an embryo of comicality, and, in its  progress
towards the glory of full-blown pantomimehood,
watch the labours of the Ants behind
the Baize—ants, without exaggeration; for, if
ever there was a human ant-hill, the working
department of a theatre is something of that
sort.

And mere amusement—your mere
enlightenment on a subject, of which my
readers may possibly be ignorant, are not
the sole objects I have in view. I do
honestly think that the theatrical profession
and its professors are somewhat calumniated;
that people are rather too apt to call theatres
sinks of iniquity and dens of depravity, and
to set down all actors as a species of diverting
vagabonds, who have acquired a knowledge
of their calling without study, and exercise it
without labour. I imagine, that if a little
more were known of how hard-working,
industrious, and persevering theatricals, as a
body, generally are, — of what has to be done
behind the scenes of a theatre, and how it is
done for our amusement, — we should look
upon the drama with a more favourable eye,
and look upon even poor Jack-pudding (when
he has washed the paint off his face) with a
little more charity and forbearance.

Fortunio-capped, then, we stand in the
green room of the Theatre Royal, Hatton
Garden, one bleak November morning, while
the stage manager reads the manuscript of
the opening to the new grand pantomime of
Harlequin Fee-fo-fum. The dramatic
performers — the pantomimists are not present
at this reading, the lecture being preliminary,
and intended for the sole behoof of the working
ants of the theatrical ant-hill —the fighting
ants will have another reading to themselves.
This morning are assembled the scene-painter,
an individual bespattered from head to foot
with splashes of various colours, attired in a
painted ragged blouse, a battered cap, and
slipshod slippers. You would be rather
surprised to see him turn out, when his work is
over, dressed like a gentleman (as he is, and an
accomplished gentleman to boot). Near him
is the property-man, also painted and
bespattered, and strongly perfumed with a
mingled odour of glue and turpentine. Then
there is the carpenter, who twirls a wide-
awake hat between his fingers, and whose
attire generally betrays an embroidery of
shavings. The leader of the band is present.
On the edge of a chair sits the author—
not necessarily a seedy man, with long hair
and a manuscript peeping out of his coat-
pocket — but a well-to-do looking gentleman,
probably; with rather a nervous air just
now, and wincing somewhat, as the droning
voice of the stage manager gives utterance to
his comic combinations, and his creamiest
jokes are met with immovable stolidity from
the persons present. Catch them laughing!
The scene painter is thinking of "heavy sets"
and " cut cloths," instead of quips and conundrums.
The carpenter cogitates on " sinks"
and "slides," "strikes" and " pulls." The
property-man ponders ruefully on the immense
number of comic masks to model, and coral
branches to paint ; while the master and
mistress of the wardrobe, whom we have
hitherto omitted to mention, mentally cast up
the number of ells of glazed calico, silk, satin,
and velvet required.  Lastly, enthroned in
awful magnificence in some dim corner, sits
the management—a portly, port-wine-voiced
management, may be, with a white hat, and a
double eye-glass with a broad ribbon. This
incarnation of theatrical power throws in an
occasional " Good ! " at which the author
colours, and, sings a mental poean, varied by
an ejaculation of " Can't be done ! "' — at
which the dramatist winces dreadfully.

The reading over, a short, desultory
conversation follows. It would be better, Mr.
Brush, the painter, suggests, to make the
first scene a " close in," and not a " sink."
Mr. Tacks, the carpenter — machinist, we
mean — intimates in a somewhat threatening
manner, that he shall want a " power of nails
and screws; " while the master of the wardrobe
repudiates, with respectful indignation,
an economical suggestion of the management
touching the renovation of some old ballet
dresses by means of new spangles, and the
propriety of cutting up an old crimson velvet
curtain, used some years before, into costumes
for the supernumeraries. As to the leader of
the band, he is slowly humming over a very
"Little Warbler " of popular airs, which he
thinks he can introduce; while the stage
manager, pencil in hand, fights amicably with
the author as to the "cuts" necessary to
make the pantomime read with greater
smartness. All, however, agree that it will
do; and to each working ant is delivered a
"plot " of what he or she has to manufacture
by a given time (generally a month or six
weeks from the day of reading). Mr. Brush
has a " plot " of so many pairs of flats and
wings, so many " borders " and set pieces, so
many cloths and backings. Mr. Tacks has a
similar one, as it is his department to prepare
the canvasses and machinery on which Mr.
Brush subsequently paints. Mr. Tagg, the
wardrobe keeper, is provided with a list of
the fairies', demons', kings', guards', and
slaves' costumes he is required to confectionner;
and Mr. Rosin, the leader, is presented
with a complete copy of the pantomime itself,
in order that he may study its principal
points, and arrange characteristic music for
it. As for poor Mr. Gorget, the propertyman,
he departs in a state of pitiable
bewilderment, holding in his hand a portentous
list of properties required, from regal crowns
to red-hot pokers. He impetuously demands
"How it's all to be done in a month ? "
Done, it will be, notwithstanding. The stage
manager departs in a hurry (in which stage
managers generally are, twenty hours out of
the twenty-four), and, entrapping the Clown
in the passage (who is an eccentric character