one or two hurried visits to Knowecroft during the first weeks of her illness, and on one occasion he brought his wife, to give the latter an opportunity of seeing for herself that Phyllis was really comfortable and happy. Possibly, Mrs Nelson was shrewd enough to surmise what was likely to be the outcome of the charming stranger's stay at Knowecroft; at any rate, neither she nor her husband showed any signs of any wish to shorten her stay there, although Phyllis was not left without every assurance that the worthy couple were looking forward with pleasure to her return. As day by day went past, 'each one bringing nearer the time when she must leave Knowecroft and all the kind friends there, Phyllis's heart had grown very heavy. It had been such a peaceful, happy time-even while she was an invalid, she had felt it so-after buffeting with the world for nearly two years alone, meeting with harsh words from some, indifference from many, and kindness from few; and as a last resource, having to adopt for a livelihood a calling for which she had little liking that Knowecroft had seemed to her a perfect haven of rest. It was not as a stranger that the little household there seemed to look upon her; nay, it was more as a daughter and a sister, and her heart yearned so towards all this love, which she must leave behind her. It appeared so much harder to face the world now, than it did before she came; but she knew that it must be done, and she felt that the sooner her departure was taken now, the better it would be, both for herself and her hospitable friends. She could not be blind to the fact that Joe's regard for her was of a warmer nature than even that of a brother; and without daring to analyse her own feelings towards him, she dreaded a declaration on his part, as being sure to cause unhappiness to his mother, for whose goodness she was so deeply grateful that she shrank from causing her a moment's pain. And that it must be a matter for pain to her, that her son should wish to marry a penniless stranger, Phyllis felt sure; all the more so that that stranger had been, even for so short a time, a 'playactor.' So she came to the resolution to write to Mr Nelson at once, telling him that she was at last well enough to resume her histrionic duties, and then to intimate to Mrs Martindale that she must now really leave them. But when she came to talk to her about it, she found that good lady had very different views on the subject. 'Gan to leave us?' said she. 'Nay, Phyllis, my dear lass, thoo mustn't talk that way. Ruth's gan, an' I'm to be left by mysel', an' I've been thinkin' hoo neyce it wad be if thoo wad nobbut bide wid us awthegither. I ken thoo might mak' mair money wid them playactors, but bless the', bairn! thoo wad be far better wid us. Thy oan mother wadn't be kinder till the' than I'll be, if thoo'll only stop.' Oh! Mrs Martindale'- began Phyllis. 'Nay; divvent co' me Mrs Martindale; co' me mother, that's a good bairn,' interpolated the kindly dame. "I's sure I fin' like a mother to the', an' I always will, whether thoo gans or stops; but thoo's gän nin.' 'Well, mother, dear mother,' continued Phyllis, if I stayed, I should only be a trouble to you, and that would make me miserable as well as you. It is very, very hard to leave you; but as I have my livelihood to make, I must; it is best that I should.' "There's nea "best" aboot it, that I can see,' rejoined Mrs Martindale. Ruth's gan to leave me, an' I's gittin' oald an' feckless, an' there'll hev' to be somebody to tak' her pleace, an' thoo could mannish 't famously. Thoo maybe thinks that Joe wad object; but here he is comin', an' we'll see what he says.' And Joe, whose face had been lengthening daily at the prospect of Phyllis withdrawing the light of her presence from Knowecroft, walked into the room. Joe,' said his mother, 'here's Phyllis talkin' aboot leavin' us; an' I want her to bide an' tak' Ruth's pleace, an' I believe she's feeart thoo wad object. Wad te, Joe?' Would he object! The idea was ridiculous. So he replied: Miss May' (he had not advanced to the 'Phyllis' stage yet), 'if any persuasions of mine could prevail upon you to remain with us, I would use them all. Could you not be happy with us?' 'Oh, so happy!' replied Phyllis, half sobbing. 