urning 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 thum