pantomime. The following year he brought out
APOLLO AND DAPHNE, with Mr. Philips as a
sort of deputy harlequin when Lun could not
play. In this piece there was an effect of the
sun rising, which was a "superb and complicated
piece of machinery," though how these
effects were produced in the pre-gaseous days
seems a mystery. Daphne was turned into a
tree in presence of the audience, which was a
good effect. The tossing of harlequin in a
blanket was a comic incident, and delighted the
galleries; but they did not see that he was
supported in two long slips all the time, so
that the tossing was only apparent.

During the season ot 1748-49, Perseus and
Andromeda was produced at Covent Garden,
with a French M. La Maze as a petit maître.
Here there was one grand scene—a dome that
rose slowly, and Perseus riding his fiery horse
in the air, and attacking the dragon. This was
done by fixing him to a revolving wheel, a
device introduced at our great theatres only a
year or two ago. One night the pulleys broke,
the wheel gave way, and Perseus was launched
down upon the stage, but without injury. The
famous bottle-conjuror hoax had attracted
attention last year, and it was forthwith imported
into the comic part of the pantomime, Harlequin
Scampedo actually going into what appeared
a quart bottle. In the Emperor of the Moon
was a "tapestry scene," in which human figures
imitated the arrangement on Bayeux and other
tapestries, a very elegant and French notion,
but quite too refined for our modern galleries.
Mrs. Woffington and Mrs. Bellamy
condescended to play in this piece, though they
refused to do so in a later one, THE FAIR,
which was a representation of Bartholomew Fair,
and written to introduce a "Turk on the wire,"
who was then the rage. When the Sorcerer was
revived at Covent Garden in 1752-53, a fountain
scene was added, the machinery of which was
considered to have surpassed anything
attempted before or since.

From that time to the present hour pantomimes
have held their ground. But gas, it may
truly be said, has been the father (and the
electric light the mother) of gorgeous modern
scenery; the coloured lights, crimson, golden,
mauve, purple, are deepening every year in
their intensity. How players keep their eyes
in such a dazzling glare is a marvel.

A good theatrical night, and a night of
enjoyment—either in tears or laughter, for
we do enjoy both—is one of the mossy
corners of memory. No entertainment
approaches it. On the other hand, where there
is desolation and failure, no fit of hypochondriacs
is so depressing. Once, in a certain
metropolis, the chief theatre was then decaying,
and its manager, as a desperate final
cast, had got up a splendid spectacle in the
hope of repairing his ruined fortunes. It was a
few nights after Christmas; but, by true theatrical
ill-luck, a great maestro, remarkable for
his showy style of conducting, who used to
seem all white waistcoat, and who at the end of
each piece would drop exhausted into a
gorgeous crimson and gold fauteuil placed beside
him, was then in the zenith ot his reputation,
and everyone was rushing and crowding
to see him—an admirable genius, who understood
his art thoroughly, though that art was
not music. On one night the present writer,
attended by a party, rushed and squeezed with
the rest to hear, or rather see, but without
success. Everything was full; everybody was
being turned away. It was a disappointment,
and there were young children dressed in all
their finery, and children's finery is synonymous
with amusement. To ask them to take it off
and think of bed would be a cruel wrong. Some
one suggests the pantomime, a proposal
welcomed with a scream of delight. That night
cannot be easily forgotten.

A large theatre, plenty of gas, plenty of
room, and the "grand spectacular pantomime
of Harlequin Boanerges" going on. New
scenery, dresses, and decorations, double comic
characters, dresses by So-and-so, masks by
So-and-so, effects by another So-and-so; yet in
spite of such attractions, here was the prospect.
A great void pile of benches, all empty and
desolate; one gentleman, a very Selkirk, alone;
in a back row, afar off, a husband and his wife.
This was the whole—pit all naked boards, as
though the floor had been pulled up, and the
joists exposed; a soldier, four or five shopmen
and shopwomen; galleries much the same. It
was the grave of a theatre, yet this was the
least dismal part. That was the stage, where
the humours of the pantomime, the large heads
and masks, the procession, the comically angry
King Roistery Boistery was raging and beating
his courtiers with bladder flappers, and
where the patient orchestra were playing their
comic music. That merriment going on
solemnly and in true business-like regularity
was the hopelessly depressing spectacle
everywhere witnessed. Even the children became
affected by the prevailing gloom; they forbore
to cackle and laugh, and looked back at their
parents and guardians with a look almost of terror.
There was no laughter. By-and-by the soldier
went out, every one staring at him, and even
King Roistery Boistery following him with looks
of reproach. We were more chivalrous, and stood
by them. Nothing was abridged. They were
as loyal to us as we to them. The comic
business, clown, harlequin, &c., set in. Their laughter
was chilling; it sounded as in a hollow
cavern. Everything droned on. It seemed
as though the audience were on the stage, and
we were playing to them. It induced sleep,
calm and untroubled, which it was impossible
to resist. At times there would come
an instinctive rousing, with the usual start,
and there was the deserted hall, and the
indistinct figures—the stage, streets, police,
crowds, and in the lonely pit the cast-away
soldier, who had come back, perhaps, out of
compassion; then the grateful slumber would
come and seal eyelids once more. It took
years and many crowded houses to get over the
impression of that night.

Who that has elaborately and studiously