'You have all been so good and so kind to me; but' 'We want nea buts,' interrupted Mrs Martindale. If thoo's gan to be happy, an' I's gan to be happy, an' Joe's gan to be happy, thoo stops; an' we're aw gan to be miserable if thoo gans, thoo'll stop, an' that's aw aboot it. Sea, it's settled!' With the ground cut from beneath her whichever way she turned, what could poor Phyllis do? So it was arranged then and there that she should resume the role of Phoebe, but in earnest this time; and Ruth undertook, before leaving Knowecroft, to make her such an adept in poultry-rearing and Cumberland dairywork as would leave nothing for her mother to teach her. ODDITIES OF ANIMAL LIFE IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. FROM A MONTANA CORRESPONDENT. THE exigencies of climate naturally form the habits of animals, birds, and fishes, when in a purely wild condition; but how can one explain the curious fact of the gopher or ground-squirrel 'holing-up,' as the miners call it, on or about the 20th of August each year? The weather at that time is usually warm and pleasant, and generally continues so into October, yet Mr Gopher about the 1st of August may be seen skipping along with a small tuft of grass in his mouth, which, as he disappears down his hole with a twinkle of his tail, he carries with him for his winter's bed. These curious little fellows may be seen by hundreds on, say, the 15th of August; on the 21st, but few can be seen; and by the 25th, you may ride miles and not see one. Is this what some people call 'inherited instinct?' The gophers are sharp in their generation, easily tamed to come from their holes at a signal; and standing motionless and erect on their hindfeet, they await the little delicacy you are expected to give them. I know one fat fellow, by the men christened 'Dick,' who on being tamed, at once drove all the others to a respectful distance, while he remained in the cabin, erect and keeneyed, waiting for his supper. Dick found that the men sometimes closed the cabin-door when at meals, thus keeping him out. Next day, though the door was shut, Dick appeared as usual. Examination showed that he had dug a hole from the outside under the floor, coming up exactly where two boards had failed to meet in one corner; thus finding the only possible opening by which he could get through the floor. How was this planned? The gopher appears to freeze perfectly solid in our severe winters. Miners drifting through gravel in winter have several times, to my knowledge, dug them out curled like a ball, but solid and cold as though dead. It is impossible to open them out when in this condition; they are like a block of wood. But place one near a hot log-fire and soon he will straighten himself; and first one hind-leg and then the other will kick a little, and Mr G. sits up and looks around with a bewildered air. Our fish act in a similar manner in winter. In fishing through the ice-sometimes the latter four feet thick-the temperature is usually low, say from twenty to forty-five degrees below zerothe fish, whether trout, grayling, or whitefish, when released from the hook and thrown on the ice, almost immediately stiffen and cease jumping about. Many of them stiffen or freeze in a curved form, as though stricken with the intense cold as they struggled on the ice. Take these same fish home to a warm kitchen, and they will, when thawed, kick and flop about as though newly caught. I have seen this occur five hours after being out of water, and have been told they will live for twenty-four hours, if kept frozen for that time. Our bears the grizzly, cinnamon, and blackgo into winter-quarters when it suits them. They are influenced wholly by season, it would seem. Sometimes, if one or two bright warm days follow each other in winter, Bruin will come out for a short promenade; but he quickly returns homeward on the least change of temperature. The she-bear is supposed here to bring forth her cubs when in winter-quarters. matter how early you may see the female bear in spring, she always has her cubs with her. No This I will mention a fact, that has, I understand, been disputed by some professors in the East, and that is the presence of wood-ticks in the swallows' nests here. I refer to the eave-building swallow. I have seen nests which fairly swarmed inside with these abominable crawlers. fact is so well known here, that miners, cowboys, &c. will knock down the partly built nests, and thus discourage the birds from building at that particular spot, because letting the nests remain means having your cabin infested after a time with these very efficient substitutes for bed-bugs. Whether these ticks are parasites brought from the South or not, I do not know, but I do know that the nests here have them. The snow-shoe rabbit is a curious little fellow; the loose skin of the feet is enlarged so as to expand on pressure, and Bunny can skim along deep soft snow where no living animal can follow him. The mountain goat has a similar protection given it by nature; the thick wiry hair on its legs above the hoofs spreads outwards when walking over snow, and enables this unsocial party to wander at sweet will over deep and deadly drifts unmolested by his enemies. The spreading wiry hair prevents him from sinking over a few inches in the snow. He never descends to the low country, unless in unusually severe weather. In summer, he ranges on the summits almost of the highest hills, close up to the perpetual snow-line, feeding on the lichens, mosses, and stunted grasses he finds there. In winter, reluctantly descending part way down the hillsides, only so far as he is compelled, he wanders over the storm-cleared rocks, nibbling here and there, and picking up his living in a Way marvellous to behold. Silent, wary, keen eyed and eared, with a wonderful scent for danger, he views with supreme contempt the lower world beneath him. One forgets almost to breathe, watching a herd of these fellows when alarmed. Rocks, boulders, chasms, cliffs, are as level ground to them; madly hopping, skipping, and jumping, sideway, frontway, any way, on they go like a drifting cloud, and in a moment almost, have vanished. 