[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.