These recruits (countrymen from Cheshire) were much alarmed at a sudden change in the demeanour of their master, whose eyes began to roll and lips to move under the pressure of some strange emotion.

Baker was merely rehearsing Falstaff; but the two men made up their little minds that he had lost his head, and they felt quite sure that their employer was a dangerous lunatic, when he gave them a piercing glance, and cried: "Soft! who are you?
Sir Walter Blunt: there's honour for you! here's no vanity! I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too.

God keep lead out of me!" "Wauns! I'se blunt enough to take care of you, I'se warrant you," shouted one of the workmen, who had now recovered what he presumed to be his wits, and thereupon he and his companion laid violent hands on Baker.

A crowd soon gathered, and despite the indignant cries of the master-pavior, who declared he was never more sane, this son of Thespis was tied hand and foot, and carried home in triumph with a howling mob for attendants.

That ended Mr.Baker's rehearsal for the nonce; and it is to be presumed that, when next he essayed the lusty Sir John, he made sure of an appreciative audience.
It is a seductive occupation to delve into the lives of these bygone players, and there is always temptation to tarry long and lovingly amid such chequered careers.