The Siamese are fond of being amused and of amusing themselves, but they do not usually indulge in active sports with the exception of rowing and a species of football. Games that involve any great physical exertion are played chiefly by persons who make a business of the performance. The professional acrobats that are met with on festive occasions are fearless and skilful. Amongst the many feats they perform for the amusement of their fellow-countrymen, there are few that do not require both strength of nerve as well as agility of limb. The "acrobat poles" are stout bamboo rods fastened firmly to the ground. Each pole terminates, about twenty feet from the ground, in a lotus-shaped capital. The acrobats climb to the top and perform various feats on the small space afforded them by the flattened surface of this small platform. No nets or mattresses are provided to break their fall in case of accident. There are other men who fix pikes and sword-blades in a row and then lie with their bare backs upon the sharpened points. Juggling with keen-edged daggers is certainly a less dangerous amusement. "Throwing the hammer" here takes a new form as "swinging the hammer". A heavy sledge-hammer is lifted by a rope held between the teeth, and then swung deftly over the shoulder so as to fall well to the rear of the athlete. These dangerous acrobatic exhibitions are not at all frequent, probably owing to the fact that there are only a few men in the whole country who are able to take part in them.

On national holidays an open air play known as "Kra, ooa," or "spearing the buffalo," is enacted. It is a mixture of dumb show and grotesque dancing, and is based on an old Burmese story. The legend relates that once upon a time there was an old woman who had a husband named Ta So. One night she dreamt that she was enjoying a dish of buffalo's liver. Her enjoyment of the luxury was so great that she presently awoke. She was unable to sleep, so she awakened her husband and told him of her dream, and of the wonderful flavour of the meat. The more she dwelt upon the delicious character of her phantom repast, the stronger grew her desire to taste the real article. She urged Ta So to go out into the jungle and spear a buffalo. He for some time declined to rise from his couch, alleging that he was a bad hunter and dared not track so formidable a creature. He attempted to seek repose once more, but the hungry lady grew more and more importunate, and he was forced at last to set out on a hunting excursion. His wife accompanied him to see that he did not shirk the task she had set him. After a long time they managed to track a wild buffalo. They skirmished and scouted, and finally succeeded in killing it. They opened the animal, extracted the desired delicacy, and then returned home to enjoy it.—The representation of this story has been repeated times without number, but it never fails to meet with popular approval. An actor first appears dressed as a Burmese woman. She next proceeds in very colloquial vernacular to bully her husband in accordance with the tradition. The buffalo used is a sham one. Four or five people throw a dark-coloured cloth over themselves, and the foremost of these holds in his hands a huge mask, supposed to be a buffalo's head. It would serve equally well for the head of any other creature known to natural history, for it is unlike anything but the fabulous creation of some man's mad imaginings. As the husband and wife chase the ungainly brute, it gambols to the music of a native band, in a circle about twenty feet in diameter. The dodging and running, the pretended attack, the sham wounds, and the awful groans are always received with the same loud bursts of hearty appreciative laughter.

The game of "takraw" is popular with boys and youths, and is similar to the game of football as exhibited by the Burmese in recent years in London. The players, who may be of any number, stand in a ring. One of them tosses into the ring a light wicker ball. As it falls another player catches it on his foot, head, or shoulder. He at once passes it to someone else, without touching it with his hands. The ball passes swiftly from one spot to another, and it is often kept up for quite a long time. If it falls to the earth, it is picked up and again tossed to the skilful players. And so the game proceeds until every one is tired. There is no scoring of points or winning of games. New-comers join in the fun and weary ones leave without in any way interfering with the amusement of the rest. The "fancy kicking" that is exhibited by expert players excites great admiration in natives and foreigners.

