uggest it to Mr. Rich, the
manager."

"I have not seen that: but I saw Slack and Broughton at Marybone
Gardens!" says Harry, gravely; and wondered if he had said something
witty, as all the company laughed so? "It would require no giant," he
added, "to knock over yonder little fellow in the red boots. I, for one,
could throw him over my shoulder."

"Mr. Garrick is a little man. But there are times when he looks a
giant," says Mr. Spencer. "How grand he was in Macbeth, Mr. Warrington!
How awful that dagger-scene was! You should have seen our host, ladies!
I presented Mr. Warrington, in the greenroom, to Mr. Garrick and Mrs.
Pritchard, and Lady Macbeth did him the honour to take a pinch out of
his box."

"Did the wife of the Thane of Cawdor sneeze?" asked the General, in an
awful voice.

"She thanked Mr. Warrington, in tones so hollow and tragic, that he
started back, and must have upset some of his rappee, for Macbeth
sneezed thrice."

"Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth!" cries the General.

"And the great philosopher who was standing by Mr. Johnson, says, 'You
must mind, Davy, lest thy sneeze should awaken Duncan!' who, by the way,
was talking with the three witches as they sat against the wall."

"What! Have you been behind the scenes at the play? Oh, I would give
worlds to go behind the scenes!" cries Theo.

"And see the ropes pulled, and smell the tallow-candles, and look at the
pasteboard gold, and the tinsel jewels, and the painted old women, Theo?
No. Do not look too close," says the sceptical young host, demurely
drinking a glass of hock. "You were angry with your papa and me."

"Nay, George!" cries the girl.

"Nay? I say, yes! You were angry with us because we laughed when you
were disposed to be crying. If I may speak for you, sir, as well as
myself," says George (with a bow to his guest, General Lambert), "I
think we were not inclined to weep, like the ladies, because we stood
behind the author's scenes of the play, as it were. Looking close up to
the young hero, we saw how much of him was rant and tinsel; and as for
the pale, tragical mother, that her pallor was white chalk, and her
grief her pocket-handkerchief. Own now, Theo, you thought me very
unfeeling?"

"If you find it out, sir, without my owning it,--what is the good of my
confessing?" says Theo.

"Suppose I were to die?" goes on George, "and you saw Harry in grief,
you would be seeing a genuine affliction, a real tragedy; you would
grieve to