Railly, Master Jackimo, I'm quite ashamed on your laziness! you only gits up to lie down, and only lies down to git up! and, instead of making your bow to the ladies and gentlemen, and holding out your cap to catch the coppers, you are everlastingly a-doing o' nuffin but pulling up your shirt-collar, and cracking o' nuts. Havn't I treated you more like a relation than a monkey—giving you the best of advice? But if ever I find you at your old fun ag'in, as sure as my name's Blinking Billy, I'll take off your goold scarlet waistcoat!”
This was addressed by an itinerant musician, in a shocking bad hat, with a garnish of old red cotton nightcaps, to his mendicant monkey, that he had perched upon Whittington's Stone for the purpose of taking him more conveniently to task.
The offender was of a grave aspect, with a remarkably knowing look. He was dressed en militaire, with an old-fashioned scarlet waistcoat embroidered with tinsel, of which he seemed monstrously vain. He listened with becoming seriousness to the musician's expostulation, slyly reserving in the corner of his jaw a nut that he deferred to crack till opportunity should offer. But at the threat of losing his red waistcoat, he gibbered, chattered, and by every species of pantomimical begging and bowing, promised future amendment.
Had not the mind of Uncle Timothy been too much occupied with recent events, he would have scraped acquaintance with monkey and man, who were evidently eccentrics, and Uncle Tim was a lover of eccentricity. The moment that the monkey spied a customer, he began his work of reformation, by jumping off the stone, running the full tether of his chain, making a graceful bow, and holding out his cap for a contribution. His politeness was rewarded with sixpence from Uncle Timothy, and an approving word from his master; and the middle-aged gentleman, serenaded by a passing grind from the barrel-organ, walked slowly on.
A caravansary of exhibitors bound to Bartholomew Fair had halted at Mother Red Cap's, * an ancient hostelrie at the foot of Highgate Hill. Although weary and parched with thirst, Uncle Timothy might probably have journeyed onward, had not the “beck'ning ghost” of jovial John.
Backster, * flitting in the evening grey, motioned him, in imagination, to enter.
He made his way to the low-roofed side parlour, where were assembled a troop of showmen and conjurors. One fellow was busily employed in shaving a baboon, ** which he intended to exhibit as a fairy; and another was rasping the rough chin of a muzzled bear, that bore the operation with exemplary patience, sitting in an arm-chair, dressed in a check waiscoat and trowsers, in his professional character of an Ethiopian savage!
A conjuror was looking at a large dragon-fly through a magnifying glass, to see how it would pass off for the great high German higher-flighter; and the proprietor of an aviary was supplying a young blackbird with an artificial comb and wattles of red velvet, to find a customer for him as the great cocky, or olla bird of the desert. A showman was mending the fractured bridge of Mr. Punch's nose, while his stage-manager tried a new tail on the devil. *
The master of the monster tea-kettle, who had recently been “up the spout,” was tricking out his red-haired, strapping Dulcinea with peacocks' feathers, bits of stained glass, catskins, strips of coloured leather, and teaching her to sing some unintelligible gibberish, for the purpose of extracting from the Bartholomew Fair gulls a penny for the prodigious sight of a real wild Indian. A mermaid was in process of completion; a dog was practising a minuet, to see how his fifth leg fitted him; a learned pig * was going through his lesson in numbers and cards; a cat of extraordinary intelligence was feeding a kitten with starch, to make it stand upright; and a monkey instructing an intellectual goose how to carry a pair of miniature milkpails.
A poetical licensed victualler had just painted on his board, which was emblazoned with the sign of the Griffin and
Hoop, the following lines in capitals,
“I, John Stubbs lyveth hear,
Sels goode Brandy, Gin, and Bere,
I maid mi borde a leetle whyder,
To let you nowe I sels goode Syder:”
the lines, like the liquors, being composed by the said John Stubbs! A giant, * well padded out, was adding some inches to his stature by a pair—
—of German hogloshes, with extra high heels; a fresh water sailor, with one eye, and one leg, had a seal that exhaled an odour “most ancient and fish-like a ballad-singer was whitening his head with chalk, * and several poor Italian boys, with tortoises, squirrels, monkeys, and white mice, were jabbering away their patois in a corner with great animation.
One lively little fellow, the lion of the party, with brilliant black eyes, ivory teeth, and a dark brown complexion, tinged with the bright warmth of an Italian sun, who bore on his shoulder a frolicksome marmoset * that he had been teaching to leap through a hoop, amused his companions with a ditty that he had picked up on his journey hither from the pleasant valleys of his father-land.
