arrangement, which appeared to me a good deal
like putting the cart before the horse. Mr.
Manager, however, gave me to understand that
in the matter of Pantomime, and, indeed, even
in the case of drama, he regarded the scene-
painter as the horse, and the author as the cart.

"No disrespect to you, sir, but in these days
there's nothing like scenery. The best of your
craft require the scene-painter to pull you
through. Don't suppose for a moment that I
approve of this state of things. Why should I?
What do I give you for the piece? Thirty
pounds! But the transformation scene, with the
flying fairies, costs me a couple of hundred. If
pens, ink, and paper, were as dear as wood,
paint, and canvas, I couldn't afford to pay for
authorship at all. I should have to gag it; and
'pon my word, sir, without any disrespect to
you, I think I should get on just as well."

Insult upon injury! but I bore it calmly, and
said, "I think, sir, you mentioned something
about the story of the piece??

"Ah yes, to be sure, the story; I was nearly
forgetting that. Let me see; everything's been
done so, and new things are hazardous. After
all, there's nothing like one of the good old
nursery tales; everybody knows the names of
them. What do you say to Jack the Giant
Killer?"

I said I thought it had been used very often.

"Yes, so it has; well, Mother Hubbard?"

"That has been done also, and very lately."

"True; the year before last. Then Red
Riding Hood. But now I remember that was
done last year. Everything's been done, that's
the fact. Never mind; I'll tell you what we'll
do. We'll combine two or three of them, and
make up for lack of what is new by a liberal
abundance of what is old. So let us say:
Harlequin Jack the Giant Killer; or, Old
Mother Hubbard, Little Red Riding Hood, and
the Field of Forty Footsteps. There's nothing
new now-a-days but combinations, and there
you have one;—though, by the way, you might
give it a little dash of originality by making the
number of footsteps fifty instead of forty. The
alliteration is quite as good, and it shows a
disposition on the part of the management to give
as much as possible for the money. Now, set
to work, there's a good fellow; I shall expect
the last scene in, by Saturday week."

"One word, sir, before you go. I don't quite
see my way to the—the combination."

"Not see your way to the combination?"

"Well, not exactly; how am I to connect
Mother Hubbard with Jack?"

"Nothing more easy. Make her his mother
—or, stop; say grandmother if you can get more
fun out of her that way."

"And Little Red Riding Hood, sir?"

"Jack's sister, of course; or his sweetheart;
which you like."

"And the Field of Forty Footsteps?"

"Oh, well, if you can't manage that, make it
The Thirteen Thieves, or anything that will fit
and look new. Good morning. I shall expect
you to read on Saturday week, before treasury;
not after, mind. Actors can't listen to anything
with a whole week's salary in their pockets."

And I, a poeta nascitur, was left to contemplate
the scene-plot of Harlequin Jack the
Giant Killer; or, Old Mother Hubbard, Little
Red Riding Hood, and the Field of Forty
Footsteps, and to fill it up with doggrel rhymes and
jingling puns. I went to the drawer and looked
at my tragedy in sorrow and in shame, with
iron at my soul and fetters upon my hands, for I
was tied and bound in the service of Momus. I
took my tragedy out and read a portion of it.
When I came to where Cromwell bids them
"take away that bauble," I felt that the words
were a reproach to myself. There was my bauble
lying on the table, in the shape of the scene-plot
of a Pantomime. I put "Oliver Cromwell in
five acts" away, and dragged myself in my chains
to my table. I sat down to write: "Scene First.
—Cottage of Old Mother Hubbard. Mother
Hubbard preparing breakfast. Jack asleep in bed."
It was a long time before I got any further; but
at length, after much excogitation, I succeeded in
hammering out the opening scene. I read it over
to myself aloud. Whether it was in the dialogue,
or in the manner of reading it, I don't know, but
it seemed to me that the opening scene of my
Pantomime sounded very like the opening scene
of my tragedy. Mother Hubbard's admonition
to Jack was quite in the vein of Queen
Henrietta's address to her son, Prince Charles.

I began to see that I was not equal to the
task I had undertaken. My key was a deal too
high. But how was I to lower it, to unscrew it
down to the proper pitch? I had no books of
Pantomimes to read and study, and of course
there were no Pantomimes being played in
November that I could go and see. In looking
through the theatrical advertisements in the
papers, however, I saw that a burlesque was
running at one of the houses. That was as
near an approach to a Pantomime as I could
have. I resolved to go that very evening and
study it. I went and sat for two hours in the
front row of the pit, with my chin resting on
the back of the orchestra, and my eyes fixed
on the stage. I studied the method
attentively and minutely, and, with the puns and
parodies ringing in my ears, went home to write.
With an entirely new inspiration I re-wrote the
scene between Jack and his mother, and this
time it was not so like the tragedy. Still it
seemed to be wanting in the breadth and
familiarity of expression which characterised my
model. For example, I had made Mother
Hubbard bid Jack "shake seductive slumber from
his eyes," and also inform him that "Labour
awaited him at the garden gate," expressions
which were undoubtedly neat, but not by any
means of the gaudy character which becomes a
Pantomime. A friend of great experience calling
on me while I was struggling with this difficulty,
recommended the use of the slang
dictionary, and kindly lent me a copy. The study
of this work enabled me to make great improvements
in my MS. Thus for "eyes," I wrote
"peepers;" for "head," "nut;" for "hands,"