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the audience laughed so loudly that the unhappy Macbeth rushed off the stage, and said to Lady Macbeth who was waiting at the sideI'm jigger'd if this 'll do, you know-I won't go on any more." But he was persuaded to alter his determination by the manager, who said to him—

"Oh, never mind! don't be funky! It was the same with all our great actors-Kemble, Kean, Macready, and all of 'em."

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No, but," said Mr. Slickey, "I don't like it."

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"Oh, hang that," replied the manager. Come, it's time to go Here are the daggers-you've been to murder Duncan you know. Now then, sing out Who's there?'”

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So Mr. Slickey sang out as Macbeth, (within,) "Who's there? What! ho!'"

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Ha, ha!"

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said the audience "Here he comes again! "There, do you hear that?" said Vincent, "I can't face 'em again."

"Lord bless you!" said the manager; "it's nothing when you're used to it. Frown at 'em when you go on, and they'll cheer directly.

Come, it's time."

Mr. Slickey, thus persuaded, went on again, and said, "I've done the deed, did you not hear a noise?'"

Lady Macbeth smiled.

Mr. Slickey frowned.

Lady Macbeth laughed.

Mr. Slickey turned red, and frowned still harder.

No wonder Lady Macbeth laughed. The manager, who was a bit of a wag in his way, had given Mr. Slickey, in the place of the two daggers with which he is supposed to have killed Duncan, two articles which looked marvellously like a knife and steel.

Audiences are always ready in estimating a joke of this description, and Lady Macbeth's laugh gradually extended over the whole house. And so the play went on. Poor Mr. Slickey was alternately laughed at and hissed all through his performance, and when the Third Act was done, Mr. Slickey was done too.

"If I go on again," said he to himself, "may I be blessed!"" Mr. Manager, you must get somebody else, I shan't play any more."

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Oh, do!" said the manager.

"I'll see you at Halifax first, and then I won't," returned Mr. Slickey.

The time came for the commencement of the Fourth Act. "Where's Mr. Vincent?" said the call-boy.

Mr. Vincent was nowhere to be found. He was on his way to Bury Street, St. Mary Axe, anathematizing in very voluble and forcible language the unfortunate moment in which he had determined to try the stage, and swearing by all the powers in Christendom, and all the saints in the calendar, that taste and sound criticism were dead, and that Shakspere was no longer appreciated in the land that gave him birth.

Disappointment destroys hunger; Mr. Slickey could eat no supper that night. He went to bed the moment he got home, and from his Diary," (all great men keep " Diaries,") we learn that he had horrid dreams all night; and that after an amazing number of fearful visions

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of carving knives, dirty tartans, grinning demons, geese, foot-lights, short swords, and Shakspere, he awoke and got up. He ordered breakfast and sent for a newspaper. With trembling hands and a beating heart he made the tea, and put the newspaper to the fire to dry. By the time the tea was brewed, the paper was dry. Mr. Slickey filled his cup and opened the paper. He sugared his tea, and then folded the paper in half. He added the milk, and turned to the third side of the sheet. He took a sip of his tea, and then a glance at the paper. The tea was very hot, and burned his lips. So he determined to wait till it was cool, and to read the paper in the meantime. There was a column in the paper that he could not shun -the "Theatrical Intelligence." It was not long before he perceived the following paragraph, and he did not return to his tea-cup till he had read it through and finished it :

"" SURREY THEATRE.

"A most amusing performance took place at this Theatre last night. A Mr. Vincent made his debut in the character of Macbeth, and a most comical piece of acting Mr. Vincent made of it. From first to last he kept his audience in a continual roar of laughter, only interrupted by the hisses and groans with which the unhappy young man was saluted. We have seen a good many failures in our time; a good many complete and unquestionable damnations; but never have we seen a failure so thorough, a damnation so hearty, as Mr. Vincent's. We trust this young man will have sense enough not again to try so hazardous an experiment. Whoever advised him to appear at all must have done it for a joke, and a nice joke it was; but we do hope that such pieces of humour will be spared us for the future, for we do not like to see our beloved Shakspere butchered, nor a young man make so gross a fool of himself."

