nt of
Christians, (_ha! ha! ha!_) nor the gait of Christian, Pagan, nor man,
have so strutted (_bravo! little 'un!_) and bellowed, (_hit him again!_)
that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, (_who made
you?_) and not made them well, (_no, you are a bad fit_,) they imitated
humanity so abominably." (_Roars of laughter_.)

It was thus Mr. Henry Augustus Constantine Stubbs enacted Hamlet; and it
was not till the end of the fourth act that he suffered a single
observation to escape him, which indicated he thought any thing was
amiss. Then, indeed, while sitting in the green-room, and as if the idea
had just struck him, he said to Mr. Peaess, "Do you know, I begin to
think I have some enemies in the house, for when, in the scene with
Ophelia, I said, 'What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth
and heaven?' somebody called out, loud enough for me to hear him, 'Ay!
what, indeed?' It's very odd. Did you notice it, ma'am?" he continued
addressing the lady who performed Ophelia. "I can't say I did," replied
the lady, biting her lips most unmercifully, to preserve her gravity of
countenance.

This was the only remark made by the inimitable Mr. Stubbs during the
whole evening, and he went through the fifth act with unabated
self-confidence. His dying scene was honoured with thunders of applause,
and loud cries of _encore_. Stubbs raised his head, and looking at
Horatio, who was bending over him, inquired, "Do you think they mean it?"

"Lie still, for God's sake!" exclaimed Horatio, and the curtain slowly
descended amid deafening roars of laughter, and shouts of hurrah! hurrah!

The next morning, at breakfast, Stubbs found all the daily papers on his
table, pursuant to his directions. He took up one, and read, in large
letters--"THEATRE. FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE OF MR. HENRY AUGUSTUS
CONSTANTINE STUBBS IN HAMLET."

He read no more. The paper dropped from his hands; and Mr. Stubbs
remained nothing but a GENTLEMAN all the rest of his life--_Blackwood's
Mag_.

* * * * *

LINES WRITTEN AT WARWICK CASTLE.[6]

BY CHARLES BADHAM, M.D. F.R.S.

_Professor of Medicine in the University of Glasgow_.

I.

I leave thee, Warwick, and thy precincts grey,
Amidst a thousand winters still the same,
Ere tempests rend thy last sad leaves away,
And from thy bowers the native rock reclaim;
Crisp dews now glitter on the joyless field,
The gun's red di