swiftly passing the sword from the right hand to the left.  Now and then they fought a kind of double combat, wielding a sword in either hand.  Altogether, indeed, it was an extraordinary entertainment, which evoked thunders of applause from the audience.  The eccentric agility of the combatants, the peculiarities of their method of engagement, the stirring staccato music of the band, the clashing of the swords and the shower of sparks thus occasioned, were found quite irresistible by numberless playgoers.  Mr. Crummles, it will be remembered, had a very high opinion of this form of entertainment.

Of late, however, the broadsword combat has declined as a theatrical attraction if it has not altogether expired.  The art involved in its presentment is less studied, or its professors are less capable than was once the case.  And perhaps burlesque has exposed too glaringly its ridiculous or seamy side.  It was not one of those things that could long endure the assaults of travesty.  The spell was potent enough in its way, but it dissolved when once interruptive laughter became generally audible.  A creature of theatrical tradition, curiously sophisticated and enveloped in absurdities, its long survival is perhaps more surprising than the fact of its decease.  Some attempt at ridiculing it seems to have been made so far back as the seventeenth century, in the Duke of Buckingham’s “Rehearsal.”  Two characters enter, each bearing a lute and a drawn sword, and alternately fight and sing; “so that,” as Bayes explains, “you have at once your ear entertained with music and good language, and your eye satisfied with the garb and accoutrements of war.”  In the same play, also, the actors were wont to introduce hobby-horses, and fight a mimic battle of very extravagant nature.

Ridicule of a stage army was one of the established points of humour in the old burlesque of “Bombastes Furioso,” and many a pantomime has won applause by the comical character of the troops brought upon the scene.  It should be said, however, that of late years the more famous battles of the theatre have been reproduced with remarkable liberality and painstaking.  In lieu of “four swords and bucklers,” a very numerous army of supernumeraries has marched to and fro upon the boards.  In the ornate revivals of Shakespeare, undertaken from time to time by various managers, especial attention has been directed to the effective presentment of the battle scenes.  The “auxiliaries” have frequently consisted of soldiers selected from the household troops.  They are reputed to be the best of “supers,” imposing of aspect, stalwart and straight-limbed, obedient to command, and skilled in marching and military formations.  Londoners, perhaps, are little aware of the services their favourite regiments are prompt to lend to theatrical representations.  Notably our grand operas owe much to the Coldstreams and Grenadiers.  After a performance of “Le Prophete” or “L’Etoile du Nord,” let us say, hosts of these warriors