Mr. Slickey put down the paper. He drank his tea; he ate ravenously of bread and butter. He mused for two hours, and at length said,

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"Well, this won't do, you know; 'gross fool' is libellous. I shall bring an action against the Editor. We'll see who's the fool-a jury of my countrymen shall decide."

However, on reflection, Mr. Slickey gave up the idea of law, and after a day's dreaming, went to bed to determine what path he should seek greatness in next.

We will communicate the result in a future number.

STEPHEN SLOGGS.

EPIGRAM.

WHAT IS MODESTY?

It is a flower that seldom blows,
And very few can grow it:

I have it myself, yet nobody knows,
For, hark 'e, I never show it.

L.L.D.

Beautiful River,

BEAUTIFUL RIVER.

That sweep'st to the sea,
On speeding for ever
Majestically!

An emblem thou bearest
Of life, to our scan;
A likeness thou wearest-
A likeness to man.

In the spring of thy source
Thou art like him at birth;
And thou goest thy course

As he passes o'er earth;
Now gay in the glances

Of sunshine and light;
Now dark 'neath the scowlings
Of tempest and night.

Whilst yet thou remainest

A scarce moving rill-
Thou are like him in childhood,
Transparent and still;
When broader and deeper
Thou rollest thy tide-
Thou bearest the image
Of youth in its pride.
In the smiles on thy face
When the heaven is clear-
His delights we may trace,

And his pleasures appear;
While smoothly thou flowest
Unrippled, unstirred-
Thou art like him 'ere Sorrow's
Drear voice he hath heard.

Breeze-ridden River!

When summer winds meet thee, Man's image still ever

My fancy doth greet thee! Yes! then thou dost seem,

Like his manhood and prime,
As he sails down the stream-
The fair river of Time.

In the shadows that cover
Thy breast, we may see
The clouds that hang over
His destiny;

They come without warning,
They scare while they stay,

Then silently vanish

Unheeded away.

Tempest-tossed River

When storms cross thy brow! E'en then, in thy darkness, Man's emblem art thou! For then thou art like him When sorrows assail; When anguish doth strike him, And grief doth prevail.

;

And when the thick clouds
From thy face pass away,
And leave thee in beauty
To speed on thy way;-
Oh! then thou dost picture
Those times, when the heart
Doth glow, as its shadows
Grow faint, and depart;

When the sunshine of gladness,
With beams ever kind-
Disperses the sadness

That darkens the mind-
When the soul rises proudly
Above its frail clod,
And looks up, to speak with
Its Father and God.

And when thy swoln billows-
Less gentle-less fair-
Commingle with ocean,

And lose themselves there--
When proudly disdaining
The channel and shore,
Thou leap'st in new being,
A river no more;-

Oh! then thou dost picture
More closely than ever-
Man's nature, man's being,

Man's prospects-thou River!
Thou show'st how he changeth
-From limits set free-
The river of life

For Eternity's sea.

And as thy wide waters
Are boundless and free-
So, limitless, chainless,
And deathless, is he;
For ever thy stream

On its swift way doth wend ;And he too is eternal

And knoweth no end.

MONOS.

103

ELTHAM OLD PALACE.

THERE is a certain principle, more or less developed in the human mind, that induces man to look with peculiar feelings of reverence on anything which has become remarkable for age. We observe it in the pertinacity with which people defend old ideas, old customs-all terms or feelings, in short, which are more to be noted for antiquity than for any other quality.

But in turning from the consideration of a mere idea or feeling, to observe old things, we have something more tangible to inquire into. And should the object contemplated be anything that has performed service in the cause of man, or any place notable for some great deed, how much more vividly does it strike on the imagination. The sword of Bruce will be long cherished; and many is the traveller who will pause in his journey to cast his eyes over the fruitful plains of Runnymede.

