has been done, but Li Hung Chang is a watchful ruler, and it is rumored that the punishment inflicted was so appropriate and diverting that no one has ever meddled with Li's tribute sables since. There is an immense demand for rare furs in China. A nation in which neither men nor women wear jewels, but which has an exquisite taste for personal luxuries, finds a substitute for jewels in costume. An Indian or Afghan Prince will perhaps dress in white cotton, provided this be set off by some priceless gems on his sword, dagger, and turban. A Chinese Mandarin's sole jewels may be a few bits of jade or carnelian, but he makes up for this in summer by the richness of his silks, and in winter by wearing robes of furs so splendid that it needs a certain education to appreciate the full beauty of the costume. It has long been known that the Chinese furriers were the best in the world; and that except in the dyeing of sealskins, their treatment of the fur itself, especially in improving its tint and lustre, was unrivalled. It was not, however, suspected that they could improve on the work of Nature. An inspection of some of Li's furs recently sent to London showed that this was a task not beyond the art of the ancient civilization of the Far East. There were three or four robes which raised a certain excitement of admiration, even among the purely commercial experts of the wholesale fur trade. One of these robes was constructed with a special object. The aim of the Chinese furrier had been to make a skin of sable magnified to the size of the skin of a bear. In addition to creating a gigantic sable, this genius also wished that the animal should have fur with the hair all lying parallel; whereas in nearly every fur except that of the seal, when the long hairs are removed the grain and direction follow the anatomy of the body, and give an unevenness to the whole. To effect these objects the artist had cut out the "tit-bits" of sable skins, and divided these into tiny strips averaging from an inch to half an inch in length. These strips were all from the same part of the sable's body, and

were covered with fur of even length, lustre, and thickness. They were then sewn together with minute art, so that at the back the skin looked like a patchwork of tiny parallelograms like the squares on a fritillary flower, averaging from three to four in the square inch. In front the fur was absolutely uniform, homogeneous, and apparently without seam or joining-the kind of giant sable skin which might appear in dreams as the ideal of a Russian bride's trousseau. But Li Hung Chang's furriers had produced something better than this a fur robe which can justly claim to be an improvement on anything that Nature has given us in the rarest furs of beasts. Sable was again the material used. In this robe also the skins were divided, and rejoined so as to secure uniformity of tint, fur, and setting. But in the robe so made the artist had inserted at intervals the skin of the sable's shoulder and forepaw. This, when cut out, laid flat, and sewn together, with a little addition to the curves, forms an "ocellus " like a peacock's eye in sable damask, for the tint of the robe was uniform, and only the difference in the lie and texture of the fur produced the ornament. The result was the creation of a sable skin, adorned at regular intervals with an apparently natural ornament of the peacock's eyes, such as one sees in the tail of the white peacock, indicated by the same alternations of reflection and lights as in damask. The magnificence of this conception needs no comment.

Three other masterpieces of this peculiar art deserve mention. One is a robe of skins of the red fox (not the English reynard, but the Canadian red fox), with fur various in tint, but comparable in color to the different shades of red amber. In the golden parts were set "eves of the bright black foot of this fox, with the smoother and darker red of the leg above it, on the same principle as the insertion of 'eyes" in the sable skin, but this time with a contrast of color as well as of tone. The second was a robe of pieces from the back of the cross fox," so joined that they appeared to be taken

