of bearing, an indescribable air of having come
for business, not for amusement. The general
may be recognised at a glance, by his distinction
of carriage and dress. When a volley of
applause is to be fired, the manner of giving the
word of command, is not invariably the same at
all theatres. In some establishments, the general
waves his hands duly clad in white kid gloves,
over his head, much after the fashion of the
most elegant of orchestra conductors. The signal
is given in three movements—"Make ready!"
"Present!" "Fire!" The general slowly sinks
his head; the fire ceases; the artillery of
hardened hands is stopped. At other theatres,
as, for instance, at the Grand Opéra—the Académie
Impériale—the general indicates his
commands for the various manoeuvres, with a stout
gold-headed cane. At the moment when the
staff of command is raised, the fire bursts out.
But it does not cease all at once. The cane is
lowered a few inches; and certain of the troops,
according to previous arrangement, drop their
fire; again a few inches, and certain others
stop; it is lowered altogether; and the last
fainter volley stops. This manoeuvre gives a
spuriously genuine air to the applause.

The success-contractor en chef never himself
condescends to applaud. He only glances his
eagle eye over his columns to see that every
man does his duty. Woe betide the unhappy
neophyte who should dare applaud for pure
gratification, before the order is given, or who should
venture to prolong his exercise after the retreat
is beaten.

When the battle is won or lost—and it is
generally considered won on the first night,
however it may be lost afterwards—the success-
contractor en chef goes behind the scenes to
congratulate author and manager, and to receive
congratulations in return. On these occasions,
he again offers suggestions for the alteration
or suppression of dangerous passages, over
which, he will tell them, it required all his
special tact and talent (not to say "genius") to
carry the piece. But, besides author and
manager, he has other "clients" to visit, and upon
all must be bestowed a word or two. These
clients are the actors and actresses, most, if not
all, of whom pay their black-mail tribute to the
chief. Some subscribe to him for their applause
by the year, others by the month, others for one
particular part, others "for that night only."
All are pretty sure to be more or less discontented,
because some pet effect has been not
sufficiently "warmed up," some curious grimace
has been left unappreciated, some trait of genius
has been overlooked, and, above all, because
some rival has been better treated. But the
Roman general is accustomed to the dissatisfaction
of the artists. He smiles, shrugs his
shoulders, and retires from the theatre with the
proud conviction that glory, art, fame, literary
merit, are all his own—all due to him! And so
they are!

The Roman success-contracting system does
not always save a bad piece from its just fate. A
rude public will occasionally hiss dulness, or, in
a merry mood, utterly "damn" a piece by shouts
of ironical applause, which drown the systematic
efforts of the well-drilled Romans. The public
has occasionally adopted another mode of asserting
itself against the dictatorial power of the
Roman general. It has quitted the theatre by
degrees and detachments, and left the Romans
inglorious masters of the field of battle. The
Romans still applaud to empty benches; and
the piece is dead!

The "Roman" government of theatrical
matters tends to produce an effect diametrically
opposite to that originally intended. It has long
since crushed and smothered any expression of
real admiration on the part of the public. Men
have grown ashamed and afraid of demonstrating
their feelings, and of assimilating themselves to
the noisy hireling applauders around. The true
Parisian never applauds. Moreover, the system
compromises the fortunes of theatres, and tends
materially to injure dramatic art by rendering
all actors subservient for the applause they seek
or the disapproval they shun, to a tribe of
fellows, who make themselves not only the
applauding friend of the artist when sufficiently
paid, but his dire enemy, if not satisfied to the
fulness of their greed. It tends to lower
dramatic literature, by inducing dramatic authors
to be negligent of their works, the reception of
which depends upon the salaried caprice of a
herd of illiterate men. Worse than all, it has
nearly succeeded in killing the one real friend of
dramatic art, the public. When authors, actors,
managers, all bow before the "Roman" sway,
regardless of the rights and privileges of that
friend, it cannot be long before its decease will
be thus recorded: "Died of inanition, the
Parisian Public, starved out of the theatres by
its enemy, 'la Claque.' "

A NEAR SHAVE.

"IT was the worst passage we 'ad 'ad since
the 'eavy gales," said the official person who
was always seen under conditions of rapid
motion, and whose function I heard designated
under the character of "Stoord!" Through the
watches of the night I had heard that cry borne
to me under every conceivable inflexion, even
above the fury of the elements; in a key of
agony; a key of low groaning; a key of stern
suffering, betokening the strong mind disdaining
to yield to mortal throes; a key of shrieking
despair; finally a key of low exhausted gaspings,
more akin to a piteous whine than to any distinct
shape of articulation. I need not be ashamed to
own, where suffering was the badge of so large a
tribe, that mine was the voice in the frightful
hold of the Ostend packet-ship that took this
piteous passive form of complaint. What was
the force of those "'eavy gales" alluded to by
the "Stoord" as his standard of comparison, I
had no means of determining. I did not at the
moment care about having the means of
determining anything human.

I was going abroad, and for a month