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.