t of the paper, where the play for the evening was
announced, and where he read, "_This evening will be acted the tragedy of
Hamlet: the part of Hamlet by a gentleman, his first appearance on any
stage._"

* * * * *

His carriage was at the door--and he told the coachman to drive down ----
street, that he might see in passing along, whether the crowd at the pit
and gallery doors, would obstruct his progress. It was not quite so large
as to stretch across the carriage road; but he was sure there were some
hundreds, though so early, and he thought they must have heard who the
"gentleman" was, that was then rolling by. He would not be positive, too;
but he could almost swear he heard an huzza, as he passed along. There
were above a dozen persons collected round the stage door; and he plainly
perceived that _they_ drew back with respectful admiration, as the new
Hamlet stepped out of his carriage.

He hastened to his dressing-room, where he found his friend, the manager,
Mr. Peaess, who shook him by the hand, as he informed him that they had
an excellent box-book. Stubbs smiled graciously; and the manager left him
with his dresser, to attire himself in his "customary suit of solemn
black." Mr. Stubbs had kept his intention of stuffing the character a
profound secret, fearful lest any technical objections should be made by
Mr. Peaess, and desirous also of making the first impression in the
green-room. When he entered it, therefore, in the likeness of a chubby
undertaker, ready for a funeral, rather than in that of the "unmatched
form and feature of blown youth"--in short, the very type and image of
poor Tokely in _Peter Pastoral_,--his eyes and ears were on the alert to
catch the look of surprise, and buzz of admiration, which he very
naturally anticipated. He was a little daunted by a suppressed titter
which ran round the room; but he was utterly confounded when his best and
dearest friend, Mr. Peaess himself, coming up to him exclaimed,--"Why,
zounds! Mr. Stubbs, what have you been doing? By ----, the audience will
never stand this."

"Stand what?" replied Henry Augustus Constantine Stubbs.

"What!" echoed the manager; "why this pot-belly, and those cherub
cheeks."

"Pooh! pooh!" replied Stubbs, "it's Shakspeare's, and I can prove it."

"You may pooh! pooh! as much as you like, Mr. Stubbs," rejoined the
manager; "but, by ----, you've made a mere apple-dumpling of yourself."

"Do you