Much I marvelled this ungainly swell to hear discourse so plainly In the midst of Irving advocates, who voted him a bore―― In an audience all agreeing that no living being Ever yet was blest with seeing acting such as that in store, Quoting _Hamlet_, _Richelieu_, and _The Bells_, and many pieces more, For the laurels Irving wore. But the Croaker, sitting lonely, in his cushioned chair spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered; I was net a little fluttered, And at last I feebly muttered, “Other Macbeths played before――” “Kemble, Kean, Macready, Young,” he cried, “I saw them all of yore―― Won’t be equalled any more!” Startled at the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken―― “Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his sole dramatic lore, Caught from some Shakespearian master, when unmerciful disaster Followed faster still and faster, as the crowd his parts ignore, Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore―― “Tragedian, play no more!” Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from a Rimmel censer, Swung by pretty girls, whose footfall tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch!” I cried; “pray who-hath sent thee? Hath some rival Macbeth lent thee His spare ticket to content thee with fond memories a store, Of the Macbeths seen of yore?” “Croaker,” said I, “pray be civil, and of Irving speak no evil. Whether rivalry hath brought thee or stage memories of yore, Are you really not enchanted by this new Macbeth undaunted In this house by Hamlet haunted? Tell me truly, I implore, Is there, _is_ there hope of _Macbeth_? Tell me, tell me, I implore!” Quoth the Croaker, “Say no more!” “Croaker,” said I, “cease to level those stern glances at the revel. By the bust of Shakespeare o’er us――by the bard we both adore―― Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within thy distant Aidenn Ever widow, wife, or maiden Lady Macbeth’s mantle wore With a grace beyond Miss Bateman?” Still this croaking man of yore Answered grimly, “Yes, a score.” “Be that word our sign of parting, Croaker,” then I said, upstarting; For the curtain now is rising, and I hear a deafening roar. Not a word hath Macbeth spoken; he can only bow in token Of the homage all unbroken. Then the Croaker spoke once more: “Truly this Macbeth reminds me of a figure seen before Over many a snuff-shop-door.” And the Croaker, never flitting, still was sitting, his brows knitting, Growling oft at Irving’s action, voice, and costume that he wore, And his eyes had all the seeming of a croaker who was dreaming Of Macready, Kemble, Kean, and Young, in palmy days of yore; And the last words that he muttered, as he passed the circle-door, Were――“I’m very glad ’tis o’er.”