“Our genius flutters with the plumes of youth,
  But observation wings to steddy truth.”

No one can resist telling another story, this time of fat Charles Hulet, whose abilities were only equalled by his corpulence.  Having been apprenticed to a bookseller, he straightway proceeded to take a violent interest in the drama, and would often while away the evenings by spouting Shakespeare and other authors.  In lieu of a company to support him young Hulet would designate each chair in the kitchen to represent one of the characters in the play he was reciting.  “One night, as he was repeating the part of Alexander, with his wooden representative of Clytus (an old elbow-chair), and coming to the speech where the old General is to be kill’d, this young mock Alexander snatch’d a poker instead of a javelin, and threw it with such strength against poor Clytus, that the chair was kill’d upon the spot, and lay mangled on the floor.  The death of Clytus made a monstrous noise, which disturbed the master in the parlour, who called out to know the reason; and was answered by the cook below, ’Nothing, sir, but that Alexander has kill’d Clytus.’”

* * * * *

In latter days Hulet took great pride in the sonorous tones of his voice, and loved nothing more dearly than to steal up behind a man and startle the unsuspecting one by giving a very loud “Hem.”  It was a “Hem,” however, which helped to make the actor’s winding-sheet, for one fine day he repeated the trick, burst a blood-vessel, and died within twenty-four hours.

Heaven bless all these merry vagabonds!  We may not always wish to follow in their footsteps, but we like to keep near them and pry into their careless, happy lives.  When the Bohemians enter a pot-house we are too virtuous, presumably, to go in likewise, but we stand without, to get a tempting whiff of hot negus and a snatch of some genial jest or tuneful song.  Then, if our players stray, perchance, into the gloomy precincts of a pawn-shop, are we not quite prepared to steal up to the window and discover what tribute is being paid to mine uncle?  And so, speaking of pot-houses, and negus, and pawn-shops, let us end our extracts from the invaluable Chetwood with this unconventional reminiscence of another player, Mr. John Thurmond.  It was a custom at that time for persons of the first rank and distinction to give their birthday suits to the most favoured actors.  I think Mr. Thurmond was honoured by General Ingolsby with his.  But his finances being at the last tide of ebb, the rich suit was put in buckle (a cant word for forty in the hundred interest).  One night, notice was given that the General would be present with the Government at the play, and all the performers on the stage were preparing to dress out in the suits presented.  The spouse of Johnny (as he was commonly called) try’d all her arts to persuade Mr. Holdfast, the pawnbroker (as it fell out, his real name) to let go the cloaths for that