made his exit with it in his hand.

Novices under the influence of stage fright will say and do the most extraordinary things. Some years ago, I witnessed a laughable incident during the performance of "Hamlet" at a theatre in the North. Although a very small part, consisting as it does of only one speech, the "Second Actor" is a very difficult one, the language being peculiarly cramped. In the play scene he assassinates the player king by pouring poison into his ear. The speech preceding the action is as follows:

Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing;Confederate season, else no creature seeing;Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thrice infected,Thy natural magic and dire propertyOn wholesome life usurp immediately.

Upon which follows the stage direction—"Pours poison into his ear."

In a play of so many characters as Hamlet, such a part, in a second-class theatre, can be given only to a very inferior performer. The oneto whom it was entrusted on the present occasion was a novice. Muffled in a black coat and a black slouched hat, and with a face half hidden by burnt cork, he looked a most villainous villain, as he stole on and gazed about in the most approved melo-dramatic fashion. Then he began, in a strong north country brogue,—

Thoughts black, hands apt,—

then his memory failed him, and he stuck fast. The prompter whispered "drugs fit;" but stage fright had seized him, and he could not take the word. He tried back, but stuck again at the same place. Half-a-dozen people were all prompting him at the same time now, but all in vain. At length one more practical than the rest whispered angrily, "Pour the poison in his ear and get off." The suggestion restored a glimmering of reason to the trembling, perspiring wretch. He could not remember the words of Shakespeare, so he improvised a line. Advancing to the sleeping figure, he raised the vial in his hand, and in a terribly tragic tone shouted, "Into his ear-hole this I'llpower!"

Some extraordinary and agonising mistakes, for tragedians, have been made in what are called the flying messages in "Richard III." and "Macbeth," by novices in their nervousness mixing up their own parts with the context; as when Catesby rushed on and cried, "My lord, the Duke of Buckingham's taken." There he should have stopped while Richard replied, "Off with his head! so much for Buckingham!" But in his flurry the shaking messenger added, "and they've cut off his head!" With a furious look at having been robbed of one of his finest "points," the tragedian roared out, "Then, damn you, go and stick it on again!" Another story is told of an actor playing one of the officers in the fifth act of "Macbeth." "My lord," he has to say, "there are ten thousand——" "Geese, villain," interrupts Macbeth. "Ye—es, my lord!" answered the messenger, losing his memory in his terror.

But a far more dreadful anecdote is related of the same play. A star was playing the guilty Thane in a very small company, where each member had to sustain three or four different characters. During the performance the man appointed to play the first murderer was taken ill. There was not another to be spared, and the only resource left was to send on a supernumerary, supposed to be intelligent, to stand for the character. "Keep close to the wing," said the prompter; "I'll read you the words, and you can repeat them after me." The scene was the banquet; the supper was pushed on, and Macbeth, striding down the stage, seized his arm and said in a stage whisper, "There's blood upon thy face." "'Tis Banquo's, then," was the prompt. Lost and bewildered—having never spoken in his life before upon the stage—by the tragedian's intense yet natural tones, the fellow, imitating them in the most confidential manner, answered, "Is there, by God?" put his hand up to his forehead, and, finding it stained with rose pink, added, "Then the property man's served me a trick!"

