over the administration of our places of
theatrical amusement. At a period when all his
fellow-potentates of the governing classes are
called on to exert themselves with special activity,
it must be a humiliating reflection to the
Lord Chamberlain to think that his peculiar
office, in connexion with the drama, is now more
than ever likely to be little better than a species
of vexatious sinecure. If I have rightly
interpreted his lordship's sensations—and my deep
respect for his office and himself, although I have
no idea who he is, assures me that I have done
so—I feel great pleasure in coming forward with
a proposal for specially employing this minister's
dormant energies, and for presenting his office in a
prominent position before the eyes of the whole
country. In plain terms, I have hereby to
request that the Lord Chamberlain, on the ground
of common humanity, will be pleased to shut up
all our theatres forthwith, and to erase the Stage
henceforth and for ever from the list of English
professions.

I rest this proposal solely on the ground
of common humanity. I have no objection
whatever, either of the fanatically sectarian
or of the severely critical sort, to set up
against my theatrical fellow-citizens. I oppose
the continuance of their professional existence
purely for their own unfortunate sakes;
precisely as my philanthropic predecessors
opposed the employment of climbing-boys
in foul chimneys; precisely as civilised
Europe still opposes the buying and selling of
African negroes. The case of the climbing-boy
was, that he underwent tortures; the case of the
negro is, that he undergoes tortures; the case of
the equally miserable and equally uncomplaining
actor and actress is (as I shall presently show),
that they undergo tortures.

I live in the country, in a position of happy
retirement. Everything that happens inside our
snug little town, interests me deeply. Nothing
that happens outside of it, is of the slightest
importance to me. If there had been a theatre
in our snug little town, I should have been long
since familiarly acquainted with the British
Stage. As there is no theatre in our snug little
town, I know nothing whatever about the
British Stage. Until yesterday I never gave the
subject a thought because it was not a subject
connected with our town. Actors and actresses
will please not be offended at this; we treat all
other eminent people and national subjects,
when they are unfortunate enough to be out of
our town, with precisely similar neglect. Popular
characters in London would find themselves
total strangers among us. We never know
anything about a new book, a new picture, or a
new play, until it has obtruded itself by main
force on our attention; even then, I would
not give much for its chance of absorbing us,
for five minutes together; if our two rival
doctors happened to nave a new quarrel at the
time; or if our High Church clergyman omitted
bowing to our dissenting solicitor when they
passed each other in the street; or if the town-
council met on that day with only the average
amount of wrangling in the course of their
parliamentary debates. It is hardly in the power
of words to do justice to our immense capacity
for ignoring everything that does not happen to be
locally connected with us, in our snug little town.

Well, as I have said: until yesterday I never
gave the British Stage and the unfortunate
persons who practise on it so much as a thought.
On that memorable day, however, a certain
small pamphlet, descriptive of the training that
actors and actresses must go through to practise
their profession, fell into my hands by pure
accident. I took it up with perfect indifference;
but the moment I opened it, the moment my
eyes fell upon one of the pages, I felt my flesh
creep. By the time I had read the thing
through, I was cold all over—my hands were
elevated in sorrow and amazement—generous
tears of sympathy and indignation started to my
eyes—stern resolution to expose unheard-of
barbarities, and to vindicate a hapless race, fired
my mind. I seized pen, ink, and paper in the
cause of suffering humanity—and here I am.

The pamphlet to which I refer is dated 1858,
and is entitled, "The Amateur's Guide to the
Stage; or, How to become a Theatrical: Pointing
out the certain way to Eminence and
Distinction in this lucrative, honourable, and
pleasant Profession: describing the points in Love,
Grief, Despair, Madness, Jealousy, Remorse,
Rage, Hatred, Revenge, Tyranny, Humility,
and Joy; with all the varied phases of
Villany, Hypocrisy, &c. &c."

My present business is not with the moral aspect
of this extremely painful subject. Let me proceed
at once to the physical side of it; let me show,
from the pages of the audacious publication now
under notice, the precise species of suffering
which is habitually and officially inflicted on
patient human nature by the profession of the Stage.

At the ninth page of this pamphlet the
disclosures open partially to view, in one of the
sections of the subject, which is entitled, with
shocking flippancy, "Making up the Face." I
find it here laid down as law, that "every one on
entering the theatre at night should wash his
face." Thus far, there is no objection to be made.
If people who have business in a theatre go
to that business with dirty faces, it is of course
highly desirable that they should be washed at
the first opportunity. Well, the dirt having been,
most properly, removed, is the face of the
washed man or woman thereupon mercifully let
alone? No. A powder-puff is passed over
it; over that again, a mixture of carmine and
Chinese vermilion, boiled in milk and then
suffered to dry, is smeared with a hare's-foot.
If the character to be represented is required to
appear with moustache and whiskers, hair
made of Crape is next glued—glued—to the
cheeks and upper lip. If the personage is to be
a Moor or a negro, his persecuted physiognomy
is treated with still greater indignity. Lard—
horrible to relate—lard, with which our nice
roasted capons have made us all pleasantly
familiar at the social board, is daubed over the
much-enduring face which the victim has just