And an old tree venerable and grey is, to its neighbouring villagers, a record for centuries. Under its boughs how often have their fathers' fathers sat, and talked the merry time away. Once it was a lofty thing of youth, ascending to the skies in its majesty of pride, and stretching out its huge distorted arms, gnarled and twisted in various ways over half an acre-as if it would clasp the ground it shadowed; now it is a storm-shattered piece of decay, with here and there a feeble yellow-tinted branch bursting out of the rotting bark. Where are now its mighty arms? How is its lofty head bowed, and the brightness of its green age vanished! And yet the untutored hind, as well as the wise contemplatist, behold it with far more powerful feelings than before. It speaks of past ages-of scenes of feudal grandeur, and feudal pride of deeds of blood and heroism-— of victory and death; many an old tale could that tree tell of village maidens and youths who have danced beneath its branches, and have passed away as the light frost of an April morn before the warmth of the rising sun. It is the village record chamber-may many a bright year pass over its brown old age before the dust hides

it for ever!

But if an old tree has such power over the feelings, how much more intense are the emotions produced by viewing the ruins of the residences of man, which have become venerable with age and glory. The old halls where princes and nobles have feasted, where music and laughter have resounded, where the bright eyes of virgin beauty have sparkled, and sweet vermeil lips smiled-how painful it is to behold them used for the common purposes of life, crumbling into dust, and become the habitation of the wild bird, and the place where the spider hath spun its web!

Such were my thoughts as I wandered one bright September afternoon, through the meadows that lie between Charlton Wood and Eltham, in the direction of the Old Palace of the Kings of England. The sky was one mass of unclouded blue, save where the rays of the warm sun hid it from view. Behind me was Shooters' Hill, with its Castle nearly hid by a rich umbrageous body of trees, almost of a deep purple tint, and before me was the plain wooden steeple of Eltham Church, which I passed by, and proceeding a short distance down a lane, beheld the Old Hall of the Palace before me.

The first object, however, that attracts the eye, is the picturesque three-arched bridge over the moat, whose old grey and broken stones are richly tinted with the clusters of the golden lichen. The small stream has a romantic appearance, with its overhanging willows, and arches covered with dark green ivy.

Passing over the bridge I came to a cottage, the owners of which rent the Old Hall, and for a small gratuity exhibit it to visitors. The external appearance of the Hall has nothing remarkable in it, save the fine door-way, which does not open directly into the Hall, but is divided by a screen that runs across the building, through a door by which you enter the Hall. As if instinctively, the eyes are immediately raised to the roof, which is formed of richly-carved timbers of chestnut wood, ending in brackets and prendrils. At the extremity of the Hall, on the left of the dais, is a fine specimen of a bay window, or what was once a window, for it has long been bricked up. The stone roof of this window is richly carved, and the whole, even in its deformity, has an extremely light and chaste appearance; how much more lovely, then, must it have appeared, when the rays of the evening sun, passing through the slender shafts of the columns, lit up the Old Hall, with its ruddy golden splendour! Opposite is another window of a similar character, which had a door opening on to the Terrace, the walls of which are still standing, though sadly crumbling away. From the parapet of the Terrace there is a beautiful view of the surrounding country.

It appears that in 1838 some doubts were entertained by the Commissioners of Woods and Forests, of the stability of the roof, and consequently they had it shored up; and of a surety the massy timbers they have used evidently show an intention of preserving the building from entire ruin. Though every window in the place has been long bricked up, sufficient light comes in through many a cranny and old door to exhibit everything distinctly.

As I stood on the platform where the raised dais had been, and thought of the various characters who had once feasted in that Old Hall, and made its chestnut roof resound with their wassail merriment, a pleasing melancholy came over me.

In that very Hall, most likely on the very spot where I now stood, had sat the hero of Cressy, and his war-like son; there, too, the unfortunate John of France had feasted away part of his captivity. From that fire-side door in the old bay window had many a fair lady, the pride of England's Court, following in the train of the Queen, come forth and smiled on the gay young Knights who stood in groups around the Hall. There a King of Armenia had come to beg succour to recover his lands from the Turks; and there had Elizabeth, of iron soul, smiled with a prudish smile on the courtly gallantries of Raleigh the Sorrowful. It was at Eltham that Nicholas Breton sang to Elizabeth his right excellent pastoral song, commencing with

"In the merry month of May,

In the morn by break of day,
With a troop of damsels playing,
Forth I went forsooth a maying."

When we consider the many gallant Knights and noble gentlemen that have enlivened that Hall with records of their deeds of heroism;

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