I was thinking, upon my honour, if I had your parts, my dear Devereux, and could write, as I know you can, I'd make a variation upon every play of Shakespeare, that should be strictly moulded upon it, and yet in no respect recognisable.' 'Ay, like those Irish airs that will produce tears or laughter, as they are played slow or quick; or minced veal, my dear Puddock, which the cook can dress either savoury or sweet at pleasure; or Aunt Rebecca, that produces such different emotions in her different moods, and according to our different ways of handling her, is scarce recognisable in some of them, though still the same Aunt Becky,' answered Devereux, knocking at Irons' door.
'No, but seriously, by sometimes changing an old person to a young, sometimes a comical to a melancholy, or the reverse, sometimes a male for a female, or a female for a male--I assure you, you can so entirely disguise the piece, and yet produce situations so new and surprising----.' 'I see, by all the gods at once, 'tis an immortal idea! Let's take Othello--I'll set about it to-morrow--to-night, by Jove! A gay young Venetian nobleman, of singular beauty, charmed by her tales of "anthropophagites and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders," is seduced from his father's house, and married by a middle-aged, somewhat hard-featured black woman, Juno, or Dido, who takes him away--not to Cyprus--we must be original, but we'll suppose to the island of Stromboli--and you can have an eruption firing away during the last act.

There Dido grows jealous of our hero, though he's as innocent as Joseph; and while his valet is putting him to bed he'll talk to him and prattle some plaintive little tale how his father had a man called Barbarus.

And then, all being prepared, and his bed-room candle put out, Dido enters, looking unusually grim, and smothers him with a pillow in spite of his cries and affecting entreaties, and---- By Jupiter! here's a letter from Bath, too.' He had lighted the candles, and the letter with its great red eye of a seal, lying upon the table, transfixed his wandering glance, and smote somehow to his heart with an indefinite suspense and misgiving.
'With your permission, my dear Puddock ?' said Devereux, before breaking the seal; for in those days they grew ceremonious the moment a point of etiquette turned up.

Puddock gave him leave, and he read the letter.
'From my aunt,' he said, throwing it down with a discontented air; and then he read it once more, thought for a while, and put it into his pocket.

'The countess says I must go, Puddock.