lling another story, this time of fat Charles
Hulet, whose abilities were only equalled by his corpulence. Having
been apprenticed to a bookseller, he straightway proceeded to take a
violent interest in the drama, and would often while away the evenings
by spouting Shakespeare and other authors. In lieu of a company to
support him young Hulet would designate each chair in the kitchen to
represent one of the characters in the play he was reciting. "One
night, as he was repeating the part of Alexander, with his wooden
representative of Clytus (an old elbow-chair), and coming to the
speech where the old General is to be kill'd, this young mock
Alexander snatch'd a poker instead of a javelin, and threw it with
such strength against poor Clytus, that the chair was kill'd upon
the spot, and lay mangled on the floor. The death of Clytus made a
monstrous noise, which disturbed the master in the parlour, who called
out to know the reason; and was answered by the cook below, 'Nothing,
sir, but that Alexander has kill'd Clytus.'"

* * * * *

In latter days Hulet took great pride in the sonorous tones of his
voice, and loved nothing more dearly than to steal up behind a man and
startle the unsuspecting one by giving a very loud "Hem." It was a
"Hem," however, which helped to make the actor's winding-sheet, for
one fine day he repeated the trick, burst a blood-vessel, and died
within twenty-four hours.

Heaven bless all these merry vagabonds! We may not always wish to
follow in their footsteps, but we like to keep near them and pry into
their careless, happy lives. When the Bohemians enter a pot-house we
are too virtuous, presumably, to go in likewise, but we stand without,
to get a tempting whiff of hot negus and a snatch of some genial jest
or tuneful song. Then, if our players stray, perchance, into the
gloomy precincts of a pawn-shop, are we not quite prepared to steal up
to the window and discover what tribute is being paid to mine uncle?
And so, speaking of pot-houses, and negus, and pawn-shops, let us end
our extracts from the invaluable Chetwood with this unconventional
reminiscence of another player, Mr. John Thurmond. It was a custom at
that time for persons of the first rank and distinction to give their
birthday suits to the most favoured actors. I think Mr. Thurmond was
honoured by General Ingolsby with his. But his finances being at the
last tide of ebb, the rich suit was put in buckle