Games in which the element of chance enters are the greatest favourites. The people are born gamblers, and to make a bet is the delight of everyone, from prince to peasant. They bet on the results of a cock-fight, a boxing match, a fight between crickets, or a combat between their pugilistic fishes. Even kite-flying is accompanied by unlimited "book-making." The Siamese are not to be compared with the Japanese in the art of constructing curious or beautiful kites, but they are certainly their equals in flying them. The most common form of kite is a five-pointed one—a pentagonal star. On none of the kites, whatever may be their shape or size, is "tailing" ever used, and rarely does a native run in order to get the kite to rise. By a peculiar rapid jerking of the string, the kite is made to create its own wind when a natural one is not blowing. Men may often be seen on calm still days flying their kites from boats as they pass up and down the river. Kite contests are of frequent occurrence during the windy months. One kite is called the male and the other the female. The object of the contest is the capturing of the female by the male. When they are both at a considerable height from the ground, one flyer so jerks the string of the male kite as to cause it to swoop downwards with great velocity. If the apex of the falling star strikes the body of the soaring female, it effectually wounds her and brings her to earth. But it is perhaps oftener luck than skill that ends the contest so suddenly. As a rule the string of the descending kite passes over the string of the steady one. Then the owner of the male toy checks its downward motion, and with a rapid pull of the string towards him, causes it to pass under the string that is attached to the female, and then to rise again. In this way one string is wound round the other. The operation is repeated a second and even a third time, after which the players each pull their kites towards them, let them go again, pull in again and so on, so that each string is sawing the other one. Excitement takes possession of the spectators and they begin to speculate as to which string will first break. They frequently stake large sums of money on the result of the aerial combat. In many instances the owner of the entangled female, manages by a skilful manipulation of the string to free her from the toils of her antagonist, who then once more pursues her, and manoeuvres to compass her destruction.

In every street there will always be found a Chinaman, wearing big goggles, sitting at a table in the front of an open house or shop, wearing upon his wooden countenance a quiet and meditative smile. By his side is a small pile of thin sheets of yellow paper, and a quantity of writing material. He is an agent of the gambling farmer and deals in lottery tickets. The Government farms out the monopoly and derives a considerable revenue from it, as in some years as much as thirty thousand pounds sterling has been paid for the privilege of being allowed to gently ease other people of their superfluous cash. The lottery farmer chooses, every day, one out of thirty-four characters of the alphabet as the lucky one for that day. He keeps the secret of his choice to himself, and leaves those people who are of a speculative turn of mind to guess the particular letter he has chosen. Everyone is at liberty to try his luck. The gambler goes to one of the numerous writers of lottery tickets and names a letter. The writer slowly inscribes the letter upon one of the sheets of paper. He then folds it up, and on the back states his own name and address, the name and address of the purchaser of the ticket, and the amount paid for the same. He keeps possession of the paper till the close of the day. The city is divided into districts, over each of which the lottery farmer places a trustworthy overseer. Towards evening the overseer visits every ticket writer in his locality, collects all the papers, and the money paid for them. These he afterwards takes to the office of his chief. At a given hour the farmer declares the winning letter and the papers are opened. All those papers that do not bear the chosen character are thrown away and the money appropriated. Those who have been fortunate enough to guess correctly the letter for the day, receive back twenty-nine times their stake, so that the man who staked one pound receives twenty-nine as his reward. The chances in favour of the proprietor of the lottery are so great, and so many thousands of people patronise him every day that he can easily afford to award a prize of high value to the few winners. Some people endeavour to calculate their chances beforehand. In every writer's house is placed a board divided into squares. Every day from the beginning to the end of the month, the letter chosen is written in one of these squares. The board is consulted by those about to try their luck, and they try to work out a system which shall guide them in their choice. Many gamblers, especially if they are Chinese, consult their gods about the matter. They go to the temples and stand in front of the altar. There they find a bamboo box containing thirty-four strips of bamboo, on each of which is printed one of the letters used by the lottery farmers. They address the presiding deity of the place and promise him abundance of fat pork and chickens if only he will be so kind as to help them in their venture. After having made this tempting offer, one stick is chosen from the bundle. The gambler looks at it, and then wonders if the gods are going to make sport of him. He proceeds to test the sincerity of the deity. He takes two pieces of bamboo root, which have been flattened on the one side and rounded on the other. He throws them into the air, exclaiming as he does so, "If I have chosen the right letter, let these two roots fall with the flat sides up." Suppose they fall as he desires, he repeats the experiment, saying, "If I have chosen the right letter, let these two roots fall with the round side up." Even if success again crowns his experiment, he still feels inclined to doubt the playful deity to whom he is appealing for counsel. So he throws the roots yet once again—"If I have chosen the right letter let these two roots fall, one with the flat side up, and one with the round side up." If they should fall in this way, he is practically certain the gods are with him. He pawns everything he possesses and stakes every farthing he can obtain on the letter of his choice. Thirty-three chances to one that he loses, and he may spend the rest of his life in extreme poverty, bewailing the fickleness of the god he supplicated.

Anyone who can write can set up a stand, for it is the policy of the farmer to have his agents scattered all over the city. The overseers are not directly paid for their services, but on the contrary, actually pay to be allowed to hold the office. The writers of the tickets receive a commission of one shilling for every forty-four shillings they hand to the overseers. The overseer receives from the farmer the same proportion of the total amount he collects each day. Thirty times the sum actually staked is handed to the writer of a correct letter. He then hands over to the winner twenty-nine times the sum, so that he gets a further profit of one-thirtieth of all the winning money that passes through his hands.