The person of Uncle Timothy was imposing; and the superfine broad cloth and brass buttons of Mr. Rumfit had invested it with a magisterial character that caused a sudden movement among the exhibitors when he entered their sanctorum. But the middle-aged gentleman soon convinced them that he was a man of humanity, and no magistrate; which quieted the alarms of both men and monkeys; and so gracious were his looks and demeanour, that the shaved bear, which had viewed him with scowling distrust, no longer kept aloof, but proffered his shaggy paw for a shake. At this moment the lecturing musician entered the room, and Jackimo, recognising his benefactor, jumped from the organ, ran up to him, doffed his cap, and made his best bow! Uncle Timothy and his company being now upon terms, he ordered in biscuits for the monkeys, and buns for the bears; not forgetting some nuts for his friend, who waited for the musician's nod before he cracked one of them. He then inquired of the bear-ward what his four-footed companion would like to drink? Upon which the keeper consulted his oracle, and received for reply, that a jug of homebrewed, with a toast and sugar, would be supremely acceptable! Uncle Timothy started, conceiving Bruin to have suddenly become possessed of Balaam's miraculous quality: but the mystery was soon explained; the keeper being a ventriloquist, and this one of his Bartlemy Fair tricks.
“Pray gentlemen,” said Uncle Timothy, “by what means do you make these animals so apprehensive and docile? I fear there is some cruelty in the case.”
“No cruelty at all, good sir,” replied the lecturing musician, who was the organ of the company.
“It is your Smithfield drovers and butchers as is cruel! We don't larn our hanimals to dance on red-hot iron plates, as our aunt's sisters (ancestors?) did. Now that 'ere monkey o' mine; never was sich a wain little cove! It costes me a fortin in starch to stiffen his shirt collars; and if any on'em is in the least limp, my wig! he chatters, grins, and gies himself all the airs and graces of a fine lady. Sometimes I larn him his dooty by long lessons and short commons; sometimes I threatens—only threatens!—(but that in your honour's ear, for he's a-listening all the while!) to tip him monkey's allowance (shaking ferociously a very thin cane); but when I want to touch his feelings, I says, 'Jackimo, you're a good-for-nuffin little monster, and I'll walk off your red waistcoat!'”
“But the monkey and the bear, how relish they the razor?”
“Kindly, sir, kindly!” replied the Bruin shaver. “At first my old feller was summut rough and ugly; his beard turned the hedges of three oyster-knives afore I could trim him into a gentleman. But now he sees the advantage on it. Don't you, my daisy?”
The bear, after the fashion of the Irish echo, was made to ventriloquise in a growl, gruffly, “I does, my tulip!”
The several rehearsals being over, and all things put in order for their approaching campaign, the exhibitors were about to depart, when it occurred to Uncle Timothy that he had not paid his footing for being admitted behind the scenes. He addressed the real wild Indian, and begged her to call for what best pleased her palate; which call resolved itself into a rasher on the coals, a rummer of nutbrown, and a thimblefull of brandy to keep off the spasms. She was then escorted to her tea-kettle, and put under cover for the night. The bear and the monkey having been similarly disposed of, their respective shavers made merry with the rest of the show-folk. Uncle Timothy took the little Italian boys under his care, and feasted them plenteously. At this moment a rival tea-kettle drew up, with a caravan in the rear.
“Pray, madam,” said a tragedy queen, peeping through a bit of ragged green curtain that depended before the entrance to the tea-kettle, to a dwarf in the caravan, “do you put up at Mother Red Cap's?”
“Not I, madam,” responded the Lilliputian lady; “I stops at the Robin Hood * at merry Hoxton; * none but the lower orders stops at Mother Red Cap's!”
And the caravan moved on as fast as the wall-eyed anatomy of a Rosinante could drag it.
The rival tea-kettle poured out part of its contents in the person of a long, lean man, with all his limbs rambling; no way reduceable to compass, unless you doubled him up like a pocket-rule. His wardrobe was illustrative of Jew frippery and Rag-Fair tawdry. He was tricked out in the relics of a ci-devant shirt; his coat was a patchwork quilt, his waistcoat and pantaloons were the sign of the chequers, an escutcheon quartering all the colours of the rainbow.
“In his hand
A box he bore, wherein the pungent dust
Of Dutch rapee, in gaudy state reclin'd.
