circumstances. I look at her and the little
child-woman with a sort of nervous
interest, and observe that they cling to
each other, and whisper together, and
make much of one another. I imagine
some relationship between them, or at least
some strong sympathy and bond of love and
suffering, often stronger, God knows, than
ties of blood. As for the Emperor of Russia,
he feels it plainly beneath the dignity of his
boots to dance, and contents himself with an
occasional grim bow to his partner.

There is rather a hitch at the end of the
shut dence, and to say the truth, rather a
long wait before the pfrummences kmence
in the hinteriar. Perhaps the manager is
waiting for the approach of dusk, for it is
yet broad daylight; perhaps (and the noise
of some hidden hammers would seem to bear
out this view of the question) the arrangements
are not yet completed. Meanwhile
the solo on the drum is repeated, and an
overture by the whole of the orchestra (any
tune or time) and then there is another
shut dence, performed however without the
co-operation of the Emperor, who, probably
disgusted at the levity of the proceedings,
disappears altogether.

Just then I become sensible of the presence
of young Harry Bett, who is commonly
known as the Young Squire, and has made
up his mind to drain the cup of delirious
excitement known as Life in Dumbledowndeary
to the very dregs. Young Harry
has a coat with many pockets, and trousers
fitting him much tighter than his skin, and,
if the constant perusal of a betting-book
made a reading man, would take a double
first class at any university, ad eundem.
He bets freely, does young Harry, upon
fights, races, hop-harvests, trotting mares,
cribbage, boating, ratting, cricketing, and
general events. He has brought with him a
gallon of beer, in a flat stone bottle, and a
quantity of birdseye tobacco and short pipes.
He is quite an enthusiastic admirer of the
minor drama, though in rather a violent and
turbulent phase.

He startles me at first somewhat by
addressing the mighty Emperor of Russia
himself by his Christian name, and by making
derisive inquiries after his state of health.
He alarms me by gallantly offering beer to
the lady in white; by breaking into the very
marrow of Mr. Merriman's witticisms with
adze-headed jokes of his own, and by pouring
forth to me the details of an irruption
he had made into the dressing-room of
the company—which was the stage of the
theatre, indeed—and, according to his
account, presented an exactly similar appearance
to the barn made famous in Hogarth's
print.  But, when I find that his free-and-
easiness is appreciated to the fullest extent;
that Hayes evidently thinks him a bold fellow,
and Walton a dashing spirit, I begin to
think that I have been living behind the
time somehow, and that life in Dumbledowndeary
is the life for a rackety blade, after all.

Louder beats the drum, and louder still
brays the music through the inspiriting
strains of Pop goes the Weasel, which
dashing melody young Harry has called for,
and is now supposed to be heard for the first
time in Dumbledowndeary.  Hey for
dissipation!  Let us throw aside the
conventionalities of society and be gay and rackety
with a vengeance. We spurn the inclined
plane, with its servile battens nailed across,
and enter the Theatre Royal by the side-
door, when we immediately assume nine
points of the law— possession of a front seat
—supposed to form part of the boxes; young
Harry sternly tendering the gallery price,
threepence, which after some demur is
accepted by the Tartar Bride, who appears
to be Argus-eyed; for though taking money
at the gallery door outside, she spies us in
the boxes, and is literally down upon us in a
twinkling.

During an interval of from ten to fifteen
minutes, some twenty score of our population
come tumbling into the theatre. There is
nothing but a coarse canvas covering,
supported on poles, overhead, rough deal planks
on tressels to sit upon, and the bare grass
beneath. The theatre is— well, not
brilliantly, but— lighted with somebody's patent
gas, which appears to be a remarkably pitchy
compound, flaring away in tin cressets. We
make ourselves very comfortable, however,
with the gallon of beer (which young Harry
liberally dispenses to his neighbours), and
the tobacco-pipes, while above us rise tiers of
seats occupied by brick-makers, ballast-
heavers, sand-men, farm-labourers, nursery-
maids, decent young women (and in that respect
my Dumbledowndeary is a very coronal of
jewels of pure water), bargemen, boatmen,
preventive men, children and dogs. You would
be puzzled to find a more motley assemblage
at any other theatre in England, major or
minor. The aristocracy of the place, such as
the butcher, the farmers, and two or three
worthy landlords, do not hold aloof from the
entertainment altogether, but they are bashful,
and will drop in by and by.

All in, and all ready to begin— in front, at
least— though by a continued hammering
behind all does not seem quite ready there.
I see Mr. Merriman and the Turk in anxious
confabulation over an old hat; which, from
its tinkling when moved, I conjecture must
contain coppers. Those coppers must be the
receipts, and Merriman and the Moslem
must be Hayes and Walton. The
convex-headed young lady (who is otherwise
attired as a coryphée), laboriously brings
down the much-enduring drum; and, placing
it before that part of the proscenium where
the orchestra should be but is not, grasps
the sticks in her tiny little hands and begins
battering away at it afresh. I begin to grow
very sick of this very long wait, likewise of