“The pantomime dresses all come from London, and are quite handsome and costly. The piece is Whittington and his Cat, written by the stage manager here, but it is nearly all songs and dances, and what little is spoken is more gag than book. I’ve two songs in one of my parts, and one in the other. I suppose singing is easy enough when you are used to it. It is the orchestra that puts me out, though. I should feel much freer without the music. We give them plenty of topical allusions on burning local questions, being careful, of course, to follow Mr. Pickwick’s advice, and ‘shout with the crowd.’ It fetches them immensely. The enthusiasm created nightly by a reference to the new lamp-post in the High Street is tremendous.
“Our low comedian is teaching me dancing, and I practice for about an hour a day. It’s terribly hard work, but I can nearly do a hornpipe already. I want to do that: there is nothing knocks a country audience like a hornpipe.
“The stage manager is a surly fellow, of course: but the manager himself is a brick, and treats us—the actors—with as much respect as if we were stage carpenters; and money is safe. Our leading man has never turned up, so his part has been cut out, and this has not improved the plot. I play a lazy clerk in the opening (it’s like going back to the old Civil Service days), and also prime minister of Tittattoo; having only three minutes for change. I get some legitimate fun out of the prime minister, but the clerk does not require artistic acting. I pretend to go to sleep, and then the clown, who plays another clerk catches me over the head with a clapper, and then I wake up and catch him over the head with the clapper, and then he rushes at me and hits me, and I take the nap from him, and then he takes a nap from me (it wakes you up, this sort of nap, I tell you), after which, we both have a grand struggle with the cat. I fell on my head the other night (lucky it wasn’t any other part of me), and broke a chair in the course of this struggle. I got an encore for that, but didn’t take it. I suppose you might call this knockabout business. I’m glad there are none of my friends here to see me. Acting isn’t all making love in tights, and fighting with a real sword.
“We play a drama before the Panto, on Saturday next. Fancy me as the heavy father, blessing the stage manager and the leading lady, whose united ages amount to about eighty. That is what I am going to do.
“We all dined with the manager on Christmas Day at his hotel, and had a very pleasant evening, keeping it up till four. We are each of us to have a ‘ben.’ before leaving here. I was rather pleased at this when I heard it, but the others displayed no rapture. Our walking gent, told me he never lost less than thirty shillings at his benefits. I don’t think I shall take one. You pay all expenses, and have half the receipts. The attraction about it to my mind, though, is that you can put up what you like, and choose your own parts. I should like to have a try at Romeo.
“I have tasted fame and don’t like it. I have been recognized in the street, and followed by a small crowd of children. They evidently expected me to stop at some corner and sing.
“The men’s dressing-room at the theater is up in the flies, and the only means of communication with it is by a ladder. This got removed the other night, so that our low comedian couldn’t get down. We didn’t know this, however, so the Lord Chamberlain went on and said, ‘Behold your Prince approaches,’ and of course he didn’t come. So the Lord Chamberlain said it again, and the house began to laugh; and then an excited voice from above cried out, ‘Shut up, you fool. Where’s the ladder?’
“Must ‘shut up’ myself now, for it’s half-past seven, and I’m on at eight. I’m very comfortable down here. Write soon, old chap, and give us all the news. Have you seen dear little ————?”
Oh! the rest has nothing to do with theatrical matters.