Peaess, who shook him by the hand, as he informed him that they had
an excellent box-book. Stubbs smiled graciously; and the manager left him
with his dresser, to attire himself in his "customary suit of solemn
black." Mr. Stubbs had kept his intention of stuffing the character a
profound secret, fearful lest any technical objections should be made by
Mr. Peaess, and desirous also of making the first impression in the
green-room. When he entered it, therefore, in the likeness of a chubby
undertaker, ready for a funeral, rather than in that of the "unmatched
form and feature of blown youth"--in short, the very type and image of
poor Tokely in _Peter Pastoral_,--his eyes and ears were on the alert to
catch the look of surprise, and buzz of admiration, which he very
naturally anticipated. He was a little daunted by a suppressed titter
which ran round the room; but he was utterly confounded when his best and
dearest friend, Mr. Peaess himself, coming up to him exclaimed,--"Why,
zounds! Mr. Stubbs, what have you been doing? By ----, the audience will
never stand this."
"Stand what?" replied Henry Augustus Constantine Stubbs.
"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.
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