"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 think so," exclaimed Stubbs, glancing in one of the
mirrors--"Well; I do assure you it is Shakspeare, and I'll prove it. But
what shall I do?" and he looked imploringly round upon the broad,
grinning countenances of the other performers.

"Do?" ejaculated Mr. Peaess; "you can do nothing now--the curtain has
been up these ten minutes; Horatio and Marcellus are coming off, and you
must go on."

At this moment the ghost of Hamlet's father entered the room, but before
he had time to look upon his son, the call-boy's summons was heard for
the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, &c., to be ready, and forth
sallied poor Mr. Henry Augustus Constantine Stubbs, to prove, if he
could, to the audience, that his rotundity was perfectly Shakspearian.

The awful flourish of drum and trumpet was sounded;--their majesties of
Denmark, attended by their train of courtiers, walked on. There is a
pause! All eyes are bent in eager gaze to catch the first glimpse of the
new Hamlet--all hands are ready to applaud. He appears--boxes, pit, and
gallery, join in the generous welcome of the unknown candidate. He
revives--hastens to the foot-lights--bows--another round of
applause--bows again--and again--and then falls back, to let the business