have whirled on--whirled her away with them into the infinite, and
into earthly oblivion! People tell me that a new generation only
smiles at the traditional glory of Sarah Siddons. They never saw
her. For me, I shall go down to the grave worshipping her still.

Of him whom I call Mr. Charles I have little to say. John and I both
smiled when we saw his fine, frank face and manly bearing subdued
into that poor, whining, sentimental craven, the stage Macbeth. Yet
I believe he acted it well. But we irresistibly associated his idea
with that of turnip munching and hay-cart oratory. And when, during
the first colloquy of Banquo with the witches, Macbeth took the
opportunity of winking privately at us over the foot-lights, all the
paraphernalia of the stage failed to make the murderous Thane of
Cawdor aught else than our humorous and good-natured Mr. Charles. I
never saw him after that night. He is still living--may his old age
have been as peaceful as his youth was kind and gay!

The play ended. There was some buffoonery still to come, but we
would not stay for that. We staggered, half-blind and dazzled, both
in eyes and brain, out into the dark streets, John almost carrying
me. Then we paused, and leaning against a post which was surmounted
by one of the half-dozen oil lamps which illumined the town, tried to
regain our mental equilibrium.

John was the first to do it. Passing his hand over his brow he bared
it to the fresh night-air, and drew a deep, hard breath. He was very
pale, I saw.

"John?"