Once upon a time I was present at the performance of the celebrated dog piece, "The Forest of Bondy," in a small country theatre. The plotturns upon a well-known story, the discovery of a murder through the sagacity of the victim's dog. The play-bill descanted most eloquently upon the wonderful genius of the "highly trained" animal, and was sufficient to raise expectation on tip-toe. Yet it had evidently failed to impress the public of this town, their experiences probably having rendered them sceptical of such pufferies, for the house was miserably bad. The first entrance of "the celebrated dog Cæsar," however, in attendance upon his master, was greeted with loud applause. He was a fine young black Newfoundland, whose features were more descriptive of good nature than genius. He sat on his haunches and laughed at the audience, and pricked up his ears at the sound of a boy munching a biscuit in the pit. I could perceive he was a novice, and that he would forget all he had been taught when he came to the test. While Aubrey, the hero, is passing through a forest at night, he is attacked by two ruffians, and after a desperate combat is killed; the dog is supposed to be kept out of the way. But in the very midst of the fight, Cæsar, whose barking had been distinctly heard all the time, rushed on the stage. Far from evincing any ferocity towards his master's foes, he danced about with a joyous bark, evidently considering it famous fun. Aubrey was furious, and kicked out savagely at his faithful "dawg," thereby laying himself open to the swords of his adversaries, who, however, in consideration that the combat had not been long enough, generously refused the advantages. "Get off, you beast!" growled Aubrey, who evidently desired to fight it out without canine interference. At length, when the faltering applause from the gallery began to show that the gods had had enough of it, the assassins buried their swords beneath their victim's arms, and he expired in great agony; Cæsar looking on from the respectful distance to which his master's kick had sent him, with the unconcern of a person who had seen it all done at rehearsal and knew it was all sham, but with a decided interest of eye and ear in the direction of the biscuit-muncher. In the next act he was to leap over a stile and ring the bell at a farm house, and, having awakened the inhabitants, seize a lantern which is brought out, and lead them to the spot where the villains have buried his master. After a little prompting Cæsar leaped the stile and went up to the bell, round the handle of which was twisted some red cloth to imitate meat; but there never was a more matter-of-fact dog than this; he evidently hated all shams, even artistic ones; and after a sniff at the red rag he walked off disgusted, and could not be induced to go on again; so the people had to rush out without being summoned, carry their own lantern, and find their way by a sort of canine instinct, or scent, to the scene of the murder. But Cæsar's delinquencies culminated in the last scene, where, after the chief villain, in a kind of lynch law trial, has stoutly asserted his innocence, the sagacious "dawg" suddenly bounds upon the stage, springs at his throat, and puts an end to his infamous career. Being held by the collar, and incited on, in the side scene, Cæsar's deep bark sounded terribly ferocious, and seemed to foreshadow a bloody catastrophe; but his bark proved worse than hisbite, for when released he trotted on with a most affable expression of countenance, his thoughts still evidently bent upon biscuits; in vain did the villain show him the red pad upon his throat and invite him to seize it. Cæsar had been deceived once, and scorned to countenance an imposition. Furious with passion, the villain rushed at him, drew him up on his hind legs, clasped him in his arms, then fell upon the stage and writhed in frightful agonies, shrieking, "Mussy, mussy, take off the dawg!" and the curtain fell amidst the howls and hisses of the audience.

Another laughable dog story, although of a different kind, was once related to me by a now London actor. In a certain theatre in one of the great northern cities business had been so bad for some time that salaries were very irregularly paid. It is a peculiarity of the actor that he is never so jolly, so full of fun, and altogether so vivacious, as when he is impecunious. In prosperity he is dull and melancholy; the yellow dross seems to weigh down his spirit, to stultify it; empty his pockets, and it etherialises him. At the theatre in question, the actors amused themselves if they failed to amuse the audience. Attached to this house was a mongrel cur, whom some of them had taught tricks to while away the tedium of long waits. "Jack"—such was his name—was well known all round the neighbourhood, and to most of thehabituesof the house. Among his other accomplishments he could simulate death at command, and could only be recalled to life by a certain piece of information to be presently mentioned. One night the manager was performing "The Stranger" to about half-a-dozen people. Francis was standing at the wing waiting for his cue when his eye fell upon Jack, who was standing just off the stage on the opposite side; an impish thought struck him—he whistled—Jack pricked up his ears, and Francis slapped his leg and called him. Obedient to the summons Jack trotted before the audience, but as he reached the centre of the stage the word "dead!" struck upon his ear. The next moment he was stretched motionless with his two hind legs sticking up at an angle of forty-five degrees. The scene was the one in which the Stranger relates to Baron Steinfort the story of his wrongs, and he had come to the line, "My heart is like a close-shut sepulchre," when a burst of laughter from the front drew his attention to Jack. He saw the trick that had been played in an instant. "Get off, you brute!" he growled, giving the animal a kick. But Jack was too highly trained to heed such an admonition, having learned beforehand that the kicking was not so bad as the flogging he would get for not performing his part correctly. "Doan't tha' kick poor Jack," called out a rough voice, "give un the word." "Ay, ay, give un the word," echoed half-a-dozen voices. The manager knew better than to disregard the advice of his patrons, and ground out between his teeth, "Here's a policeman coming." At that "open Sesame" Jack was up and off like a shot. It must have been one of the finest bits of burlesque to have seen that black-ringlet-wigged, sallow, dyspeptic, tragic-looking individual, repeating the clown's formula over a mangy cur.

