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MERRY Christmas! A merry, merry Christmas! Sir Augustus Harris enters at the happiest period of the year. His name is positively seasonable; at Christmas he is as inseparable from pantomime as the pudding is from the table on the five-and-twentieth day of this month. After spending a considerable time with this veritable Crichton amongst theatrical managers, wandering about Covent Garden and Old Drury, and watching the elaborate preparations for pantomime, one's pen seems to run away on the heartiest of best wishes ever expressed in a trio of words—A Merry Christmas!

I had much trouble in catching Sir Augustus. He is one of the six busiest men in London. Our long interview together was held in all sorts and conditions of places; over the breakfast table at his delightful home at "The Elms,” Regent's Park, on the slopes of Primrose Hill; at the theatre, whilst he was buying rich and rare brocades, testing somebody's voice at Covent Garden, or sampling another's terpsichorean capabilities in the foyer of Drury Lane. And in all this the ex-Sheriff of London has a wonderful faculty. He can watch a couple of youngsters merrily trip a minuet, and give you at the same time unquestionable facts and figures. He seems to revel in transacting a dozen things at one and the same time, and comes through all successfully.

In appearance Sir Augustus is of medium height, stoutly built, and never at a loss for a smile. He is partially bald, but, as he declares, the hard work associated with management is sufficient to make any man lose his hair. No man has a keener eye than he; no man can scent a bargain quicker. He will bid for a voice one moment, and a