from some much larger animal. These were left the natural color, a cold gray and yellowish brown, but set in a bed of fur dyed chocolate color. In the third the Chinaman had succeeded in creating what was apparently a new animal! The robe, like all the others, was in the shape of a cross of five cubes. Each of these squares appeared to be the skin of a single animal, dark puce color on the outer edges, with irregular circles of minute white dots in the centre, increasing from an indistinct graying brown on the outside. to clear white in the inner circles. This apparently natural ornament might have deceived any one who did not know the actual colors and limits of all natural furs. On examining the back of this robe it was seen to be made up of minute pieces sewn together in concentric circles, the pieces being no larger than those in the tessellated pavement now so commonly seen on hall floors. It was, in fact, a piece of fur mosaic. If China is opened up to European trade a new reservoir of precious furs will be tapped for New York, Paris, and London. The latter is now the metropolis of the fur trade, and it is to London that the greater part of the catch in North America, Alaska, Siberia, and Australia is brought and collected until it is dispersed over every country in the world in the sales of Sir Charles Lampson and the Hudson's Bay Company. Hitherto Pekin has been the other centre of the trade, but not a rival, because the millions whom it supplied were within what was practically a closed market. All that was good was absorbed by China, and only a few inferior skins were exported, though sea-borne furs, especially those of the various red, white, and " foxes, have always been welcome cargoes. It remains to be seen whether the attraction of London will not draw from Pekin at least a share of its immense stock. It is believed that this will take place, and that the furs will be exported in the finished state, and present to the West a luxury almost as new as the original export of Chinese silks or Chinese porcelains. There is

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almost as much difference between the finished furs from Pekin, more beautiful than Nature made them, and the raw furs" in the Hudson's Bay sales, in the same condition as they were stripped from the dead animal, as there is between spun silk and the same substance in the cocoon. And while the art of the Pekin furrier excels that of Europe, there is something in the climate of the Northern mountains and the Western plateaus of China peculiarly favorable to the perfect growth of fur and feathers. Just as there are half a dozen Chinese pheasants which vie in plumage with the most gorgeous birds of the tropics, so even the domestic animals of the colder provinces seem to develop a special quality of fur, wool, or hair, to which the delicate processes of the dresses impart an added beauty. Thus Thibetan lambskin, after it has passed through the hands of the Chinese curriers, becomes a thing of beauty and intrinsic excellence hardly exceeded by the rarer furs. The leather is as soft as kid and white as milk, and the fleece attached to it takes the texture and gloss of white floss-silk. Even the chow-dogs of Manchuria grow true fur in the winter, and are bred for the sake of their coats; while the skins of the cat and the squirrel from the same district deserve a place not among the cheaper, but the choicer, grades of fur. Manchurian cat-skins are as superior to those of the specially bred black cats of the Bavarian Alps as that of the Manchurian tiger is to the coat of its Indian relative. The reverse is seen in Japan, where the mountain districts yield furs of the smallest size. The skin of a Japanese mink, for example, is about one-third the size of the large North American animal of the same species. The railway and the coming settlement of the East Manchurian region will not probably affect this ancient source of supply to the Pekin market. It is the central plains, not the forest-covered Khingan mountains, or those between the Ussuri and the Sungari valleys, which will feel the effect of civilization.-Spectator.

A VOLUME might be filled with characteristic anecdotes of the humors of the theatre. Perhaps the introduction of a few morceaux choisis may not be uninteresting to our readers.

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The humor of the Dublin gallery has long been proverbial. Macready, in his Reminiscences," relates that on one occasion when playing Otway's "Venice Preserved," Jaffier's long and rather drowsy lying speech was interrupted by one of the gallery, in a tone of great impatience, calling out very loudly, "Ah, now, die at once!" to which another from the other side immediately replied, "Be quiet, you blackguard;" then, turning with a patronizing tone to the lingering Jaffier, "Take your time."

It is related of the same celebrated tragedian that on one occasion he was victimized by one of the Dublin "stock" actors in the historic Hawkins Street Theatre, while playing "Virginius." The "Numitorius" couldn't remember his name. You will remember it, sir," said Macready at rehearsal, "by the association of ideas. Think of numbers, the Book of Numbers." The actor did think of it all day, and at night produced, through the association of ideas," the following effect: Numitorius: "Where is Virginia? Wherefore do you hold that maiden's hand?" Claudius: "Who asks the question?" Numitorius: "I, her uncle, Deuteronomy!"

It was on the same occasion, we believe, that one of Manager Harris's "walking gentlemen" as Icilius replied to the playful question of Virginius, "Do you wait for me to lead Virginia in, or will you do it?" "Whichever you please, sir."

