place of work is anything but large, and
movement is rendered somewhat inconvenient,
moreover, by a number of heavy
presses, crammed to repletion with the
costumes of the establishment. Mr. Easter has
been overhauling his stock, to see what he
can conveniently use again, and what is really
wanted new. He has passed in review the
crimson velvet noblemen, the green-serge
retainers, the spangled courtiers, the glazed-calico
slaves, the " shirts," " shapes," " Romaldis,"
and "strips" of other days. He has held
up to the light last year's Clown's dress, and
shakes his head ruefully, when he contemplates
the rents and rivings, the rags and
tatters, into which that once brilliant costume
is reduced: Clown must, evidently, be new
all over. His fore-woman is busy spangling
Harlequin's patch-work dress ; while, in the
hands of his assistants, sprites and genii, slaves
and evil spirits, are in various stages of
completion. So, in the ladies' wardrobe, where
Miss de Loggie and her assistants are stitching
for dear life, at Sea-nymphs', and Sirens', and
Elfins' costume ; and where Miss Mezzanine,
who is to play Columbine, is agonizingly
inquisitive as to the fit of her skirt and
spangles.

Work, work, work, everywhere; — in the
bleak morning, when play-goers of the previous
night have scarcely finished their first sleep;
at night, to the music of the orchestra below,
and amid the hot glare of the gas. Mr. Tacks
carries screws in his waistcoat pockets, and
screws in his mouth). Mr. Gorget grows
absolutely rigid with glue, while his assistants'
heads and hands are unpleasantly enriched
with Dutch metal and foil-paper; and the
staircase is blocked up with frantic waiters
laden with chops and stout for Mr. Brush and
his assistants. The management smiles
approvingly, and winces uneasily, occasionally, as
Boxing- day draws near; the stage manager
is unceasing in his " get ons." All day long
the private door of the management is assailed
by emissaries from Mr. Tacks for more nails.
from Mr. Brush for more Venetian red and
burnt sienna, from Mr. Baster for more
velvet, from Mr. Gorget for more glue. The
management moves uneasily in its chair.
"Great expense," it says. " If it should fail ? "
"Give us more nails, hands, Venetian red,
velvet, and glue, and we'll not fail," chorus
the ants behind the baize.

Nor must you suppose that the
pantomimists — Clown, Harlequin, Pantaloon, and
Columbine — nor the actors playing in the opening,
nor the fairies who fly, nor the demons
who howl, nor the sprites who tumble, are idle.
Every clay the opening and comic scenes are
rehearsed. Every day a melancholy man, called
the répétiteur, takes his station on the stage,
which is illumined by one solitary gas jet; and,
to the dolour-music he conjures from his fiddle,
the pantomimists, in over-suits of coarse linen,
tumble, dance, jump, and perform other
gymnastic exercises in the gloom, until their bones
ache, and the perspiration streams form their
limbs.

Work, work, work, and Christmas-eve is
here. Nails, hammers, paint-brushes, needles,
muscles and limbs going in every direction.
Mr. Brush has not had his boots
cleaned for a week, and has forgotten what
sheets and counterpanes mean. No
snapdragon for Mr. Tacks, no hunt-the-slipper for
Mr. Gorget. Pleasant Christmas greetings
and good wishes, though, and general surmises
that the pantomime will be a " stunning " one.
Christmas-day, and, alas and alack! no
Christmas beef and pudding, save that from
the cook-shop, and perchance the spare repast
in the covered basin which little Polly Bruggs
brings stalwart Bill Bruggs, the carpenter,
who is popularly supposed to be able to carry
a pair of wings beneath each arm. Incessant
fiddling from the répétiteur. " Trip," " rally,"
and "jump," for the pantomimists. Work on
the stage, which is covered with canvas, and
stooping painters, working with brushes stuck
in bamboo walking-sticks. Work in the flies,
and work underneath the stage, on the
umbrageous mezzonine floor, where the cellar-
men are busily slinging " sinks " and " rises,"
and greasing traps. An overflow of properties
deluges the green room; huge masks leer
at you in narrow passages; pantomimic wheel-
barrows and barrel-organs beset you at every
step. So all Christmas-night.

Hurrah for Boxing-day! The "compliments
of the season," and the " original dustman."
Tommy and Billy (suffering slightly
from indigestion) stand with their noses glued
against the window-panes at home, watching
anxiously the rain in the puddles, or the
accumulating snow on the house-tops. Little
Mary's mind is filled with radiant visions of
the resplendent sashes she is to wear, and the
gorgeous fairies she is to see. John, the footman,
is to escort the housemaid into the pit;
even Joe Barrikin, of the New Cut, who sells
us our cauliflowers, will treat his " missus " to a
seat in the gallery for the first performance of
Harlequin Fee-fo-fum.

There — the last clink of the hammer is
heard, the last stroke of the brush, and the
last stitch of the needle. The management
glances with anxious approval at the
elaborately funny bill prepared of the evening's
entertainment. It is six o'clock in the evening.
The Clown (Signer Brownarini, of the
Theatres Royal) has a jug of barley water
made, his only beverage during his tumbling,
and anxiously assures himself that there is a
red-hot poker introduced into the comic
business; " else," says he, " the pantomime is sure
to fail." It is astonishing what a close connection
there is between the success of a pantomime
and that red-hot poker. Seven o'clock,
and one last frantic push to get everything
ready. Tommy, Billy, Mary, Papa and
Mamma, arrive in flies, broughams, or cabs.
The footman and housemaid are smiling in
the pit; and Joe Barrikin is amazingly jolly