A few years ago, the gambling farmer lost a considerable sum of money through his own indiscretion. He had obtained a new wife of great beauty, of whom he was passionately fond. One day she asked him what letter he had chosen for the winning one. "Why do you wish to know?" said he. Woman-like, she replied, "Oh, I merely asked you out of curiosity." "Well," said the infatuated adorer, "promise me that you will on no account reveal it to any single person you may meet. Remember, if people were to know what letter I had chosen, I should lose a tremendous sum of money." The new favourite answered, "I promise not to tell." He gave her the letter, and faithful to her promise, she kept the secret. But she went to one of the writers and staked all the money she had on what she knew was to be the lucky character. The writer knew who she was, and jokingly asked her why she had chosen that particular letter. She answered that she had simply selected it as any one else might have done in order try her luck. Several people standing by heard the conversation, and learning that the chief had been to see her the day before in her own quarters, they thought it extremely probable that she was in possession of that days winning number. They promptly followed her example, with the result that her confiding spouse lost several thousand dollars on the day's transactions. He at once accused her of betraying his trust, and although she pleaded her innocence, he sold her within a few days to gratify his want of revenge, or perhaps, to recoup himself in part for the losses he had sustained as the result of his own folly.

In the small gambling houses that abound, various games of chance are played all day. They are open to the road, and are always fairly well filled. Idlers strolling by with an odd cent in their waistband, step in and lose it, and then pass on their way to give place to others who seek easily-made fortunes. The games played require no skill on the part of those who play. It is all pure chance, as the following descriptions will show.

The Mat Game. On the floor is spread a mat with two lines drawn across it at right angles to each other, as shown in the diagram. The banker sits in the position marked A, and the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4 are placed as here indicated. In front of the banker is a big pile of cowrie shells. He takes up as many as he can hold in his two hands and places them in front of him. The crowd then place any amount they like on any one of the four numbers. Suppose, for example, that there are four playing and that each places a shilling on a different number. When all those who wish to play have put down their money, the proprietor begins to count out the shells he has taken from a large heap, and to place them in small piles of four each, and notes the remainder when all the shells have been disposed of. If there is a remainder of two, then the man whose money is on two gets his stake doubled. Number four loses, and numbers one and three neither lose nor gain. If there is a remainder of three, the money on three is doubled, number one loses, and numbers two and four remain unaltered. If there are twenty or thirty people playing, the principle is the same. All those who have guessed the right remainder get their money doubled, the opposite numbers lose, and the others neither win nor lose. If there is no remainder then the winning number is four. One variation in the method of staking is allowed. The money may be placed on any one of the four diagonal lines. Suppose the stake is laid on the line between three and two, then if either three or two be the remainder the money is doubled, but if one or four wins, then the money is lost. Porcelain counters of very small value are used at these places, and so common is the gambling habit, that these counters are used in the markets for the purchase of goods, for both buyers and sellers know that the gambler's coins can easily be disposed of again. If a banker fails, he is unable to redeem his porcelain coinage and the holders are then liable to lose the value of the counters in their possession.

Brass Cup Game. The necessary apparatus for this form of speculation is a small brass cup and a wooden cube. The upper face of the cube is divided by a line into two halves, one of which is painted red and the other white. The banker puts the cube on the table in any position he chooses, without letting the people see how it is placed. He covers it with the brass cup. The players put down their stakes in various positions round the cup. The banker raises the cup. All money opposite the white edge is returned at the rate of three to one, while all opposite the other three sides passes into the banker's pocket.

The Animal Game. This is a very favourite amusement at fairs. A board is provided which measures about eighteen inches by twenty. It is divided by lines into a number of equal oblongs. In each space is painted some animal. The owner has three large wooden dice with figures painted on the sides corresponding to those in the squares on the board. Those who wish to try their luck choose a picture and place their money thereon. The three dice are placed in a cocoa-nut shell, and rattled about, and then thrown on a table. The winning pictures are those that appear on the topmost faces of the three cubes.

Gambling with cards is very common. The cards are all of Chinese pattern, and measure three inches by one. On them are printed kings, governors, soldiers, officials, and other important personages. There are one hundred and sixteen cards in a pack, but what are the rules that govern their complicated manipulation the writer has failed to fathom, even as he has also failed to find any other European who could furnish the requisite explanation.

