one else; the tricks and mechanical effects
by some one else; the monstrous heads were
under some one's personal superintendence; in
short, I was struck with awe at the enormous
number of persons, each representing
departments, who had contributed to the gigantic
work. It did not occur to me at the time that
this might have been the intended effect of these
announcements. I saw, too, that the
"Choreographic arrangements" were by Miss
Robespierre, of the Royal Conservatoire, Brussels, and
that the ballet would be full and efficient. And
then the scenes, each so lusciously described!
There was the interior of Mother Bunch's
Cottage, with old Mother Bunch herself, and
other characters with delightful names. Then,
came the Fairies' Glade and Bowers of Pastoral
Delight; then, a room in the king's palace; and
so on— until we reached the " Matchless
Transformation Scene!" Then I saw that the
"Unrivalled Merlini Family were engaged to give
due effect to the Harlequinade." I may say
many hours of the day were consumed in
devouring this enchanted document. It was a
nervous time. Even so early as noon, I and the
boy who was my contemporary began to have
uneasy apprehensions as to being late, and
moved about in a restless troubled way. At
four o'clock, too long restrained by judicious
remonstrance, it was resolved to commence the
toilette for the night. This, it need scarcely be
said, was on a splendid scale: the appointments
and properties being of the most sumptuous
description. Dinner was a pure feint. I almost
felt indignant with Honest John Plusher for
the calm and unfeeling manner— the as it were
purposely protracted fashion— in which he
consumed his food. At last the moment came;
the cab was at the door, and we— I and the
Contemporary Boy rushed down with a cry of
relief.

Five of us in all— John Plusher, Mrs. John,
the Contemporary Boy, and a male friend of
habitual good spirits— all went in, or on, the
cab; for the Contemporary Boy was put outside
with the coachman. We were hours getting to
the Palace of Enchanted Delights (I believe the
time consumed was a little over ten minutes),
but we did get there at last. A stately building,
with columns, lights, an air of excitement, and,
oh! light bursting from within, and the old
delicious inexpressible fragrance of commingled
gas, damp sawdust, and squeezed orange-peel.

But when we trod the Gallery of Enchantment,
dotted round with scarlet doors, each with a sort
of peep-show glass inserted, and met crowds of
delighted creatures tramping round like ourselves
in a disordered procession, and who were
gradually let in at the little red doors, and when
Mr. Warbeck, one of the most polite and
first-gentlemanly of creatures, whose manners seemed
to me the true ideal of all that was courtly and
gracious, came in a hurry with keys, and threw
open for us a little door (some previous
confidential solemnities having passed between him
and Cousin John), then I and the Contemporary
Boy rushed headlong and tumultuously down to
the very front row into the very bosom of the
theatre. Theatre! Far too earthy a word. Soft
realms of celestial light, happiness, and joy!
The light ambrosial— the gay colours of Paradise
— and bright circles, not surely of men, women,
little girls and little boys, but of men, women,
and children glorified. It was the all-suffusing
light that did it.

There was a play. Not yet had fashion
swept away the old custom of introducing the
festival with some sound fruity old comedy
of a didactic sort— even with the story of the
unhappy 'prentice of the name of Barnwell.
Barnwell was not to-night; but a delightful
drama, softly mysterious and absorbing— The
Castle Spectre! Ever welcome, even now,
when the sense of romance has grown dull
and the varnish is scoured off. What an
interest in that artfully-constructed story! How
grand the chief villain, Earl Osman, in the white
furred cloak; and, as a picture of unscrupulous
ferocious obedience, how wonderful the faithful
black— Hassan, I believe, was his name. And
the Castle! And the Friar! And the comic
person! And Angela— the persecuted Angela! And
the escape through the window when the blacks
were absorbed in dice! And the Spectre! And
the music!

But what were these pleasures to what was to
come, when the overture to Harlequin Fata
Morgana struck up, and all the funny tunes I had
heard on the organs came artfully stealing in,
popping up one after the other like old friends
playing us tricks. And then, when the last
chord had sounded, and the curtain drew up
slowly, and revealed the interior of Old Mother
Bunch's Cottage, with implements of cookery on
a gigantic scale, and an enormous kitchen-range,
with a gigantic cat sitting by the fire, and Old
Mother Bunch herself— a terror-inspiring creature
in a peaked witch's cap— I say, when we saw
this prelude, forthwith I and the Contemporary
Boy became fascinated, enthralled, bewildered,
and drawn into one absorbing devouring gaze
towards the stage. Round and round about us
were little heads, peering, I now recollect, just
over the edge of the boxes; and below the little
heads wore bits of bright scarlet border and velvet
jackets; and when the cat ambled about, or
scratched its ear, after the manner of real cats,
the little heads shook, and were agitated brightly,
like silk shot with silver, and round us rang out
the music of laughter in a high key. But for me
it was otherwise— it was too delightful, too
seriously absorbing to laugh at. And now—
Mother Bunch's home dividing in two, and sliding
away with all the monster kitchen utensils
— to the right and left, breaks upon us the
Glittering Glade of the Fairies, and the Valley
of Golden Foliage! And with the appearance of
that dazzling retreat, and seat of exquisite
delight, came my Fate.

Only think! A glade whereof the trees and