then of very tender years, and with sensibilities
scarcely developed, the impression left had
been of something so exquisitely unearthly, so
paradisal, that I could never look back to it
without an uneasy feeling reaching nearly to
pain. I durst not dwell long upon it, as I was
accustomed to do upon other matters, in the
little apartment , under the blankets, where I used
to cover up my head. And though, knowing John
Plusher so well as I now did, I might reasonably
have expected liberal behaviour from him, still
I felt that these rarer and exquisite joys were
uncertain in their fruition, and that the cup
might be dashed from my lips at any moment. An
ill-omened rumour had reached me that my sister
— who had, very properly, influence over John
Plusher— had began to think plays sinful, and
was actually sitting under the Reverend Puncher
Hill, minister of the Little Tabernacle.

But these were idle visions. As we drove
along in the cab, I reassured myself. Not only
was I to go to the pantomime, but I discovered
by a line of adroit cross-examination, that even
my best beloved sister, Mrs. Honest John Plusher,
would likewise attend. The line of adroit
cross-examination was something after this fashion:

" I say, Cousin John"— this was not an accurate
description of the relationship, but I always
called him Cousin John—" I say, does sister like
the Reverend Puncher Hill?"

"No!" said Cousin John Plusher, with
amazement. "Not that I know of! Who is he?
Where did you pick up that name?"

"Nothing," I said, breaking down at the
opening of the adroit cross-examination, " but I
thought she went to him."

"Lord bless me, no,—at least," added John
Plusher, "not that I know of. Why should
she go to him?"

"O, to hear him," I said.

"Why should she hear him?" cried John
Plusher, a little bewildered. "What is to be
heard from him?"

"O, the pulpit," I said.

"Not she," said John Plusher; "we both go to
the parish church, to good Mr. Burkinshaw."

"O then" I said, joyfully, "she will go to the
—the—PANTOMIME." (I always felt an awful
agitation in naming this word.) And Honest
John, though scarcely seeing how this conclusion
could flow from the abstraction of the Reverend
Puncher Hill from the question, said heartily,
"To be sure she'll go; we'll all go, and make a
jolly party of it."

More than that. It was revealed presently
that a night had actually been fixed—the
following night. More again than that. Places
had been secured at the regular box-office, and
of the regular person: who sat, with mystery, in a
hutch off the street, and, strange to say, kept his
wits, and was calm, though having the prerogative
of admitting enraptured gazers to view the
delights which lay behind. John Plusher took
out a pocket-book and showed me the real
tickets—one, two, three, four, five—all pink
and stiff. There was a halo or nimbus round
each, and I handled them with reverence.
Box voucher too: "Mr. Vernon, Box
Bookkeeper." Melodious description! And then the
little note, by way of warning or caution, "Seats
will not be retained after the first act," whose
significance I could not bring home to myself
even after deep and painful thought. For how
could I realise to myself the existence of Beings
so constituted as not to arrive at the doors
of the theatre, hours before the first act had
commenced.

The interval, though dragging at times
somewhat wearily, yet, by the agency of various
Christmas joys, passed with surprising swiftness.
Some toys were brought in by Honest
John: notably a drummer who played by turning
a wire winch in the grass and gravel on which he
stood; and, more notably still, a real locomotive,
which by the agency, I believe, of secret clockwork,
flew round and round on the floor at
a frightful express pace. The sensation
produced by this ingenious effort of mechanism
was a source of unabated pleasure, until, strange
to say, after only a few hours' traffic, it broke down
(I now believe from over-winding), and never
could be got to work upon the line again.
Any attempts to repair the machinery were
only met by alarming whirring sounds from
the interior. These helped the day forward.
But, in all justice, it should be mentioned that
very much lay upon the noble foundation of all
Christmas joys—plum-pudding. The sight of
this delicacy, both cold and in fried slabs,
which were the conditions of its second visit to
John Plusher's board, did much to allay
impatience. And, indeed, so hearty was my
appreciation of its merits in the slabular shape, that I
must make the humiliating confession that I
came to regard this cherished friend, for a few
hours afterwards, with feelings of loathing and
repugnance.

I had asked John Plusher to purchase for me
a Bill of the performance, that I might study the
leading features at leisure. He had done so.
A sort of heavenly programme, printed in blue
characters, with a fragrance that seemed to exhale
from it. The blue—though it must have been
ordinary printing ink—seemed to glow with a gentle
cerulean light. Even the thin tissue paper, so
soft and gentle, as it were, was in keeping.

I read every word of it—that is, I and another
boy, Chopcross by name, who listened in stupid
wonder (and terror also, I believe) as I read
aloud to him the list of glories we were to enjoy.
It was like the music of an orchestra. The
superlatives and rapturous expressions of
personal self-laudation, in which I have since
remarked these productions indulge, were like full
chords. The name was "HARLEQUIN FATA
MORGANA; or, The Lovely Fairy Bright Eyes."
The overture and " incidental music" was by Mr.
Burchell; the "new and sumptuous scenery"
by Mr. Marsh Mallows; the costumes by some