Chess is one of the few pastimes that is not used for betting purposes. The game is substantially the same as that played in England, but a boat replaces the castle, the bishop is represented by a nobleman, and the knight's moves are made by a horse. There are many skilful players, and the present Minister for Foreign Affairs, Prince Devawongse, can checkmate most of the foreigners who have had the opportunity of playing with him. The real Siamese chessmen are difficult to obtain as they are made only for private use and not for sale. The poorer classes readily make up a full set when they want a game, by using buttons or cowries for the pawns and modelling the rest of the pieces out of bits of soft clay.

But the most popular of all amusements is the theatre. It is the delight of old and young alike, and is intensely interesting to the foreigner, as probably representing to a very large degree, the primitive way in which the dramas that were presented to his forefathers, were staged and enacted. It possesses an additional attraction inasmuch as it is yet a purely native institution, unaffected by those Western influences that are so rapidly destroying in the East the many Oriental manners and customs that were once the delight of the traveller. Yokohama is a European seaport. There are English policemen in Shanghai, and cafÉs in Saigon. In Bangkok itself electric lights and tram-cars have appeared, and one of the latest orders of the Court requires that at all future state ceremonies the native shall discard his own picturesque costume for frock-coat, European trousers, and top-hat. So far, however, the Siamese theatre has remained unaffected by these modern fashions.

The theatre of the capital may differ from that of the province, but the differences are those demanded by native taste alone. It is in all cases admirably suited to a people of fertile imagination and simple habits. Spectacular displays and gorgeous transformation scenes are neither expected nor given. Realism is not demanded in any form. Except in the matter of dress, simplicity characterises the whole performance. Great attention is paid to the pattern and the material of the costumes. They are of a regulation type—heroes, angels, soldiers, and monarchs being arrayed according to fashions that have descended from generation to generation. Cloth of gold, richly embroidered cloaks, and expensive jewels, make up the wardrobe of the richer companies.

There is only one theatre in the capital to which any admission fee is charged and where regular performances are held. On dark nights when the moon is hidden the theatre is closed, for there would be no light to go home by, but as soon as the new moon appears again, the doors are opened and the people flock to the only place of amusement that can successfully compete with the rival attractions of the gambling hells and opium dens. All other theatrical performances take place as a rule at private houses on the occasion of a wedding, a cremation, or any other public or private ceremony at which large crowds of people congregate.

The various troupes of performers are the private property of certain noblemen, who greatly pride themselves on the skill and beauty of their "prima-donnas". There are also bands of players who stroll from place to place and depend for their living on the voluntary offerings of the spectators. Occasionally they find their services required for some domestic celebration. At other times they perform in the open air, or in any odd empty shed they may happen to discover in the course of their wanderings.

There are two kinds of theatre—the "lakhon" and the "yeegai". The former, which stands highest in public estimation is probably derived from the Nautch dances of India. At one time there was a large Brahmin settlement in the town of Ligore, which is situated to the north-east of the Malay Peninsula. These emigrants from India brought with them a number of nautch girls whose dances were highly appreciated by the people of the land in which they had newly settled. The native name for Ligore is Lakhon, and when the dancers went from place to place, they were known as "The actors from Lakhon," and later on simply as the "lakhons". The word passed into the common speech and is now used as the name for "theatre". The members of the "lakhon" companies are all women with the exception of a few clowns. They seldom produce any new or original plays. Those that they act over and over again are chiefly translations of Hindoo myths, and are intolerably long. Several hours a night for a fortnight would be required for the complete performance of some of these lengthy dramas. This is no barrier to the enjoyment of the audience, for the stories of the plays are the only literature that they constantly read. They are therefore thoroughly familiar with the plot, the characters, and all the incidents of the dramas performed before them. It follows that they never need to attend the theatre from night to night in order to follow the development of the story. In fact, the better they know the play, and the oftener they see it performed, the more they enjoy it.

There is no acting in our sense of the word. The words of the play are dolefully chanted by a chorus of women, whose screeching voices produce sounds that are painfully unmusical when judged from the European standpoint. The only words uttered by the actresses themselves are similarly chanted at times when they feel that the situation has reached a climax, and consequently needs an extra amount of noise to make it thoroughly effective. The orchestra employed is called the "Mahoree", and contains twenty-one instruments when complete. The instruments used are chiefly of the percussion type and are powerful sound producers. Amongst them are drums, cymbals, tom-toms, gongs and bamboo dulcimers. Stringed instruments are represented by a few squeaky one-stringed fiddles and an instrument that resembles a zither. A terrible wind instrument is sometimes employed when it is desirable to produce a sound that can be calculated to rival that of the bagpipes when played by a zealous but unmusical amateur. The use of the band is chiefly to mark the rhythm of the chorus and to produce effective noisy bursts of sound in important scenes. Any embrace between a pair of lovers is emphasised by a forcible hammering of drums and clashing of cymbals. They know nothing of harmony, but musical experts with well-trained ears, say that they play in unison.

