attempts, in your scoundrel journal, to blast the full-blown fame of that
most transcendant actor, and most unexceptionable son, Mr. Charles Kean.
Now, PUNCH, fair play is beyond any of the crown jewels. I will advance
only one proof, amongst a thousand others that cart-horses sha'n't draw
from me, to show that Charles Kean makes more--mind, I say, makes
_more_--of Shakspere, than every other actor living or dead. Last night I
went to the Haymarket--Lady Georgiana L---- and other fine girls were of
the party. The play was "Romeo and Juliet," and there are in that tragedy
two slap-up lines; they are, to the best of my recollection, as follow:--

"_Oh!_ that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that _cheek_."

Now, ninety-nine actors out of a hundred make nothing of this--not so
Charles Kean. Here's my proof. Feeling devilish hungry, I thought I'd step
out for a snack, and left the box, just as Charles Kean, my old
schoolfellow, was beginning--

"Oh!--"

Well, I crossed the way, stepped into Dubourg's, swallowed two dozen
oysters, took a bottom of brandy, and booked a small bet with Jack Spavin
for the St. Leger, returned to the theatre, and was comfortably seated in
my box, as Charles Kean, my old school-fellow, had arrived at

"------cheek!"

Now, PUNCH, if this isn't making much of Shakspere, what is?

Yours (you scoundrel), ETONIAN.