entreaties, the Caledonian was induced to advance to the front of the
stage (never was there a more _moving_ scene than that before it);
silence was obtained, and he condescended to express his sorrow for the
state in which some nights previously he had presented himself: adding,
"that _he_ never _before_ felt so keenly the _degradation_ of _his_
situation." Equivocal as was the mode of extenuation, the audience
allied to _Mersey_ accorded the _mercy_ it possessed, and was or
appeared to be, satisfied; but not so the actor, and he as fully as
instantly avenged what he deemed his misplaced submission. As he
concluded his address, he turned to the gratified but yet trembling
manager, and (in allusion to the large share in the slave-trade then
imputed to Liverpool) with that peculiarity of undertone he possessed,
which could be distinctly heard throughout the largest theatre although
pronounced as a whisper, exclaimed, "There's not a stone in the walls of
Liverpool which has not been cemented by the _bluid_ of Africans." Then,
casting one of his Shylock glances of hatred and contempt on the mute
and astounded audience, majestically left the stage.

On the first night of his performance at the Boston theatre, Richard was
the part he had adopted; and so strongly had he fortified himself for
the kingly task, that he deemed himself the very monarch he was destined
to enact. The theatre was crowded in every part: expectation was on
tiptoe: anticipation as to his person, voice, and manner, was announced
by the sibilating "I guess" heard around, and "pretty considerable"
agitation prevailed. The orchestra had begun and ceased, unheeded or
unheard; nor could one of Sir Thomas Lethbridge's best cut and dried
have produced less effect amongst the "irreclaimables." The curtain
rose, and amidst thundering plaudits the welcome stranger advanced, in
angles, to the front of the stage, and, as Sir Pertinax has it, "booed
and booed and booed;" but greeting could not endure for ever: well