Rank with sins full-blown)
     Mine avenging presence,
When thy joys lie strown,
     Rotting in thy sight!"

     THE RENOWNED DOG CÆSAR.

IT was at Wearmouth, on the coast, where
there were docks and vessels of war, and
mariners, and a general sea flavour, that we—my
younger brother Jack and I—were reared:
at the apron, as it were, of an aunt of awful
severity, and almost ferocious bearing towards
the youth of either sex. She meant well; for
to adults needing the many charities of life,
she was gentle and gracious. But towards
infancy her system amounted to a frightful
terrorism. The town and its docks are fallen
out of fashion; the mariners, and the ships of
the mariners, have long since drifted away; that
stern woman, who ruled so awfully in the little
two-story baby-house at the entrance of the sea-
town—a baby-house with a garden and wooden
green rails in front, and a green paddock—
hunting-grounds so exquisitely coveted, and so
jealously guarded—that stern woman has drifted
away too, in quite another direction. But
there remains for me, in all its primitive
gorgeousness, undimmed, untarnished, in the old
glory, the old nimbus or aureole, the image
of the Theatre Royal, Wearmouth, that
glorified temple of the drama, rising in a sort of
divine light and rosy cloud, all spiritual as it
were, and redeemed from any taint of earthy
grossness.

Taken in a strict practical sense, such as it
would appear to persons of a prose nature, and
setting its image before me at this date, it must
be owned that it was a mean wretched tenement.
It was very old, very shaky and tattered
towards the roof, sadly ruined, and, for a
considerable margin running round its base, very
soiled and slimy, like the green sediment on the
sheathing of an old ship. An ancient shed ran
all round; and over each door were faded
inscriptions—a little awry, too—"BOXES"—
"PIT"—"GALLERY." Gorgeous cabalistics they
seemed; and though the approach to the sacred
stage was up a lane, which I believe now must
have been dark, boggy, and unsavoury. I
used to look up the lane with an awe and
exquisite interest, and an utter insensibility
to the peculiar fragrance of the place. It was
this divine beat which kept away a too near
familiarity with the persons of those who took
part in the inner unspeakable mysteries. Once,
indeed, I saw a figure pass me, and turn up the
sacred lane, and whose retreating form I
pursued with a gaze almost stupified. An interior
instinct told me at once who it was; and though
his face was of a curious dusky yellow, and
though his coat was buttoned tightly, and his
hat had acquired a sort of burnish or glaze near
the brim, from too anxious brushing—still,
through all their tokens broke out the divinity
of the man. I pursued him with a sort of
fascination until he reached the door, and was
absorbed into those hails of Eblis—behind the
scenes. It thrilled me. He would live
constitutionally among the blue clouds, and the
golden spangles, and crimson light (for the
pantomime was then going forward, and the
luscious description on the bills drove us wild),
and rise up clarified, as it were, with an ambrosial
light in his face, and clothed in dazzling
celestial attire. It was maddening; for our
ascetical aunt, following the tenets of the late
Mr. Wesley, never let us near these demoralising
seats of entertainment.

Shall I ever forget that morning when we
—my younger brother Jack and myself—
prowling about the town on our way to school,
were attracted by a dead wall—a wall so dead,
in fact, that decomposition had set in—which
displayed to our enraptured eyes a bright fresh
glaring primrose-coloured bill—glistening like
a snake's coat with the fresh varnish of new
paste. We were always greedy connoisseurs
of such proclamations. It was the most
delightful and entertaining literature we knew.
They became Homeric for us; because,
recording the works of godlike men and women.
What dignity, what gorgeousness, what
splendour in the titles! associations of which
no rude awakening shocks could ever have
divested us. But here, at the dead wall, with
chins turned upward at an angle painfully
inconvenient—for the officer of the theatre had
placed his bill at a higher level than his wont
(it was a Saturday morning, too, I recollect)
—we read the delightful news, and were
confounded with joy. The "Renowned DELAVAL
Family" were engaged for three nights only,
which was welcome intelligence in itself; but
an arrangement had also been effected with,
their famous DOG CÆSAR! which was the special
tidings that made our hearts beat. He was
actually engaged to perform in an exciting, a
real piece, the name of which we had never
heard, and yet which was very dear and familiar,
and strangely vital and suggestive—"The Dog
of Montargis, or the Forest of Bondy!" What
a breadth, a pregnancy of colour, as it were !
Could the English language go further? A
dreamy mystery hung over the yellow bill, and
seemed to exhale from that glorified paste.
Something French, something secret, something in
the depths of a forest, exquisitely delightful.
Nor was this all. There was a cut—a cut?—a
vigorous picture—brought out in rich masses of
printing ink, with the dog, noble creature, in the
centre, and the moon, boldly portrayed, and trees,
and a woman at the door of a house. Nor
was this all. The characters were sustained
by the Delaval Family—the "inimitable"
Delaval Family—that is to say, by Mr.
Delaval (of the Theatres Royal, London, Bath,
and Bristol, indistinctly); Madame Delaval,
also indistinctly, of the Theatres Royal, London,
Bath, and Bristol; Mr. Paul Delaval, late
of the Metropolitan Theatres (this much more
cloudily); and "the Infant Marie Delaval,"
a little cherub of the stage, as yet far too young