craven feeling which prompts the repudiation of
such sweet friends of one's boyhood as apple-
puff and mince-pie, I will own to a certain
degree of embarrassment in effecting the purchase
of smaller and slighter matters. Toffee I can
demand, in clear unhesitating tones; as, by a
liberal order, it may be made to look as if
intended for a neighbouring nursery. Butter-
Scotch, for the same reason, offers no
difficulty. But I will admit that, did occasion
present itself, I would prefer purchasing
barley-sugar through the intervention of an
agent.

Of the latter compound, there is a kind whose
paly gold exercises over me a remarkable
fascination. It may be that it recals certain
ringlets, of similar form and hue, that——- Well,
no matter; but she and I have eaten marmalade
from one gallipot—and these are not things
to be forgotten.

No later than yesterday, I stood gazing
irresolutely (under pretence of examining a new
coffee-mill) at a cluster of these amber delicacies,
enshrined in the usual vase of crystal. Suddenly,
a bright thought struck me. Assuming a slight
cough, I stepped in.

"Have you—have—anything that's—that's
good for—dear me!—eh—dear me!—a bad
cold?—something to——-" I pointed to my
throat, groaning.

The shopman handed me a small box; hard,
brown, and sour.

"Black-currant drops, sir? Much
recommended."

I knew them, and declined.

"Dr. Pilberrow's Nurses' Joy, sir. Sugar-
lozenges, tinctured with magnes——-".

"No, no. I wish for something—anything
you have, of a softer, more lubricating—see!
Such, for instance, as that yellowish substance,
in the long glass."

"Barley-sugar, sir? Yes, sir. How much
would you please to have, sir?"

I may be mistaken, but I fancied that the
phantom of a smile stole over that young man's
visage as he weighed me out a pound, throwing
in a little bit over.

Equally fervent, equally unswerving, has
been my attachment to that phase of dramatic
art known as Pantomime. From the Cave
of Doldrums, to the clown's final summerset,
I am a captive to the illusive scene;
bound tip with its details; laying up stores
of wisdom and prudence from its suggestive
changes.

Why do I speak of illusion? Intercourse,
for a certain number of years, with the world,
has placed me in a condition to aver that Pantomime
is truth—truth coloured, condensed,
elaborated—but truth itself. Gorgeous temples,
demanding reverence—with men behind, in
corduroys and dirty shirt-sleeves, pushing them
on; gently heaving seas, the waves (invisible)
punching each other's ribs, in a cloud of slate-
coloured dust; baronial castles, whose noble
occupants must have been content to dwell,
like chrysalids, in the interstices of the single
wall. Clowns, boisterous, mischievous,
unscrupulous; harlequins, gay, plausible, vindictive,
mysterious; columbines, fair and fickle;
pantaloons, with every attribute of age, except its
reverence; even to the lovely Queen of Fays,
who, after taking graceful leave at the close of
the introduction, reappears at the general finish,
standing on one leg above a revolving wheel,
surrounded by a green glare, changing into red,
and thence into an unpleasant smell. All these
things, only in a far less honest form, have I
encountered beyond the wall of a theatre; and
if it soothe me to sit and witness their
reproduction, under circumstances which can no
longer betray, who shall censure? I don't care
who. Today—just for today—I am a boy again,
and my two boyish fancies shall have their
ample range. I will lunch at a pastrycook's,
and I will subsequently attend a pantomime.
Yet, hold! Boys are gregarious. Is it to
renew the wholesomer part of youth, to feast and
gaze without a friend! Where shall I seek
another lad? It occurs to me, in a manner
so abrupt and singular, as to be almost worthy
of psychological analysis—had I an hour to
spare—that my excellent neighbours, Mr. and
Mrs. Tibblethwayte, are spending the Christmas
from home, unavoidably leaving three at least of
their little flock behind them. What if I obtain
them for the day and evening?

I looked at my watch. It could not yet
be their dinner-time. Their young appetites
must be in the very highest pastry condition.
I was at the house in three minutes,
requesting, with respectful compliments, audience
of Miss Cavalier, the preceptress—a lady of
infinite stiffness and inexorable will.

Reassured by the tidings that Miss Cavalier
was absent for the day, I made my way to the
school-room, and, stilling the noisy greetings,
announced to Nurse Edmonds that I required
the loan of her charges.

There was a pause of trembling expectation,
for nurse looked graver than could be
desired.

"Missis had hexpressed her wishes as the
poor little things might have a little hentertain-
nent; but, of which kind?"

"It isn't a norrery?" said Master Bobby,
with a look of dark suspicion.

I shook my head.

"Nor it isn't a fillysofical class-lecture?"
ejaculated Miss Mattie—a tear in ambush under
her eyelid, ready, in the event of an affirmative,
to dim the pretty blue.

I laughed contemptuously.

"Bosh!" said Master Augustus. " Mr.
Goodbody wouldn't take us to such rubbish as
that comes to! But it isn't 'Instructive
liddles'—eh?" the young gentleman added,
with a slight diminution of confidence.

"Nor a threepenny reading?" said Mattie.

At the last suggestion there was a subdued
but general groan.

"You don't like readings?" I asked, in
feigned astonishment.

"Not when it's such awful (word expressive