'SHALL I?' SHALL I do this, sir, and shall I do that, sir? State your opinion; I'm sadly in doubt. Shall I accept it, or shall I refuse? Shall I be silent, or shall I keep talking? Give your advice, pray; I cannot well choose. Thus do we pander to others' opinions, Wearing the garb of Society's slaves; Fashion's a tyrant, and we are her minions, Robbing our life of the freedom it craves. Ought I to visit her, ought I to cut her? Shall I be friendly, or shall I be cold? Shall I look boldly, or peep through the shutter? Shall I give silver, or shall I give gold? What will be said if I stay from the dinner? What will be said if I'm seen at the ball? Will they proclaim me a saint, or a sinner? If not the former, I go not at all. Thus do we pander to others' opinions, Why not go forward, undaunted, unfearing, Shunning the darkness, and courting the light. Rob not your life of the freedom it craves. NANNIE POWER O'DONOGHUE. Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Pater noster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH All Rights Reserved. POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART Fifth Series ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832 No. 57.-VOL. II. SATURDAY, JANUARY 31, 1885. SOME STAGE-TRADES. BY AN OLD STAGER. WHILE Mrs Kendal's recent utterances at the Social Science Congress, and the continued efforts of dramatic scribes, have helped not a little to bring the 'art' side of the theatrical profession into a deserved prominence, it occurs to the writer that but little, comparatively speaking, is known about what may be termed the workman's share in stage-plays. Though one hears a great deal about what actors think, what actresses think, and what managers think, one is never allowed to hear the workman's opinion; nor, except on rare occasions, is one permitted even to know if such a being as a stage-workman exists. People have some idea, certainly, that there are such functionaries as scene-painters, stage-carpenters, and the like; but to the public eye they are mysterious beings who have really no business to exist at all. To think of them is alone sufficient to spoil the effect of the prettiest stage-picture; and the apparition of a scenepainter bowing his thanks in the middle of the transformation scene of a pantomime, has before now robbed this most picturesque illusion of its greatest charm-apparent reality. The public, as a rule, do not like to be reminded of a Spitalfields loom when they see a heroic pantomime 'prince' in all the glory of glittering fringe. The very suspicion of such an origin gives the shining rain of fairyland an incongruous, matter-of-fact look which ill becomes it. PRICE 1d. fringe-making, spangle-making, cabinet-making, the manufacture of foil-paper, stage-jewellery, lime-light, and a host of other avocations are called into requisition to satisfy that greedy monster, 'popular taste.' Few who look at a pantomime, for instance, have the faintest idea of the working hosts employed, and of the days, weeks, and even months consumed in bringing Jack the Giant-killer or Cinderella to that proper pitch of perfection which is nowadays expected from everything theatrical. In pantomimes or spectacular performances, this is especially the case; but even in less elaborate-so far as stage requirements go-and more sensible productions, the amount and the character of skilled labour can only be appreciated by those who actually come in contact with it. Such a play, for instance, as The World makes an extensive call on the resources of the theatrical tradesman, even though historical costume is of necessity absent; while a production like that of Much Ado About Nothing, as staged and dressed at the London Lyceum, means no end of labour to the artisan as well as the artist. At a dramatic representation this fact seldom presents itself. We see the attractive tout ensemble; the stage-pictures please the eye; the costumes are attractive, the plot interesting, and the acting realistic. We are entertained, possibly instructed, and ask nothing further. The why and the wherefore of this or that does not trouble us in the least, and the consequence is that while we unlimited in our laudations of author and actor, the theatrical tradesman, who possibly has contributed not a little to the desired result, seldom, if ever, gets a 'Thank you' from anybody. are Perhaps the most difficult task, in a paper like the present, is the choice not only of particular employments and manufactures, but One of the most interesting as well as one of of the most