Like most actor-managers, Macready was pestered by would-be dramatic authors. An ambitious young fellow brought him a five-act tragedy one morning to Drury Lane. "My piece," modestly explained the author, "is a chef-d'oeuvre. I will answer for its suc

Actors and actresses have occasionally a good deal of fun among themselves on the stage, though "guying" is strongly discountenanced by good managers. Generally the fun is impromptu, but sometimes a joke is carefully planned beforehand. In a performance of "The Lady of the Lake the actor who took the part of Roderick Dhu was known to be in pecuniary difficulties. When Roderick gave the line, "I am Roderick Dhu," Fitzjames responded, "Yes, and your rent's due too." On the production of a piece called the "Spy," the early acts showed that it was going to prove a failure. So when at a certain point a character had to rush on and shout, "Five hundred pounds for the spy," the author-actor, who was concealed behind a rock, arose and cried, "It's yours-copyright, manuscript, and parts!" That was the end of the performance. When eating takes place on the stage, the temptations to play tricks with the food are naturally great. In "Henry V." the leek which that inimitable braggart, Pistol, has to eat is usually made from an apple. But on one occasion at Sadler's Wells the Fluellen of the evening gave him a real onion, and he had no choice but to struggle through it, though the tears coursed down his fat cheeks.

One evening as we were leaving the Lyceum, after witnessing Henry Irving's "Hamlet," we overheard a rustic young lady and her swain discussing the merits of the tragedy. "Oh, Joe!" said she, "it was perfectly lovely, but so sad. I think it was an awful shame to drown Ophelia and kill Hamlet. They ought to have been married."

The swain (apparently from Yorkshire) heaved a sigh, drew close to his companion, and said, "I ain't great on tragedy, but that's how I'd fix it."

A famous Irish actor of the last century, named John Moody, early in life, before he went on the stage, had been to Jamaica, and worked his passage home as a sailor before the mast. One night, some time after he had been engaged at Drury Lane, when he was acting Stephano in the "Tempest," a sailor in the front row of the pit, got up, and standing upon the seat, holloaed out, "What cheer, Jack Moody; what cheer, messmate?" This unexpected address rather astonished the audience. Moody, however, stepped forward, and, recognizing the man, called out, "Tom Hullett, keep your jawking tacks aboard; don't disturb the crew and passengers. When the show is over make sail for the stage door, and we'll finish the evening over a jug of punch; but till then, Tom, keep your locker shut." Moody, it is related, was as good as his word.

William Bensley, a contemporary tragedian of John Kemble, was a very pompous actor of the old school long since extinct, with a sepulchral voice, a stiff, stalking gait, who delighted in a full, flowing wig. One evening, in Dublin, when he came on the stage at the Crow Street Theatre, for his first soliloquy in "Richard III.," a nail at the "wing" caught the bottom of his majestic wig, and, dismounting his hat, suspended the former in the air. An Irish gallery knows how to laugh even in a tragedy. Bensley caught his hat, as it fell, by a feather, and replacing it on his head, "shorn of its beams," advanced to the front and commenced his soliloquy, amid a volley of importunities to resume his wig: "Mr. Bensley, me darling, put on your jasey! Bad luck to your politics would you allow a whig to be hung?" etc. The tragedian, however, considering that such an act would have compromised in some measure his ducal dignity, continued his meditations in despite of their advice.