Oft would he ope the lid, and oft immerge
His fingers,”
for the purpose of exciting an agreeable titillation in a very sharp nose, that blushed like a corn-poppy.
“A glass of cold water, warm without sugar, Lady Teazle? or a strip of white satin and bitters, my Belvidera? A pint of half-and-half in the pewter, my Calista? or a tumbler of cold without, Mrs. Longbow?”
“D'ye think, Mr. Bigstick, I'm a rhinoscheros, a river-oss, or a crocodile? Order me a pot of hot coffee and buttered toast; and mind, Mr. Bigstick, let it be buttered on both sides.”
This dialogue was carried on between the long lean man and an invisible sharp-voiced personage in the tea-kettle.
“Coffee and toast for the tea-kettle,” shouted the waiter.
“How many?” demanded mine host.
“Four. Lady Teaser, Belvideary, Miss Cannister, and Mrs. Longbow.”
“Mort de ma vie!” ejaculated the long lean man. “For one!—In the Tumbletuzzy all these characters are combined. And, garçon, bring me a basin of tea and a—biscuit.”
The frugal refection was laid before the lean man. “Cat-lap base!” he muttered, swallowing the scalding hot bohea, that was strongly impregnated with Sir Hugh Middleton, and champing the dry biscuit.
“Another round of toast for Lady Teaser!”
“Buttered on both sides,” growled the lean man, sarcastically; and he began to number with his skinny fingers, as if counting the cost.
Uncle Timothy was the last person in the world to flout a threadbare coat, because it is threadbare, or take a man for a sharper because he happens to be sharp-witted or sharp-set. Your full-fed fool he thought quite as likely to have nefarious designs on his purse, as the hungry humorist who at once lets you into the secret of his starvation. If he be deserving as well as poor, it was gratifying to Uncle Tim that he had made honest poverty forget its privations for a season; and should he prove a shirking idler on the pavé—, he had not been taken in at any vast expense. Reflections like these crossed his mind—and he left the room.
On his return, he found the lean man still counting with his fingers. Presently the waiter spread the table with a snow-white cloth; the clattering of knives and forks, plates and spoons, roused the lean man from his reverie; he gazed wistfully at the preparations, and looked thrice famished.
There is a story of a tyrant, who, to add to the natural torments of starvation, caused a roast chicken to be suspended every day before the prison bars of his victim, until he expired. Just such a tormentor, unwittingly, was Uncle Timothy. For the garçon again appeared, bearing a dish of broiled ham and poached eggs, the sight and aroma of which seared the eye-balls and tantalised the pinched nostrils of the lean man. At the same moment, “Another round for Lady Teaser!” tolled a twopenny knell in his ears.
“My friend not arrived yet?” said Uncle Timothy.
“No, sir,” replied the garçon slyly, but respectfully.
“Let him pay, then, for his want of punctuality. I wait for nobody. Will you, sir,” politely addressing the lean man, “do me the favour to be my guest? Though I have ordered supper for two, I cannot command appetite for two.”
The lean man stared irresolutely at Uncle Timothy. Hunger and Pride were at fisticuffs; but Hunger hit pride such a blow in the stomach, that Pride gave up the contest.
And how gracefully did the middle-aged gentleman play the host! inviting his guest (though little invitation was needed) with the kindest words, and helping him to the daintiest morsels. And it was not until this supper-out of the first lustre had fully indulged his eating propensities, and cleared the board, that he found leisure to look up from his plate, and contemplate the execution he had done. But when a cauliflower-wigged tankard of stout crowned the repast, he pressed it with ecstasy to his lips, and sang joyously—
Porter! drink for noble souls!
Raise the foaming tankard high I
Water drink, you water think—
So said Johnson—so say I!
Let me take a Dutchman's draught—
Ha I—I breathe!—a glorious pull!
Malt and hops are British drops—
Froth for Frenchmen! Stout for Bull!
If you ask why Britons fight
Till they conquer or they die?—
Their stout is strong, their draughts are long—
Now you know the reason why.
“Lady Teaser is quite ready, sir,” said the garçon, hurriedly.
“Give my respectful compliments to Lady Teazle, and tell her ladyship that I'll kiss her superlative 'pickers and stealers' in 'the twinkling of a bed-post.'”
The garçon made another precipitate entry, with “The tea-kettle can't wait, sir!”