salient features of the callings or the most important of stage-trades is that of of the trade products which, without the intro- wig-making. "There is room,' said a contemduction of technical particulars, will enable the porary recently, for as much tragedy in a hairreader to form some conception of the magni- dresser's wig as ever Hamlet found in the gravetude and number of stage occupations. Of the digger's skulls.' Leaving the tragic element out number of these occupations, the uninitiated can of the question, there is many a wig that, could have but little idea. Wig-making, mask-making, it tell its story, would furnish abundant food picture-printing, hose-making, costume-making, for reflection. As I write, there lies in my immediate vicinity a dirty, greasy, old 'scratch' pasted on the gauze, and the 'weft' knotted in Costumes-including costumes proper, hats, hose, boots and shoes-fulfil such important functions in stage-plays that an apology might be almost tendered for making their consideration second to that of wigs and make-up. On the other hand, so little could be added-regarding the manufacture of costumes generally-to A great deal of nonsense is sometimes talked the information of any one having access to the as to the sources from which perruquiers obtain interior of a tailor's shop, that to give costume the material for their wigs. Stories of children manufacture preference to the less understood art being waylaid in dark alleys; of fair-haired of wig-making, would be to place the latter in a mothers sacrificing their beauteous tresses to fill position it does not deserve. I have said that the mouths of their hungry offspring; of the but little could be written regarding costumes dark shadow of the perruquier's emissary lending generally. Were I to write, for instance, that a additional horrors to the scaffold; and of harlequin's dress-in which he dances so nimbly, 'resurrected' corpses being laid under tribute exposed to the overpowering heat of floats,' to supply the wig-maker's demands, had all battens,' 'wing-lights,' and sometimes groundbetter be received with the proverbial grain of rows'-was as heavy, or heavier than an ordinary salt. The majority of the hair used by the suit of clothes; that it is made up of hundreds trade comes from the continent; the light hair, of various-coloured pieces of cloth; and that as might be expected, being obtained from the on each separate piece numerous spangles are peasantry of northern latitudes, while the south stitched by hand, I might perhaps whet curiosity, of Europe supplies darker shades. Travellers, while I would sacrifice instruction. Were I to once informed by a leading London dilate on the oddity of costumiers always retainperruquier, go round the different villages col- ing in stock a quantity of rags, without which fecting the material. The hair once obtained, it such old favourites as the Artful Dodger,' &c. has to undergo cleansing and other operations ere would lose half their charm; or dwell on the it is ready to be made up into a wig. These interesting fact that Fechter's attire in Ruy Blas finished, it is twisted into what is technically is still in existence in a costumier's establishment termed 'weft;' and then a wig-block having in London, I would only be raking up out-ofbeen covered with a net or gauze foundation, the-way but unprofitable information, which, in the weft is sewn on in rows running from ear all probability, would be forgotten as soon as The wig is then cut and trimmed and read. taken off the wig-block ready for use. Moustaches are manufactured much in the same way. A block is covered with gauze, the pattern of the moustache cut out in paper and I was to ear. Let me, therefore, rather draw the attention of readers to less known items regarding particular details of costume, not the least interesting among which I might instance stage-hosiery. This Journal danseuse. Such second-rate shoes are generally manufacture is but little practised in London. so on, while the much-enduring bootmaker As a general rule, the looms of the Midlands listens in polite silence, and obsequiously bows meet all the demands of the metropolitan and the great-little lady out. Then he proceeds to provincial stage. Still, there are one or two business; first making a last to the measurement establishments within a stone's-throw of Drury he has taken of the foot; then cutting out the Lane which keep a few machines working in material, he fits it on to the last, and in a short order that hurried orders may be more rapidly time the dainty article is ready for its daintier met than they could possibly be if the supply wearer. Of course, ordinary ballet shoes-those had to be brought from its provincial birthplace. intended for the third or fourth row of dancers One of these establishments I had the oppor--do not require anything like the attention tunity of visiting some twelve months ago, and bestowed on the foot-covering of the première from the results of the visit-which were published at the time in a theatrical journal-I cull the following description of the manufacture of what in stage parlance are termed 'tights.' 