dignity, in spite of his being ground against the
wall at the time, and holding on by the seat of
the chair.

"But I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Waldengarver,"
said the man who was on his knees,
"in which you're out in your reading. Now
mind! I don't care who says contrairy; I tell
you so. You're out in your reading of Hamlet
when you get your legs in profile. The last
Hamlet as I dressed, made the same mistakes
in his reading at rehearsal, till I got him to put
a large red wafer on each of his shins, and then
at that rehearsal (which was the last) I went in
front, sir, to the back of the pit, and whenever
his reading brought him into profile, I called
out 'I don't see no wafers!' And at night his
reading was lovely."

Mr. Waldengarver smiled at me, as much as
to say "a faithful dependent — I overlook his
folly;" and then said aloud, "My view is a
little classic and thoughtful for them here; but
they will improve, they will improve."

Herbert and I said together, Oh, no doubt
they would improve.

"Did you observe, gentlemen," said
Mr. Waldengarver, "that there was a man in the gallery
who endeavoured to cast derision on the service
— I mean, the representation?"

We basely replied that we rather thought we
had noticed such a man. I added, "He was
drunk, no doubt."

"Oh dear no, sir," said Mr. Wopsle, " not
drunk. His employer would see to that, sir.
His employer would not allow him to be drunk."

"You know his employer?" said I.

Mr. Wopsle shut his eyes, and opened them
again; performing both ceremonies very slowly.
"You must have observed, gentlemen," said he,
"an ignorant and a blatant ass, with a rasping
throat and a countenance expressive of low
malignity, who went through— I will not say
sustained— the rôle (if I may use a French
expression) of Claudius King of Denmark. That
is his employer, gentlemen. Such is the
profession!"

Without distinctly knowing whether I should
have been more sorry for Mr. Wopsle if he had
been in despair, I was so sorry for him as it
was, that I took the opportunity of his turning
round to have his braces put on— which jostled
us out at the doorway— to ask Herbert what he
thought of having him home to supper?
Herbert said he thought it would be kind to do so;
therefore I invited him, and he went to
Barnard's with us, wrapped up to the eyes, and we
did our best for him, and he sat until two o'clock
in the morning, reviewing his success and
developing his plans. I forget in detail what they
were, but I have a general recollection that he
was to begin with reviving the Drama, and to
end with crushing it; inasmuch as his decease
would leave it utterly bereft and without a
chance or hope.

Miserably I went to bed after all, and
miserably thought of Estella, and miserably dreamed
that my expectations were all cancelled, and
that I had to give my hand in marriage to
Herbert's Clara, or play Hamlet to Miss Havisham's
Ghost, before twenty thousand people, without
knowing twenty words of it.

EASTER IN RUSSIA.

IT is about nine o'clock in the morning, and
the market-place is thronged; for we are on the
outskirts of one of the largest and wealthiest
cities in Russia— a town taken from the Turks
in the wars of the last century. A gay fresh
breeze whirls in a gallant dance the bright-
coloured head-gear of the peasant women, and
the long golden moustaches of the Mujiks,
usually so close to them. We are preparing for
Easter; and that is why there are so many
people at market. Let us glance round the
crowd. The broad features of mankind are
much the same in whatever country we view
them. There, for instance, is Ivan Ivanovich
and Vera Feodorevna (British Darby and Joan)
come to town to buy holiday finery. Ivan's
coat is of a shiny cloth, the glory of some
village tailor, who prides himself on giving good
measure for good money. It is long and loose,
but Ivan looks stiff and out of place in it. He
would be more easy in his usual sheepskin gown
and calico breeches. His back is bent; his face
is flushed and wistful; he is a sharp lad, but
shy and awkward among so many strangers.
He does not know whether to be afraid of town
folk or to grin at them. Perhaps now he is a
little nervous, but he will shout a loud guffaw
by-and-by when he gets back to his farm among
the German colonists, and the sheep and the
dogs, and the ragged ponies, and the wolves,
and the bogs in the great wilderness of the
steppe.

Vera is a tousled lass, with a freckled face
and mud-boots reaching to her knees. Her
head is tied up with a red kerchief, flowing
shawl-wise down to her shoulders. She has
some smart Siberian beads round her neck, and
a trinket or two; but the skirt of her dress is
dingy and of a surprisingly flimsy texture. She
was cheated by a catchpenny when she bought
it. It is made nohow— too long before, and
too short behind. She also would feel more
comfortable in her usual pretty skirt of red
cotton, her white bodice open at the breast,
and her crown-shaped bonnet tinselled at the
borders. In person she is loose-limbed and
strong; she could floor any dancing master in
the town with one hand; and probably would
do so if provoked by him, especially in Lent.
She has small keen cold blue eyes, without much
eyelash, but of a kind good expression, a short
cheerful nose, chapped lips, and great brown
honest working hands. It would not be a bad
thing if she were a little more intimate with
soap and water; but with all the mud here and
the dust round the corner, a clean face never
lasts five minutes, so where is the use of washing
it?

Here is the old retired officer (the same type
may be seen at Bath or Cheltenham) in his trim
threadbare clothes, cheapening his hard fare,