The failure or forgetfulness of stage properties is frequently a source of ludicrous incidents. People are often killed by pistols that will not fire, or stabbed with the butt ends. In some play an actor has to seize a dagger from a table and stab his rival. One night the dagger was forgotten and no substitute was there,except a candle, which the excited actor wrenched from the candlestick, and madly plungedathis opponent's breast; but it effected its purpose, for the victim expired in strong convulsions. It is strange how seldom the audience perceive suchcontretemps, or notice the extraordinary and ludicrous slips of the tongue that are so frequent upon the stage.

A playbill is not always the most truth-telling publication in the world. Managers, driven to their wits' ends to draw a sluggish public, often announce entertainments which they have no means of producing properly, or even at all, and have to exercise an equal amount of ingenuity to find substitutes, or satisfy a deluded audience. Looking through some manuscript letters of R. B. Peake's the other day, I came across a capital story of Bunn. While he was manager of the Birmingham Theatre, Power, the celebrated Irish comedian, made a starring engagement with him. It was about the time that the dramatic version of Mrs. Shelley's "Frankenstein"—done, I believe, by Peake himself—was making a great sensation, and Power announced it for his benefit, playing "the Monster" himself. The manager, however, refused to spend a penny upon the production. "You must do with what you can find in the theatre," he said. There was only one difficulty. In the last scene Frankenstein is buried beneath an avalanche, and among the stage scenery of the Theatre Royal, Birmingham, there was nothing resembling an avalanche to be found, and theavalanchewas the one prodigious line in the playbill. Power was continually urging this difficulty, but Bunn always eluded it with, "Oh, we shall find something or other." At length it came to the day of performance, and the problem had not yet been solved.

"Well, we shall have to change the piece," said Power.

"Pooh, pooh! nonsense!" answered the manager.

"There is no avalanche, and it is impossible to be finished without."

"Can't you cut it out?"

"Impossible."

The manager fell into a brown study for a few moments. Then suddenly brightening up, he said, "I have it; but they must let the green curtain down instantly on the extraordinary effect. Hanging up in the flies is the large elephant made for 'Blue Beard;' we'll have it whitewashed."

"What?" exclaimed Power.

"We'll have it whitewashed," continued the manager coolly; "what is an avalanche but a vast mass of white? When Frankenstein is to be annihilated, the carpenters shall shove the whitened elephant over the flies—destroy you both in a moment—and down comes the curtain."

As there was no other alternative, Power e'en submitted. Thewhitened elephant was "shoved" over at the right moment, the effect was appalling from the front, and the curtain descended amidst loud applause.

Not quite so successful was a hoax perpetrated by Elliston, duringhismanagement of the Birmingham Theatre, many years previously. Then, also, business had been very bad, and he was in great difficulties. Let us give the managers their due. They do not, as a rule, resort to swindles except under strong pressure; then they soothe their consciences with the reflection that as an obtuse and ungrateful public will not support their legitimate efforts, it deserves to be swindled. And a very good reflection it is—from a managerial point of view. No man was more fertile in expedients than Robert William Elliston; so after a long continuance of empty benches, the walls and boardings of the town were one morning covered with glaring posters announcing that the manager of the Theatre Royal had entered into an engagement with aBohemianof extraordinary strength and stature, who would perform some astonishing evolutions with a stone of upwards of a ton weight, which he would toss about as easily as another would a tennis-ball. What all the famous names of the British drama and all the talents of its exponents had failed to accomplish, was brought about by a stone, and on the evening announced for its appearance the house was crammed to the ceiling. The exhibition was to take place between the play and the farce, and scarcely had the intellectual audience patience to listen to the piece, so eager were they for the noble entertainment that was to follow. At length, much to their relief, the curtain fell. The usual interval elapsed, the house became impatient, impatience soon merged into furious clamour. At length, with a pale, distraught countenance, Elliston rushed before the curtain. In a moment there was a breathless silence.