“A fico for the tea-kettle! It must!—it shall! With three rounds of toast buttered on both sides, and coffee à discretion, hath the Tumbletuzzy been magnificently regaled—('Marriage is chargeable!')—and shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? Your banquet, sir, hath warmed the cockles of my heart, and made my hair curl!—
When a gentleman's stomach lacks dainty fare, (Singing)
And “Cupboard I Cupboard!” it croaks in his ear,
He rejoices, i'feggs! when bacon and eggs
' Smoke on the board, with a tankard of beer.
Without much ado, his teeth fall to,
The delicate viands vanish from view;
O'er a glass of good liquor
His heart beats the quicker,
And he drinks to his kind host, as I drink to you.
There's my card—(presenting a bill of the performances)—'Bonassus Bigstick, Esq. Bartholomew Fair.' I'll put you on our free list, which to all the world, but yourself and the public press, shall be unavoidably suspended! Ha!”—(scenting a rummer of hot punch that the garçon placed before him)—“'brandy for heroes!' Welcome, old friend! for a' langsyne. Yet what is punch without a song? A clerk without a Cocker; a door without a knocker; a ship without a sailor; a goose without a tailor; a rhyme without a riddle; a bow without a fiddle; a priest without a pulpit; a stage without a full pit!—As you, sir, have been instrumental to my entertainment, let me be vocal for yours! Omnibus tulip punctum, as we say in the classics!—I'll give you an undress rehearsal of one of my crack songs for tomorrow at Saint Bartlemy.
All the world's a stage, the men and women actor folks,
Very, very tragical, or very full of fun.
Nature, in a merry mood, on some has, quizzing, crack'd
her jokes;
And Mr. Dicky Dunderhead of Dunstable is one.
Ranting, tearing, stamping, staring; Whiskerandos, Domine
Now he courts the comic muse, then ogles at Melpomene;
His funny eyes, funny mouth, funny chin, and funny
nose,
So queerly tool'd, are good as goold—and Dick the worth
of money knows!
Punch's scions, see the lions! Bartlemy, come startle
me!
Ladies and gentlemen, walk in, walk in!
Shyloçk the Jew, the Brigand, and the Blackymoor,
Nigger parlous! killing Carlos on his wedding-day;
As Mother Cole, the canting soul, he drinks a drop of
Jacky more;
As Hamlet proud, he bellows loud, and scares the
ghost away!
The pit and box to sticks and stocks his acting surely
turn'em would,
When by the train to Dunsinane comes in a gallop
Birnam Wood.
“Avaunt i you fright, and quit my sight I a stool there's
not, my trump, any;
I'll thank'e, Banky, for your room! Old Nick may have
your company!”
Punch's scions, see the lions! Bartlemy, come startle
me!
Ladies and gentlemen, walk in, walk in!
With Pantaloon and Columbine he skips, trips, and frisks
along;
Round his head spins like a top as fast as it can go:
Now he twirls his magic sword, whacks the clown, and
whisks along,
Dances on his head and hands, and jumps Jim Crow.
In his jazey, crack'd and crazy, very queer in Lear he is;
And quite as queer telling Pierre how dear his Belvi-
deary is!
“A horse! my kingdom for a horse!” if legs he can but
go on two—
Another bring—twice two is four—and, like Ducrow,
I'll crow on two.
Punch's scions, see the lions! Bartlemy, come startle
me!
Ladies and gentlemen, walk in, walk in!
O, Mr. Dunderhead; is it to be wonder-ed,
Old chap, you let Miss Capulet make love to you till
dawn?
'For when you play'd at Dunstable, and overrun the
constable,
The ladies would have pledged their hearts to take you
out of pawn.
Among the stars of Smithfield bars you'll stick so fiery
off indeed,
The deuce a bit of goose you'll get, or “Nosey! off!” *
or cough, indeed;
And if in fun for number one folks think to spend a
penny fit,
They'll come and see you off a tree the bark grin, at
your benefit.
Punch's scions, see the lions! Bartlemy, come startle
me!
Ladies and gentlemen, walk in, walk in!
The tea-kettle boiled over with rage, and demanded imperiously the immediate presence of the lean man.
“Who calls on Bigstick? As the Tumbletuzzy will brook no longer delay,
'I hold it fit that we shake hands and part.'
'To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,' you will find me at the Fair. I shall expect your promised visit.
'Adieu, adieu, adieu, remember me!'”
