member of the company, splendidly dressed, appeared in sight.  The enraged Dowton, mistaking his man, and believing that Holland’s imperturbability of manner was assumed and an evidence of his guilt, seized a mop at that moment at hand immersed in very dirty water, and thrusting it in his face, utterly ruined wig, ruffles, point-lace, and every particular of his elaborate attire.  In vain Holland protested his innocence and implored for mercy; his cries only stimulated the avenger’s exertions, and again and again the saturated mop did desperate execution over the unhappy victim’s finery.

Somewhat appeased at last, Dowton stayed his hand; but in the meantime Holland was summoned to appear upon the stage.  The play was proceeding—­what was to be done!  All was confusion.  It was not possible for Holland to present himself before the audience in such a plight as he had been reduced to.  An apology was made “for the sudden indisposition of Mr. Holland,” and the public were informed that “Mr. De Camp had kindly undertaken to go on for the part.”  Whether Dowton ever discovered his real persecutors is not stated.  The story, indeed, may not be true, or it may be much rouged and burnt-corked, as are so many theatrical anecdotes, to conceal its natural poverty and weakness of constitution.  But it is an amusing legend in any case.

The melodrama of “The Corsican Brothers,” first produced in England at the Princess’s Theatre in 1852, and splendidly revived at the Lyceum by Mr. Irving in 1880, reawakened the public interest in the ghosts of the theatre; and the spectre that rose from the stage as from a cellar, and crossing it, gained his full stature gradually as he proceeded, was for some time a great popular favourite, though burlesque dogged his course, and a certain ridicule always attended his exertions.  The fidgety musical accompaniment brought from Paris, and known as “The Ghost Melody,” by M. Varney, excited much admiration, while the intricate stage machinery involved in the production of the apparition of Louis dei Franchi gave additional interest to the performance.  Of late years the modern drama has made scarcely any addition to our stock of stage ghosts.  The ingenious invention known as the Spectral Illusion of Messrs. Dircks and Pepper obtained great favour at one time, and awakened some interest upon the subject of theatrical phantoms.  But it soon became clear that the public cared for the Illusion, and not for the Spectre.  They were concerned about the mechanism of the contrivance, not awed by the supernatural appearances it brought before them.  When once you begin to inquire by what process a ghost is produced, it is clear you are not moved by its character as a spectre merely.  Puppets lose their power to please when the spectators are bent upon detecting the wires by which they are made to move.