the aid of his glasses, can recognize objects at a distance; and as the Hamlet of the night is decidedly Teutonic in his appearance and pronunciation, he has no great relish for the Star, nor a hand of applause to bestow on his genius.  Hamlet, he is sure, never articulated with a coarse brogue.  So turning from the stage, he amuses himself with minutely scanning the faces of the audience, and resolving in his mind that something will turn up in the grave-digger’s scene, of which he is an enthusiastic admirer.  It is, indeed, he thinks to himself, very doubtful, whether in this wide world the much-abused William Shakspeare hath a more ardent admirer of this curious but faithful illustration of his genius.  Suddenly his attention seems riveted on the private box, in which sits the stately figure of Madame Montford, flanked in a half-circle by her perfumed and white-gloved admirers.  “What!” exclaims the old man, in surprise, rubbing and replacing his glasses, “if I’m not deceived!  Well-I can’t be.  If there isn’t the very woman, a little altered, who has several times looked into my little place of an evening.  Her questions were so curious that I couldn’t make out what she really wanted (she never bought anything); but she always ended with inquiring about poor Mag Munday.  People think because I have all sorts of things, that I must know about all sorts of things.  I never could tell her much that satisfied her, for Mag, report had it, was carried off by the yellow fever, and nobody ever thought of her afterwards.  And because I couldn’t tell this woman any more, she would go away with tears in her eyes.”  Mr. McArthur whispers to a friend on his right, and touches him on the arm, “Pooh! pooh!” returns the man, with measured indifference, “that’s the reigning belle of the season-Madame Montford, the buxom widow, who has been just turned forty for some years.”

The play proceeds, and soon the old man’s attention is drawn from the Widow Montford by the near approach to the scene of the grave-digger.  And as that delineator enters the grave, and commences his tune, the old man’s anxiety increases.

A twitching and shrugging of the shoulders, discovers Mr. McArthur’s feelings.  The grave-digger, to the great delight of the Star, bespreads the stage with a multiplicity of bones.  Then he follows them with a skull, the appearance of which causes Mr. McArthur to exclaim, “Ah! that’s my poor Yorick.”  He rises from his seat, and abstractedly stares at the Star, then at the audience.  The audience gives out a spontaneous burst of applause, which the Teutonic Hamlet is inclined to regard as an indignity offered to superior talent.  A short pause and his face brightens with a smile, the grave-digger shoulders his pick, and with the thumb of his right hand to his nasal organ, throws himself into a comical attitude.  The audience roar with delight; the Star, ignorant of the cause of what he esteems a continued insult, waves his plumes to the audience, and with an air of contempt walks off the stage.