The theater rings with shouts of laughter. It is the Christmas pantomime. The clown is playing his part well when suddenly he staggers, he cries, and falls. Is this a part of the play, or is it something more than acting? The audience scarce know whether to applaud or to rush to his assistance till, carried back behind “the scenes,” he passes from their gaze a raving maniac. Screaming, foaming at the mouth, and desperately struggling, he is conveyed in a cab to the nearest hospital. Here the fit increases in intensity as, with glaring eyes and gnashing teeth, he tries to bite all who come within his reach. The poor fellow remains in this sad state until a strong electric shock brings him to his senses, and immediately standing upright upon his feet, he wonders what has taken place.
The stage, with its dazzling gas lights and merry crowd of the theater, has been changed for the quiet and sombre hospital, with a few grave and anxious faces. Trembling all over, he walks that night through the streets of London, dressed in his clown’s curious garb, with the patches of red paint still on his face. He is only, however, to enter his home, for scarce crossing its threshold, he falls down to die. His wife and daughter rush to his aid, the bystanders start aside with horror; restoratives are vain, and there, upon his own floor, he lies a corpse— a corpse arrayed in a clown’s wig and chequered clothes, with the deceiving daubs upon his cheeks, preventing the truth being discerned of their pale bloodlessness.
Death, that grim monster, with his icy hand, got a grip of his vitals, and the noise of the theater could not drown the voice of his summons, nor could its brilliant lights exclude the dark enemy. For death cares not for fancy costumes, and speaks to the pantomime actor and the pantomime admirer that there is something real behind the scenes, in spite of the shams played before them. Oh, what an unmasker death is!