"The Bohemian has deceived me!" were his first words. "ThatI could have pardoned; but he has deceived you, my friends,you;" and his voice trembled, and he hid his face behind his handkerchief and seemed to sob.

Then, bursting forth again, he went on: "I repeat, he has deceived me; he is not here."

A yell of disappointment burst from the house.

"The man," continued Elliston, raising his voice, "of whatever name or nation he may be, who breaks his word, commits an offence which——" The rest of this Joseph Surface sentiment was drowned in furious clamour, and for some minutes he could not make himself heard, until he drew some letters from his pocket, and held them up.

"Here is the correspondence," he said. "Does any gentleman here understand German? If so, will he oblige me by stepping forward?"

The Birmingham public were not strong in languages in those days, it would seem, for no gentleman stepped forward.

"Am I, then, left alone?" he exclaimed in tragic accents. "Well, I will translate them for you."

Here there was another uproar, out of which came two or three voices, "No, no." Like Buckingham, he chose to construe the two or three into "a general acclaim."

"Your commands shall be obeyed," he said bowing, and pocketing the correspondence, "Iwill notread them. But my dear patrons, your kindness merits some satisfaction at my hands; your consideration shall not go unrewarded. You shall not say you have paid your money for nothing. Thank heaven, I can satisfy you of my own integrity, and present you with a portion of the entertainment you have paid to see. The Bohemian, the villain, is not here. But thestoneis, andYou shall see it." He winked at the orchestra, which struck up a lively strain, and up went the curtain, disclosing a huge piece of sand rock, upon which was stuck a label, bearing the legend in large letters, "This is the stone."

It need scarcely be added that the Bohemian existed only in the manager's brain. But it is a question whether the audience which could be only brought together by such an exhibition did not deserve to be swindled.

An equally good story is told of his management at Worcester. For his benefit he had announced a grand display of fireworks! No greater proof of the gullibility of the British public could be adduced than their swallowing such an announcement. The theatre was so small that such an exhibition was practically impossible. A little before the night Elliston called upon the landlord of the property, and in the course of conversation hinted at the danger of such a display, as though the idea had just struck him; the landlord took alarm, and, as Elliston had anticipated, forbade it. Nevertheless the announcements remained on the walls, and on the night the theatre was crowded. The performance proceeded without any notice being taken by the management of the fireworks, until murmurs swelled into clamour and loud cries. Then with his usual kingly air, Elliston came forward and bowed. He had made, he said, the most elaborate preparation for a magnificent pyrotechnic display; he had left nothing undone, but at the last moment came the terrible reflection, would it not be dangerous? Would there not be collected within the walls of the theatre a number of lovely young tender girls, of respectable matrons, to do him honour? What if the house should catch fire—the panic, the struggle for life—ah, he shuddered at the thought! Then, too, he thought of the property of that worthiest of men, the landlord—he rushed to consult him—and he now called upon him—there he was, seated in the stage box—to publicly state, for the satisfaction of the distinguished audience he saw before him, that he had forbidden the performance from considerations of safety. The landlord, a very nervous man, shrank to the back of his box, scared by every eye in the house being fixed upon him; but the audience, thankful for the terrible danger they had escaped, burst into thunders of applause.

The stories are endless of the shifts and swindles to which countrymanagers, at their wits' end, have had to resort to attract a sluggish public. How great singers have been advertised that never heard of such an engagement, and even forged telegrams read to an expectant audience, to account for their non-appearance. How prizes have been distributed on benefit nights—to people who gave them back again. How audiences, the victims of some false announcement, have been left waiting patiently for the performance to commence, while the manager was on his way to another town with their money in his pocket. But there is a great sameness about such stories, and one or two are a specimen of all.

H. Barton Baker,in Belgravia.

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