More than fifty years ago there was an old comic actor in the Irish capital

named Shean-Dan Shean he was familiarly called-for many years connected with the Hawkins Street Theatre Royal. He was always on most excellent terms with the "gods" (or occupants of the "niggers' heaven," to borrow an Americanism), who, however, sometimes caused him much embarrassment when it fell to his lot to speak a few words on the stage. "Speak up, Dan," and "Bravo, Dan," and "Morrow to ye, Dan," though shouted in tones indicative of the most friendly feeling, were cries not calculated to aid poor Shean in the, to him, at all times intensely difficult feat of remembering the words set down for him. An amusing story is told of him. On one occasion Coriolanus was being performed for several nights, in which the Roman soldiers appeared carrying the standards of the Republic. Upon these were inscribed the usual letters S. P. Q. R., the initials of the words, Senatus populusque Romanus. The signification of the letters was a sore puzzle to some of Manager Harris's "Roman troops,", and one warrior took occasion. to ask Dan Shean for an explanation of the mysterious characters. financial position of the management was, at the time, in a very unsatisfactory state, and the appearance of the treasury "Ghost" on Saturday afternoons had become exceedingly irregular. Dan looked with a humorous twinkle at his interrogator, and replied, "I'll tell you, me boy, the meaning of them letters. They stand for Salaries paid at a queer rate." Dan's translation got abroad, and caused many a hearty laugh, checked by an occasional sigh at its cruelly close application, and at last it was carried to the ears of the manager, who, on the first opportunity, took Shean to task, and remonstrated with him. Again, Dan's eyes twinkled with his native humor, and feigning astonishment at so monstrous a charge, "Sure, sir," he replied, "I never said. such a thing. I was asked the meaning of the letters, and I said they stood for Salaries paid quite regular."

The

Another stock actor at this historic theatre, who was also on intimate terms with the habitués of the pit and gal

lery, was an eccentric old humorist named Barry. During the During the run of Pierce Egan's drama, "Tom and Jerry," Barry's originally white Russia duck trousers, which he had continued to wear night after night, began to assume a rather dusky shade, indicating their long separation from soap and water. At last, when these long-enduring pants made their appearance about the twentieth night still encasing Barry's legs, one of the " boys" cried out from the gallery, "Whist, Barry!" "Whist, Barry!" What do you want?" said Barry, nothing moved by a style of address to which he was accustomed. "Wait till I whisper you," said the voice from above, while all were silent. "When did your ducks take the water last?" The house was uproarious, and the next night Barry's "ducks were white as

snow.

There are few old Dublin playgoers who have not heard of Luke Plunkett, a well-known amateur actor there during Alfred Bunn's management. He invariably chose "Richard III." for the display of his powers, which tended toward burlesque rather than tragedy. His dying scene in Richard so amused the audience that they usually insisted on a repetition, with which Plunkett, in perfect good faith, forthwith favored them. In the "History of the Theatre Royal, Dublin," it is recorded that on June 23d, 1828, this "actor" was announced to appear in the arduous part of Coriolanus. His powers (sic) failed, however, in the first scene, and advancing to the footlights he gravely informed the audience that he found himself unable to proceed. This announcement was received with shouts of laughter, cheers, and hisses, above which was heard a loud call for a song, and the "Noble Roman" at once burst forth into Scots wha hae," which he sang with tremendous force and great power of lung.

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The mention of the celebrated manager, Alfred Bunn-" poet Bunn," as "Punch" christened him-reminds us of the anecdote told of his wife, a celebrated "heavy" actress in her day. James Warde, the tragedian, was act

ing in some now forgotten piece with Mrs. Bunn, an abnormally ponderous lady, whom he was supposed to carry off half-fainting on his back. But his arms proved too short to embrace the well-developed heroine, and one of the gods, taking pity on the superhuman efforts of his favorite actor, shouted out, " Make two journeys of it!" which, of course, brought the curtain down and saved him the trouble.

Frank Seymour, the eccentric Cork manager, whom the late Barry Sullivan dubbed Frank Schemer, combined the duties of actor and manager, as well as many other multifarious occupations. It was his general practice, when he first opened his theatre in Cork, to take the money at the pit door, another actor officiating at the boxes. One evening, while Seymour was committing a dramatic homicide on "Richard III.," the half-price people were coming in. Seymour was never in the sublimest of his histrionic illusions altogether so enveloped in Shakespeare that he forgot himself. His vigilant eye-was cocked on the pit entrance, to see that his substitute fulfilled his duties, or that any unprincipled townsfolk did not confound their individuality and pass in in a group. He had concluded the soliloquy in the tent scene, and rousing at the words of Catesby, repeated the line, "Shadows, avaunt! you threaten here in vain," when he suddenly espied a man stealing into the pit unobserved. The interest of King Richard's situation was instantly forgotten in his own, and pointing at the offender, he exclaimed, "That man in the gray coat came in without paying!" He then subjoined, with a burst of truly rational triumph, "Richard is himself again."