run" for two hundred and three hundred nights,
is not always spreading dark and blighting
branches over the stage. With a bit of scenic
show, one of those costly "women-pieces,"
where all is decors and dresses and procession,
it is of course impossible to suspend a run, from
the bands of supernumaries engaged and who
are paid by the week. The sumptuous
appointments, too, cannot be allowed to lie
fallow or rust even for a single night, and the
manager must realise as fast as he can. But
in the more manageable cases, the manager
wisely thinks he has another class of clients,
whose interests he must consult, namely, those
who have seen the successful play that is
running; and the performance of so prodigiously
successful a play as The Grande Duchesse is
frequently interrupted and alternated with
something less familiar. It is curious, indeed,
to think of the philosophy under this influence
of a "run," and that actual success and
popularity of particular pieces should be one of the
reasons that is hurrying the stage to decay.
For there can be no question but that to be
acting a single piece for a year or longer must
dwarf the powers of the actors and give them
no field for variety. Farther, too, the same
system shuts out a large section of play lovers
from their favourite enjoyment, since, like Mr.
Swiveller, in his credit difficulties, he finds
various streets and shops "blocked up" and cut
off from a too fatal familiarity. In the old
"palmy" days of the drama there was a delightful
variety, and at Drury Lane, under Garrick's
management, the playgoer could have a fresh
play and a fresh set of actors at least every
second night.

The universal box-offices, of which there are
some half a dozen in Paris, are another most
convenient and agreeable feature in Parisian
theatrical arrangements. They are not on the
select and rather costly system that prevails
with us, which some musicsellers and libraries
turn to a means of speculation and profit.
They are little halls, as it were, open to the
street, into which the playgoer walks. Running
round the sides are open models, three or
four feet high, of every theatre in Paris. The
name of every class of seat is visible, the
number of every seat is marked, and the play
for the night is pasted up over head. The
gandin and his friend discuss the place they
would like, for all purposes might be in the
theatre they have chosen—select their numbers,
and call over the administration to announce it.
The charm of this admirable plan is, besides its
convenience, that a common bourgeois can walk
in and take even his two-franc pit-ticket. Every
information is given, the officials of these
places are posted up even in future theatrical
arrangements; they are most civil and
communicative. These places are open till "all hours,"
and it is characteristic to find the playgoers
busily engaged peering into the miniature
playhouses, and eagerly taking places, even at
midnight.

There are things, however, about the French
theatres that one would gladly see abolished;
notably the three violent knocks of the mallet
which causes such a thrill of delight to run
through the audience. This savours of
barbarism, and seems to grow more noisy every
year, and is supplemented at some houses by a
final disorderly thundering of the same instrument
on the boards. To one accustomed to the
more familiar "ting" of English houses, the
effect disturbs the nerves, and coming at such a
moment—always welcome—this savage prelude
routs everthing dramatic. But we may
suppose the French are attached to this odious
relic. Again, the women box-openers—one of
the few rapacious classes in the country—with
their footstools and worryings about cloaks,
and hats, and bills—are a serious drawback.
It is surprising how the audience endures their
tyranny. With the new theatres a crop of
these plagues has started up ready made.
But the "Figaro Programme," sold between
the acts, is welcome; and the invitation to
"Ask for the photographs of the artists" is
more tolerable. For twopence-halfpenny to
acquire the faces of all the actors on a card,
with their names and characters in the piece
underneath, is a not unacceptable shape of
souvenir.

That the French stage is in a state of decay,
like our own, there can be no question. French
observers justly ascribe this in a great measure
to the state of society, to which, according to
to the oft-quoted sentiment, the drama does,
and must, hold up the mirror. What French
morals, or rather what French manners are
now, for there is little change in the morals, is
tolerably familiar. The mirror, therefore, must
serve the taste in vogue, and reflect the "luxe"
and sumptuousness, the cool draperies, and other
freaks that belong to the object that holds it in
its hand, or it is liable to be laid down, and not
used at all. The worst symptom is the palpable
change in the Palais Royal, that erst
temple of broad fun, oftener retreat of absurdity,
and exquisite laughter. If the air required to
be cleared, and the miasmas of low spirits
dispersed, we need only turn from the convenient
café, into those arcades, almost cimmerian,
where are the round dirty pillars, associated with
a grove of walking-sticks and leather work—
and flashes of hysterical laughter do the work
speedily. Now, the little grotesque pieces, too
impalpable almost in their fun to be put in print,
but carried off so airily by the exquisite playing
of Levassor and Grassot, have given place
to the elaborate hilarities of the new-fangled
French burlesques, long drawn out, rather
forced, mixed with official music, like the Vie
Parisienne. The little House is as full as ever, but
the spécialité and bouquet of the place is gone.
It was a school, as were once so many of the
French theatres, where the artist had to study,
and matriculate, and walk on, till he graduated,
and find that only the beginning: a school of
precious traditions, with a fashion and colour
of its own which all were bound to acquire.
Now the crop of new theatres springing up