At this moment old blind Sally, who for more than half a century has played her way through Highgate, Holloway, and merry Islington, * tuned her hurdy-gurdy, and ground the lean man triumphantly into his tea-kettle.
Uncle Timothy was an excursive talker and walker. He had no set phrases; nothing ready-cut and dried (which is often very dry) for formal intellectual displays. When he rose in the morning, unless bound by some engagement, he hardly knew whither his footsteps would tend. He was to be seen looking into curiosity shops; rummaging old book-stalls; turning over portfolios of curious prints; stepping into an auction, a panorama, an exhibition of ancient pictures; sometimes rambling in the green fields, and not unfrequently making one of Punch's laughing audiences. It is the opinion of some would-be philosophers that their dignity is best upheld by an unbending austerity, and a supercilious contempt for whatever engaged the attention of their youth. But we tell such pretenders, that they are alike ignorant of nature and philosophy. Men of the most exalted genius have been remarkable for their urbanity, and even child-like simplicity of manners: and it was one of the many interesting traits in the author of Waverley, that, in the “sear and yellow leaf,” he had nothing of age but the name; but retained all the spirit, the romance, the gaiety of his youthful days.
The world would have called Uncle Timothy idle—but
“How various his employments, whom the world
Calls idle, and who justly in return
Esteems the busy world an idler too!”
Though the world's pursuits brought more care to the heart and profit to the purse than his own, he wished they might only prove as innocent and as honest.
Uncle Timothy had just got scent of an ancient carved figure of Falstaff, that once adorned the overhanging doorway of the Boar's Head, in East-cheap; not the original scene of revelry where Prince Hal and Sir John turned night into day. That merry hostelrie, where “lean Jack” slept on benches in the afternoon, and unbuttoned himself after supper, had been replaced by another, bearing the same immortal sign, which rose on its ruins immediately after the fire of London. The Boar's Head (which we well remember) was cut in stone, and let into the brick work under the centre window of the first floor. This house had been recently pulled down, in order to make room for the new London Bridge improvements; but Uncle Timothy heard that the figure had been carefully reserved by the proprietor, as a memorial of so celebrated a site. Thither he journeyed on a voyage of discovery. The owner of the Boar's Head had departed this life; but the neighbours referred him to a nephew, dwelling in an adjoining street, who had succeeded the old gentleman in business. The worthy tradesman received him with courtesy, and proceeded to narrate what had transpired since the demolition of the tavern. The story of the figure was strictly true. His late uncle regarded it as an interesting relic, and his widow, smitten with a kindred feeling, had retired into the country, carrying with her Sir John Falstaff; and it was not at all likely that she would relinquish possession of the fat knight, until commanded by the inexorable separatist that parts the best friends. While Uncle Timothy, on his way homeward, was whistling, not for “want of thought,” but the figure, he espied a new Boar's Head in the immediate vicinity of the old one; and, as the attraction was too powerful to be resisted, he walked in, and soon found himself in a spacious apartment, carved, fretted, and mullioned in the ancient style; the furniture was grotesquely ornamented and antique; the holly and mistletoe were disposed in various parts of the room; a huge fire blazed cheerfully; and round a massy oak table, black with age, sat Falstaff, Prince Henry, Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, Sir Hugh Evans, Justice Shallow, Poins, Peto, Touchstone, Corporal Nym, Ancient Pistol, and Lieutenant Bardolph! That “base-string of humility,” Francis, waited upon the company; and the shrill tones of Hostess Quickly were heard in an angry colloquy with the “roaring girl,” Doll Tearsheet. A boar's head with a lemon in his mouth adorned the centre of the table, and immediately before Sir John Falstaff was a magnificent bowl of sugared sack compounded by the dame n her very best humour, and not excelled by that memorable draught which the oily knight so cosily lapped down, when he swore to mine hostess, “upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in her Dolphin Chamber at the round-table, by a sea-coal fire,” that he would marry her and make her “my lady.” Every guest had a horn cup silver-mounted; and black jacks of sparkling ale, and cakes in abundance, strewed the festive board. Some racy joke on Bardolph's burning nose had just been fired off, and the company were in high merriment.
“Surely,” said Uncle Timothy to himself, “this is a masquerade. I am an unbidden guest; but the Enchanter's wand is over me, and I cannot either advance or retire.”
Sir Andrew thrummed his viol-de-gambo; and Sir Toby, having fortified himself with a long draught out of a black jack, with true heartiness of voice and gesture struck up a glee.