There is nothing natural in the actions of the performers except as regards those of the clowns. The funny men are the only ones who ever say anything in their natural voices or who ever move their limbs in a common everyday manner. The ladies go through a series of posturing evolutions euphemistically called dances. They are nothing more than extraordinary contortions of the body accompanied by equally strange motions of the limbs. The fingers are bent backwards from the joints, and the arms backwards from the elbows in a way no untrained person could ever possibly imitate. From early childhood the fingers and arms are daily bent out of place until finally they become, as it were, double jointed. The actresses whiten their faces with powder and do not relieve their ghostly appearance with any touch of colour. They fasten on the finger-tips artificial gold finger-nails of abnormal length. The audience either stands or sits on the floor, and smokes incessantly. The stage is simply a portion of the floor marked out by mats, round the sides of which sit those members of the audience who are nearest the performers. There is a raised seat or small platform at the back of the stage for the use of those who represent kings and queens in the different scenes. At the back of the seat is the common dressing-room of the whole company. It is partially or completely open to the public gaze, and a small crowd always gathers there to see the fair ones powder and adorn themselves. The strolling troupes dispense with even this imitation of a dressing-room, and prepare themselves for their parts in full view of the audience. They carry their belongings in old kerosine tins, which they arrange along one side of the shed in which they are performing.

If a horse is required, an actress comes on the stage, wearing a piece of head-gear shaped like a horse's head. It is not worn as a mask to cover the face, but as a hat on the top of the head. The rider does not mount her steed, but places her hand on its shoulder and walks by its side. Monkeys and elephants play important parts in the old legends, and they are represented in the same simple fashion; though one private company in Bangkok boasts a real elephant that has been trained for theatrical performances.

A voyage at sea is undertaken without ships. One of the players crosses the stage, having a pole in imitation of a mast fastened to his chest. From the top floats the national flag, while pieces of thin cord are fastened from the same point to the neck and shoulders of the player to represent rigging. The passengers then embark by arranging themselves in two long lines behind the man with the pole. When they are all safely aboard, the stern of the vessel arrives and forms the tail end of the procession. He also bears a pole, a flag, and a quantity of string rigging, and attached to his back is a wooden rudder, the cords of which are held by the passenger immediately in front of him. They then sail away, rolling their supple bodies in time to the music, in imitation of the rolling motion of a vessel at sea. They cross the stage, pass out at one side, and re-enter at the other, time after time, as though they were trying to impress the audience with the tedious and protracted nature of their journey.

The possession of a tin sword is a sufficient indication of a warrior; while a tall tapering crown is the symbol of monarchial authority.

Occasionally there is a villain in the piece, who after some wicked deed, finds it necessary to conceal his whereabouts. This appears at first sight to be a very difficult matter, for the stage is absolutely bare of everything that could possibly afford the slightest concealment. The difficulty is soon surmounted. If he needs a wall behind which to hide himself, a bamboo screen with a hole in the middle is at once pushed on the stage in full view of the audience. He retires behind it, and the spectators then enjoy the comical sight of a hero seeking and finding not, while the villain amuses himself by watching through the hole in the screen the fruitless efforts made to discover his hiding-place. If he is supposed to be concealed in a wood, a banana leaf or a branch of a tree is handed to him, and he holds it with his hands in front of his face. Again the hero is disappointed in his search, and when tired out with his long and unrewarded exertions, he plucks fruit from off the branch behind which the villain is in safe retirement, the audience roars with delight.

The eagerness and keen enthusiasm with which the spectators receive all these primitive methods of dramatic representation, are conclusive proof that they are endowed with strong imaginations.

The "yeegai" is of a different character entirely. It is Malay in origin. The performers are all men or boys, and belong generally to the lower classes. Chorus and orchestra are not considered indispensable, the former being always absent, and the latter generally consisting of seven large drums. There is no posturing and fantastic dancing, but genuine acting. The old legends give way to more modern and original works of a strictly farcical character. The buffoonery is excellent, but the language is nearly always coarse. Current events are burlesqued, and foreign residents with pronounced mannerisms get caricatured.

Whatever be the play or wherever it be performed, luxuriously upholstered boxes and special incidental music are not required, for the story itself is of sufficient interest to the people to capture their hearts and minds without the assistance of any expensive and elaborate furniture.