Bard, but, in some degree, by the expectation
that certain of his illustrators would probably
appear in the full evening costume of velvet
tunics and russet boots with spurs. It was
whispered that, on the transpontine shore, russet
boots and spurs were considered the correct thing
on such high festive occasions. Let me silence
whispering malice, and give the transpontine
illustrators their due. If there were any there
more spotless as to shirt fronts, more resplendent
as to the polish of their patent leather
boots, more completely en règle as to the
dimensions of their white cravats, more fashionable
as to the cut of their black dress-coats and
pantaloons, more snowy as to the hue of their
cambric handkerchiefs, than others, they were
the illustrators from over the water. I will
even go so far as to say that, as regards the oiliness
of their hair, and the number of plaits on
their shirt-fronts, they put the illustrators of
the West End to shame and confusion. When
I found myself in their midst crushing up the
broad stairs of the hostel, all classes and degrees
mingling on equal terms of brotherhood in
honour of the great High Priest of their art, it
occurred to me that I was not doing such a very
mad thing after all. Up they went, a strangely
amalgamated crowd of leading tragedians and
comedians, rubbing shoulders and exchanging
friendly greetings with general utility, and
supernumeraries, and pantomimists, and prompters,
and call-boys, and even door-keepers. Ah,
surely he was a Great Magician, whose name,
after three centuries, could work such a charm.
It was good for the heart to see such community
of feeling, and curious to mark how unaccustomed
they all were to the use of tickets of
admission. None of them had their tickets
ready, and when they were demanded by the
man at the top of the stairs, the illustrators
seemed to regard it as quite a joke that they
should be asked for tickets, as if they were the
public. When they were all seated, the great
hall was, as an illustrator in the eccentric line
observed, "gorged with talent," which evoked
from another the remark that it would be a fine
thing for the country actors, longing for London,
if the floor were to give way and entomb the lot.
Happily, however, no such combination of good
and bad luck occurred; though the enthusiasm
at times was well calculated to inspire fears for
the security of the roof. The unveiling of the
statue of the Bard at the beginning of the feast,
acted like a spark of fire upon a heap of gunpowder.
The illustrators sprang to their feet
and went off in one tremendous bang of applause.
Yet there could scarcely have been twenty
persons in that room who had much to be thankful
to the Bard for. For four or five whom he
had blessed with Macbeth, there were a hundred
whom he had condemned to the carrying of
banners. I had the pleasure of sitting beside a
banner-bearer, one who had nailed his colours to
the flagstaff in early life, and was resolved to
stand by them to the last, and he was as
enthusiastic as—nay, more enthusiastic than
Macbeth, who, I am bound to say, devoted
himself very closely to his supper, and took it
coolly.

The name of Shakespeare, mention of the
Player's Art, the Stage, were all so many sparks
of fire falling upon gunpowder which never
burned out, but always renewed itself from its
own ashes and smoke to go off again and again
with an explosion which shook the walls, and
caused their Royal Highnesses the Dukes of
Kent and Sussex to tremble in their gilt frames.
So much enthusiasm and so much unity of feeling
were probably never witnessed in any
similar gathering. Nothing but Shakespeare's
wand could have ruled such an ocean, ordinarily
agitated by so many diverse currents and
disturbed by so many opposing winds. All
jealousies and disappointments were laid aside
for the time, and one feeling animated and
controlled the vast assembly. Notwithstanding a
little noisy disagreement—not about Shakespeare
—which took place between two perfervid
youths at the end of the room, this gathering of
actors in honour of the great master of the
dramatic art was, in its broad and general aspect,
a most impressive spectacle. I, who had come
with a strong predisposition to be amused,
rather than impressed, was fain to confess this
much. I could not think of any other class that
would have been so unanimous and so hearty in
an act of homage to a chief. And so, when
they had lingered to the last, loth to tear themselves
away from a scene of such rare enjoyment,
in the bright sunshine on the morning
of Shakespeare's three hundredth birthday, the
players streamed out into the street, while
citizens, awakened possibly from dreams of last
night's play, peered at them from the corners of
blinds, and utterly failed to recognise Falstaff
in the respectable cleanly gentleman gaily jumping
into a Hansom cab; or Bardolph in the
smart young man with the embroidered shirt-
front; or King Henry the Fourth in the tall
gentleman in the black surtout, borrowing a light
for his cigar from Francis, the drawer, in all the
magnificence of a white hat resplendent in the
morning sun.

Surely I am mad now, for I go away in a
four-wheeled cab in company with Hamlet
Prince of Denmark, and Horatio his friend,
and the First Gravedigger, who has only one
waistcoat on, and that bound with gold braid,
and the Ghost of Hamlet's father outside on the
box, scenting the morning air with a briar-root
pipe, away to north-western regions, where early
shop-keeping birds are taking down their
shutters, and preparing to catch the first human
worm that appears above ground—away in the
fresh morning air, until we begin to persuade
ourselves that we are not tired, and that there
is no necessity to go to bed.

We do not go to bed, but joyfully accept
an invitation to breakfast with First Grave-
digger, whose pressing hospitality at that
awkward hour in the morning is an
astonishment to us all, until he informs us that
the partner of his bosom is out of town;
which fully accounted, I will not say for the