“Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth!” cries the General.
“And the great philosopher who was standing by Mr. Johnson, says, 'You must mind, Davy, lest thy sneeze should awaken Duncan!' who, by the way, was talking with the three witches as they sat against the wall.”
“What! Have you been behind the scenes at the play? Oh, I would give worlds to go behind the scenes!” cries Theo.
“And see the ropes pulled, and smell the tallow-candles, and look at the pasteboard gold, and the tinsel jewels, and the painted old women, Theo? No. Do not look too close,” says the sceptical young host, demurely drinking a glass of hock. “You were angry with your papa and me.”
“Nay, George!” cries the girl.
“Nay? I say, yes! You were angry with us because we laughed when you were disposed to be crying. If I may speak for you, sir, as well as myself,” says George (with a bow to his guest, General Lambert), “I think we were not inclined to weep, like the ladies, because we stood behind the author's scenes of the play, as it were. Looking close up to the young hero, we saw how much of him was rant and tinsel; and as for the pale, tragical mother, that her pallor was white chalk, and her grief her pocket-handkerchief. Own now, Theo, you thought me very unfeeling?”
“If you find it out, sir, without my owning it,—what is the good of my confessing?” says Theo.
“Suppose I were to die?” goes on George, “and you saw Harry in grief, you would be seeing a genuine affliction, a real tragedy; you would grieve too. But you wouldn't be affected if you saw the undertaker in weepers and a black cloak!”
“Indeed, but I should, sir!” says Mrs. Lambert; “and so, I promise you, would any daughter of mine.”
“Perhaps we might find weepers of our own, Mr. Warrington,” says Theo, “in such a case.”