round the dead body, chanting the ghastly
De Profundis, as the curtain came down like
a huge pall, and the audience scarcely dared to
break the almost painful silence by the burst
of applause for the magnificence of the
representation

I was sitting that night—it was well
advanced—in the coffee-room of an adjoining
hotel where everybody was talking about
the fire; and one man, who, I was certain,
had not been there at all, was informing an
admiring circle, how he believed he had
saved the music-room, by directing the firemen
to play on it. (We all know how
amateurs' directions are likely to be received
by the brigade, at the height of a great
conflagration.) I was sitting here, I say, listening,
like everybody else, more to the general
topic than to a lyrical chronicle of how
''the hardy Norseman's house of yore " had
ruled the stormy sea, which was being sung
at the end of the room—when an esteemed
friend, who had been more concerned in the
calamity than most people, suggested that we
should go and see the ruins at night. He was
in authority. The policemen put the crowd
on one side, and touched their hats as we
passed; the firemen cautioned us not to
tumble over the hose, and the superintendent
directed us to the best point of view, which
was in Hart Street, with an intimation not
to keep there longer than we could help, as
the huge back wall of the theatre was already
giving.

Impressive as the sight had been in the
day-time, it was nothing compared to that
now before us. We were at the extreme
back of the stage, looking right over the
glowing area of the entire building to the
southern wall, against which the coats and
bonnets used to hang on the left of the pit-
entrance in Bow Street. A stranger would
not have discovered one single object whereby
to trace the different portions—stage, auditory,
or approaches—of what had once been
the theatre; all was destroyed! I had
never seen so vast a ruin. It reminded me—
as it did many others—of the Colosseum.
Indeed, it could be compared to little else;
nothing in Pompeii would have over-topped
the first-floor. Every combustible remnant
was still a-light. Flames were creeping out
from crevices high up in the walls, as they do
from large pieces of coal when it first breaks.
The Queen's Entrance was still literally a
bonfire, and every now and then a burning beam
came down and a large and momentary
firework of sparks and stars marked its fall.
But it was on the ground that the most
startling effect was produced. The entire
area formed a black plot, so to speak; from
which arose countless points of light, that
I could compare to nothing better than
crocuses of fire. There were myriads and
myriads of these beaks of flame and of all
colours—red, and blue, and bright green, and
yellow—twinkling about as one has observed
in illumination-lamps put on the ground at
public-gardens.  Now and then, as the hose
of some engine deluged them, a great
black void appeared, and this could be
traced, as the stream fell, all across the
ground.  But it burst out again in a minute.
By-standers suggested it was the coloured
fires used in the theatre which produced this
effect; but they were wrong. The intense
heat and the water together had given rise
to many chemical combinations that tinged
the flames, to which the mineral colours used
in distemper painting largely contributed.

Preceded by a fireman, with a lantern, we
entered the old box-office, and then went
along the ruins parallel with Bow Street,
until we came to the grand entrance. The
magnificent staircase was covered with the
same crocus-like lights, and edged by split
and broken columns, like cemetery
monuments. The hall where the footmen were
accustomed to wait was choked up with
beams, joists, twisted gas-fittings, bits of
scorched red fabric—half cloth half tinder—
puddles of water and ashes, and now and
then showers of fire from embers high
above. Add to this the cries of the firemen,
the measured double-beat of the engines, the
hissing and slapping of the water as it flew
against the walls, and an occasional explosion
in the interior, and it will be perceived
that no ordinary sight presented itself.

"This is a sad sight, sir," said an old
professional, who, wrapped in one of those cloaks
peculiar to his calling, was watching the
crocuses like myself. " It would have broken
poor Mr. Kemble's heart. I was saying
to-day, I met him coming out of this very
door when Mr. Albano's men began to alter
the house in 'forty-seven, and he said he had
been to see the last of poor Covent Garden,
and appeared completely upset. But he
never thought it would have an end like
this!"

I left the spot, for it was now very late,
and walked home alone, pondering on the
actor's words; for they had given rise to
another train of recollections. Covent Garden
was the first theatre I had ever been taken
to. I was put to bed in the middle of the
day, the better to enable me to face the late
hours; and I saw King Lear and Cherry and
Fair Star; but all I can recollect was that
I was taken into the saloon to have a glass of
wine and water and a macaroon between
the plays, and that there was a large ship
with spangled sails, which, I have always had
an impression, sailed right round the pit;
but this must have been a confusion of ideas
resulting from the utter bewilderment in
which I passed the evening.

But I had clearer notions of many other
later and pleasant things—of being over
head and ears in schoolboy-love with Fanny
Kemble, and saving four weeks' allowance to
go to the gallery, and see her in Juliet; and,