'The machines were situated in a small lowceilinged room, and the constant whir ensuing, as row after row of thread was added, set one's teeth on edge in anything but a pleasant manner. The machine had not the click-clack of an ordinary loorn; it was whir, whir, whir, as if a tuning-fork was being drawn across some comblike substance; while the shivery feeling the noise produced was icily suggestive of cold water trickling down one's back. There was no shuttle; no warp versus weft. The operator's fingers, taking the place of the shuttle, draws the thread across the row of horizontal J-shaped needles; by another movement, the loop of each little elongated J presses the thread down, when a knot is formed by a further thread being passed over the loop; and so, after the manner of ordinary handknitting, the process of manufacture goes on. Both feet and hands are brought into requisition in the work, which is, to all appearance, both monotonous and tedious. About the most interesting feature of the machine is the fact that the garment woven literally "hangs by a thread," and does the operator fail but once to draw the thread across the needles, the article falls off the machine entirely. In fact, to use a homely phrase, he “drops his stitches," and is obliged to pick them up. The measurement of the garment must, of course, be accurate; and at intervals a rule is employed, so that the tall and well-formed may not have to wear diminutive dress, nor the romantic Rosalind assume the less imposing "casings" of the Irish colleen.' hero There is so little interesting literary matter deducible from the manufacture of theatrical boots and shoes, that I am almost tempted to leave this item unnoticed. Yet there can be no doubt that adolescent curiosity will always find a glamour of romance about, say, the foot of a première danseuse. Even respectable story-tellers do not hesitate to work up the interest in their novel or novelette by here and there introducing the stereotyped pretty speeches about 'the poetry of motion exhibited in pantomime or operabouffe. Still, the stage-dancer's shoe is a very everyday affair after all. Just step into this bootmaker's shop with me, and you'll see the whole manufacture in a trice. The dancer has just had her pretty foot measured for shoes for one of the current pantomimes, and is boring the shoemaker with no end of instructions about the make and shape of the required article. Now, remember, Mr So-and-so, they're to have white satin outsides; and be sure and have the toes well stiffened; and don't forget to make the soles as white as possible;' and so on, and 'Glittering rain' often forms a picturesque feature of the final tableau of a transformation scene. Most readers probably will recollect that just as the transformation is fully effected, and immediately before the hideous red fire makes everything and everybody look ghastly in the extreme, there may sometimes be observed descending from the clouds-or, more correctly, fliesa glistening imitation of fairyland rain. They may also recollect that in many cases the dresses of the lady artists in a pantomime are made particularly striking by the golden fringe suspended to them. As the 'glittering rain' of the transformation and the 'golden fringe' of the ladies are of much the same material, let me tell you a little of what I know of the latter. It goes without saying that the term 'golden' slightly exaggerates the quality of the article. Except in the case of principals, or of moneyed amateurs who can afford bullion fringe,' the rank and file of the profession commonly patronise what is technically known as 'silverplate' and 'water' fringe. I once had an opportunity of seeing this ordinary fringe being woven. The locality in which the work was carried on was not a pretty one. There were no beautiful ladies, heroic lovers, woodland glades, or benevolent fairies. King Poverty, indeed, was the only gentleman who had been cast for a part. In one of the lowest 'walks' in Bethnal Green, I found the artisan, without whose aid pantomime and opera-bouffe costumes could boast but little of the picturesque. Away up in a lonely garret, where furniture was conspicuous by its absence, sat the fringe-weaver, untiringly plying his shuttle. His loom was a poor one, and evidently had seen years and years of service. Its construction was not peculiar to those who have ever witnessed handloom weaving of any description. The treadles were worked by the feet; and the warp, of which there were only a couple of twisted cords, represented the edging of the fringe. On the bobbin in the shuttle is wound the fringe proper, and this the weaver thrusts to and fro with his hand, the treadles alternately raising and lowering the warp, thus binding the weft together, and bringing it into a condition to allow of its being stitched on to the |