Sir Toby. Because some folks are virtuous, Sir John,
shall you and I
Forswear our wassail, cakes and ale, and sit us down
and sigh?
The world is still a merry world, and this a merry time;
And sack is sack, Sir John, Sir Jack! though in it tastes
the lime.
The watery eye of Sir John Falstaff twinkled with exquisite delight as he filled himself a cup of sack and responded,
There's nothing extant, Sir Toby, but cant.
A plague of all cowards! Here, Bardolph, my Trigon!
You and I will repent,
And keep a lean Lent.
Presuming it long,
Let us first have a song,
And dismally troll
It over a bowl,
To honesty, manhood, good fellowship bygone.
Pistol, my Ancient!
Pistol. I'll ne'er prove a stopper,
By my sword, that's true steel!
Bardolph. By nose, that's true copper!
Falstaff. Corporal Nym—
Nym.. In sack let me swim!
Falstaff. Gadshill and Peto—
Gadshill & Peto. Sweet wag! take our veto.
Falstaff. Motley too—
Clown. My cockscomb to you!
Falstaff. Good Justice Shallow—
Shallow. I'm true to you, “Tallow!”
Falstaff. Sir Andrew, Sir Hugh—
Sir Andrew & Sir Hugh. We'll drink as you brew!
Falstaff. Poins joins! Hal shall!
Dame Partlet the hen! Doll! Francis!—Francis. Anon!—
All. We're all your liege subjects, right glorious
Sir John!
Chorus.
The lawyer's head, and the shark's head,
The puritan parson's, and clerk's head,
Are all very well
For a shot or a shell;
Exceedingly fit
To fill up a pit!
But the head that was rear'd
When Christmas cheer'd
In the rollicking, frolicking days of yore,
When the Lord of Misrule,
The Friar and Fool,
With Robin and Marian, led the brawl,
And the hobby-horse frisk'd in the old-fashion'd hall,
Was the wassailing Head of the bristly Boar!
We are minions of the moon,
Doughty heroes, hot for fight!
May a cloud her brightness shroud,
And help us to a purse to-night.
Buckram'd varlets! coward knaves!
Angels, watches, rings unfob!—
Prince and Poins. Up with staves, and down with
braves—
We true men the robbers rob!
Touchstone. Mistress Audrey, in the dance,
With your love-lorn swain advance.
Though our carpet *s not so sheen
As shady Arden's forest green,
And the lamps are not so bright
As chaste Luna's silver light,
Nor our company so gay
As when trips the sprightly fay,
I will dance, and I will sing,
Mingling in the laughing ring.
Chorus.
Shout for the Head of the bristly Boar!
Jovial spirits, as we are now,
Did merrily bound while the cup went round
Under the holly and mistletoe bough.
Sing O the green holly! sing O the green holly!
Nothing's so sweet as divine melancholy.
Ingratitude blighting true friendships of old,
No bleak winter wind is so bitter and cold.
The room now seemed to extend in width and in length; the sounds of revelry ceased, and other characters appeared upon the scene. Lady Macbeth, her eyes bending on vacancy, her lips moving convulsively, her voice audible, but in fearful whispers, slept her last sleep of darkness, guilt, and terror. The Weird Sisters danced round their magic caldron, hideous, anomalous, and immortal! The noble Moor ended “life's fitful season,” remorseful and heartbroken. The “Majesty of buried Denmark” revisited “the pale glimpses of the moon.” Ariel, dismissed by Pros-pero, warbled his valedictory strain, and flew to his bright dwelling, “under the blossom that hangs on the bough.” The chiefs and sages of imperial Rome swept along in silent majesty. Lear, on his knees, bareheaded, with heavenward eye, quivering lip, and hands clasped together in agony, pronounced the terrible curse, and in his death realised all that can be imagined of human woe. Shylock, the representative of a once-despised and persecuted race, pleaded his cause before the senate, and lost it by a quibble. Obe-ron, Puck, and the ethereal essences of a Midsummer Night's Dream flitted in the moonbeams. Benedick and Beatrice had their wars of wit and combats of the tongue. The Lady Constance, alternately reproachful, despairing, and frenzied, exhibited a matchless picture of maternal tenderness. Juliet breathed forth her sighs to the chaste stars. Isabella read a lesson to haughty authority, when she asks her brother's forfeited life at the hands of the Duke, worthy of holy seer or sage *; and Ophelia, in her distraction, was simple, touching, and sublime.