acrimony, however they might rankle and fester in more sensitive natures,
were never known to curdle the bland consciousness of self-esteem which
dwelt, like a perpetual spring, upon the mind of Mr. Stubbs. Mr. McCrab
was himself an amateur actor; he had also written a tolerably successful
comedy, as well as an unsuccessful tragedy; and he was, besides, a
formidable critic, whose scalping strictures, in a weekly journal, were
the terror of all authors and actors who were either unable or unwilling
to dispense turtle and champagne.

Mr. Stubbs, it should be mentioned, considered himself a profound reader
of Shakspeare, and believed he had discovered many hitherto concealed
beauties in the wonderful productions of that writer. He prided himself,
too, upon the critical acumen and philosophical penetration with which he
had elicited various qualities intended by the poet to belong to his
characters; and he had often said if he had been an actor he should have
established quite a new method of playing several of them. He was now
about to become an actor, and he resolved, in his very first essay, to
introduce one of his novelties, or new readings. What this was, will be
best explained in the following conversation, which took place between
himself and Mr. McCrab upon the subject.

"Depend upon it, my dear McCrab," said Stubbs, taking down a volume of
Shakspeare from his shelves, "depend upon it, I am borne out in my
opinion, novel as it is, by the text of the immortal author himself; and
I shall _stuff_ the character when I play it. I maintain Hamlet ought to
be"----"A Falstaff in little, I suppose," interrupted McCrab. "No,"
rejoined Stubbs, "he should not be exactly corpulent--but rather
_embonpoint_, as the saying is--sleek--plumpish--in good condition as it
were."