er. This is the last
I have seen or heard of my cousin, or of the domestic concerns of
Doubting Castle.

THE STROLLING MANAGER.

As I was walking one morning with Buckthorne, near one of the Principal
theaters, he directed my attention to a group of those equivocal beings
that may often be seen hovering about the stage-doors of theaters. They
were marvellously ill-favored in their attire, their coats buttoned up
to their chins; yet they wore their hats smartly on one side, and had a
certain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike air, which is common to the
subalterns of the drama. Buckthorne knew them well by early experience.

These, said he, are the ghosts of departed kings and heroes; fellows
who sway sceptres and truncheons; command kingdoms and armies; and
after giving way realms and treasures over night, have scarce a
shilling to pay for a breakfast in the morning. Yet they have the true
vagabond abhorrence of all useful and industrious employment; and they
have their pleasures too: one of which is to lounge in this way in the
sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals, and make hackneyed
theatrical jokes on all passers-by.

Nothing is more traditional and legitimate than the stage. Old scenery,
old clothes, old sentiments, old ranting, and old jokes, are handed
down from generation to generation; and will probably continue to be
so, until time shall be no more. Every hanger-on of a theater becomes a
wag by inheritance, and flourishes about at tap-rooms and six-penny
clubs, with the property jokes of the green-room.

While amusing ourselves with reconnoitring this group, we noticed one
in particular who appeared to be the oracle. He was a weather-beaten
veteran, a little bronzed by time and beer, who had no doubt, grown
gray in the parts of robbers, cardinals, Roman senators, and walking
noblemen.

"There's something in the set of that hat, and the turn of that
physiognomy, that is extremely familiar to me," said Buckthorne. He
looked a little closer. "I cannot be mistaken," added he, "that must be
my old brother of the truncheon, Flimsey, the tragic hero of the
strolling company."

It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs that times went
hard with him; he was so finely and shabbily dressed. His coat was
somewhat threadbare, and of the Lord Townly cut; single-breasted, and
scarcely capable of meeting in front of his body; which, from long
intimacy, had acquired the symmetry and robustness