On December 3rd, 1872, there occurred the strike of some 2400 stokers; and, as a consequence, the West-end of London was involved in complete darkness, while in the City the supply of gas was limited to a very few streets.  Upon the theatres this deprivation fell heavily.  The performances were given up in despair at some houses, and carried on at others in a very restricted manner, by suddenly calling into requisition the twilight of tallow-candles and oil-lamps.  The following advertisements, among many others of like tenor, appearing in The Times of the 4th December, are illustrative of the situation of affairs: 

     SPECIAL NOTICE.—­COURT THEATRE.—­This theatre, from its
     situation, is in no way affected by the Gas Strike, and will be
     open every evening, and brilliantly illuminated.

ST. JAMES’S THEATRE.—­The management having received no notice that, in consequence of the strike, the supply of gas would be discontinued, found at the last moment no light could be obtained, and were compelled to inform the crowds at the door that there would be no performance. All Tickets issued last night will be available this evening.

     GAS.—­GAIETY.—­SPECIAL NOTICE.—­Arrangements (if necessary) have
     been made to light this Theatre with lime-lights and oil.

CHAPTER XI.

“COME, THE RECORDERS!”

Among the earlier emotions of the youthful playgoer, whose enthusiasm for dramatic representations is generally of a very fervid and uncompromising kind, must be recognised his pity for the money-taker, forbidden by the cares of office to witness a performance, and his envy of the musicians, so advantageously stationed for the incessant enjoyment of the delights of the theatre.  But he perceives, with regretful wonder, that these gentlemen are habitually negligent of their opportunities, and fail to appreciate the peculiar happiness of their position; that they are apt, indeed, their services not being immediately required, to abandon their instruments, and quietly to steal away through the cramped doorway that admits to the mysterious regions beneath the stage.  He is grieved to note that for them, at any rate, the play is not “the thing.”  One or two may remain—­the performer on the drum, I have observed, is often very faithful in this respect, though I have failed to discover any special reason why a love of histrionic efforts should be generated by his professional occupation—­but the majority of the orchestra clearly manifest an almost indecent alacrity in avoiding all contemplation of the displays on the other side of the foot-lights.  They are but playgoers on compulsion.  They even seem sometimes, when they retain their seats, to prefer gazing at the audience, rather than at the actors, and thus to advertise their apathy in the matter.  And I have not heard that the parsimonious manager, who proposed to reduce the salaries of his musicians on the ground that they every night enjoyed admission to the best seats, for which they paid nothing, “even when stars were performing,” ever succeeded in convincing his band of the justice of his arguments.