'Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart; . . . . . . . Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care.' "And so, there are times when the stately rendition of the masterpieces, even with the greatest tragedians in the role, weary us, and we give glad welcome to Bob Acres with 'his courage oozing out at his finger ends,' or to dear old Rip and 'Here's to yourself and to your family. Jus' one more; _this one won't count!'_ "The superb acting of Irving in Louis the Eleventh; the grandeur of Forrest with 'Othello's occupation gone'; of McCullough in Macbeth, 'supped full with horrors'; even of Booth with the ever-recurring 'To be, or not to be,' the eternal question, all pass with the occasion. But who can forget the gladsome hours of mingled pathos and mirth with glorious Joe Jefferson, the star! His life was hourly the illustration of the sublime truth: 'There is nothing so kingly as kindness.' "Upon his tablet might truly be written: 'He never made a brow look dark, Nor caused a tear but when he died.' "It is ever an ungracious task to speak in terms of disparagement of a lady. There is one, however, of whom, even in this gracious presence, I am constrained to speak without restraint. To the splendid assemblage before me she was unknown; possibly, however, some veteran upon this platform may have enjoyed her personal acquaintance. I refer to the late Mrs. Macbeth. I would not be misunderstood. My criticism of the conduct of this lady has no reference to her share in the 'taking off' of the venerable Duncan. Even barring her gentle interposition, he would long ere this have 'paid his breath to time and mortal custom.' My cause of complaint is more serious and far-reaching. It will be remembered that her high-placed husband upon a time was the victim of insomnia. In his wakeful hours, as he tossed upon his couch, he even made the confession, now of record, that 'Glamis hath murdered sleep.' "He apparently drew no comfort from the reflection that his late benefactor, the murdered king, 'After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.' "Burdened with thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls, the sometimes Thane of Cawdor indulged in an apostrophe to 'the dull god' which has enduring place in all language: 'Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in Life's feast, ----' "At this crucial moment, came the untimely interruption of Mrs. Macbeth, demanding of her husband, _'What do you mean?'_