"Be still, my mighty soul! These ribs of mine
Are all too fragile for thy narrow cage.
By heaven! I will unlock my bosom's door.
And blow thee forth upon the boundless tide
Of thought's creation, where thy eagle wing
May soar from this dull terrene mass away,
To yonder empyrean vault--like rocket (sky)--
To mingle with thy cognate essences
Of Love and Immortality, until
Thou burstest with thine own intensity,
And scatterest into millions of bright stars,
Each _one_ a part of that refulgent whole
Which once was ME."
Thus spoke, or thought--for, in a metaphysical point of view, it does not
much matter whether the passage above quoted was uttered, or only
conceived--by the sublime philosopher and author of the tragedy of
"Martinuzzi," now being nightly played at the English Opera House, with
unbounded success, to overflowing audiences[2]. These were the aspirations
of his gigantic mind, as he sat, on last Monday morning, like a simple
mortal, in a striped-cotton dressing-gown and drab slippers, over a cup of
weak coffee. (We love to be minute on great subjects.) The door opened,
and a female figure--not the Tragic muse--but Sally, the maid of-all-work,
entered, holding in a corner of her dingy apron, between her delicate
finger and thumb, a piece of not too snowy paper, folded into an exact
parallelogram.
[2] Has this paragraph been paid for as an
advertisement?--PRINTER'S DEVIL.--Undoubtedly.--ED.
"A letter for you, sir," said the maid of-all-work, dropping a reverential
curtsey.
George Stephens, Esq. took the despatch in his inspired fingers, broke the
seal, and read as follows:--
_Surrey Theatre._
SIR,--I have seen your tragedy of "Martinuzzi," and pronounce it
magnificent! I have had, for some time, an idea in my head (how it came
there I don't know), to produce, after the Boulogne affair, a grand
Inauguration of the Statue of Shakspere, on the stage of the Surrey, but
not having an image of him amongst our properties, I could not put my plan
into execution. Now, sir, as it appears that you are the exact ditto of
the bard, I shouldn't mind making an arrangement with you to undertake the
character of _our friend Billy_ on the occasion. I shall do the liberal in
the way of terms, and get up the gag properly, with laurels and other
greens, of which I have a large stock on hand; so that with your
popularity the thing will be sure to draw. If you consent to come, I'll
post you in six-feet letters against every dead wall in town.
Yours,
WILLIS JONES.
When the author of the "magnificent poem" had finished reading the letter
he appeared deeply moved, and the maid of-all-work saw three plump tears
roll down his manly cheek, and rest upon his shirt collar. "I expected
nothing less," said he, stroking his chin with a mysterious air. "The
manager of the Surrey, at least, understands me--_he_ appreciates the
immensity of my genius. I _will_ accept his offer, and show the
world--great Shakspere's rival in myself."
Having thus spoken, the immortal dramatist wiped his hands on the tail of
his dressing-gown, and performed a _pas seul_ "as the act directs," after
which he dressed himself, and emerged into the open air.
The sun was shining brilliantly, and Phoebus remarked, with evident
pleasure, that his brother had bestowed considerable pains in adorning his
person. His boots shone with unparalleled splendour, and his waistcoat--
* * * * *
[We omit the remainder of the inventory of the great poet's
wardrobe, and proceed at once to the ceremony of the Inauguration
at the Surrey Theatre.]
Never on any former occasion had public curiosity over the water been so
strongly excited. Long before the doors of the theatre were opened,
several passengers in the street were observed to pause before the
building, and regard it with looks of profound awe. At half-past six, two
young sweeps and a sand-boy were seen waiting anxiously at the gallery
entrance, determined to secure front seats at any personal sacrifice. At
seven precisely the doors were opened, and a tremendous rush of four
persons was made to the pit; the boxes had been previously occupied by the
"Dramatic Council" and the "Syncretic Society." The silence which pervaded
the house, until the musicians began to tune their violins in the
orchestra, was thrilling; and during the performance of the overture,
expectation stood on tip-toe, awaiting the great event of the night.
At length the curtain slowly rose, and we discovered the author of
"Martinuzzi" elevated on a pedestal formed of the cask used by the
celebrated German tub-runner (a delicate compliment, by the way, to the
genius of the poet). On this appropriate foundation stood the great man,
with his august head enveloped in a capacious bread-bag. At a given
signal, a vast quantity of crackers were let off, the envious bag was
withdrawn, and the illustrious dramatist was revealed to the enraptured
spectators, in the statuesque resemblance of his elder, but not more
celebrated brother, WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. At this moment the plaudits were
vigorously enthusiastic. Thrice did the flattered statue bow its head, and
once it laid its hand upon its grateful bosom, in acknowledgment of the
honour that was paid it. As soon as the applause had partially subsided,
the manager, in the character of _Midas_, surrounded by the nine Muses,
advanced to the foot of the pedestal, and, to use the language of the
reporters of public dinners, "in a neat and appropriate speech," deposed a
laurel crown upon the brows of Shakspere's effigy. Thereupon loud cheers
rent the air, and the statue, deeply affected, extended its right hand
gracefully towards the audience. In a moment the thunders of applause sank
into hushed and listening awe, while the author of the "magnificent poem"
addressed the house as follows:--
"My friends,--You at length behold me in the position to which my immense
talents have raised me, in despite of 'those laws which press so fatally
on dramatic genius,' and blight the budding hopes of aspiring authors."
This commencement softened the hearts of his auditors, who clapped their
handkerchiefs to their noses.
"The world," continued the statue, "may regard me with envy; but I despise
the world, particularly the critics who have dared to laugh at me.
(Groans.) The object of my ambition is attained--I am now the equal and
representative of Shakspere--detraction cannot wither the laurels that
shadow my brows--_Finis coronat opus!_--I have done. To-morrow I retire
into private life; but though fortune has made me great, she has not made
me proud, and I shall be always happy to shake hands with a friend when I
meet him."
At the conclusion of this pathetic address, loud cheers, mingled with
tears and sighs, arose from the audience, one-half of whom sunk into the
arms of the other half, and were borne out of the house in a fainting
state; and thus terminated this imposing ceremony, which will be long
remembered with delight by every lover of
[Illustration: THE HIGHER WALK OF THE DRAMA.]
* * * * *