Shakspeare. The ladies lost their voices, and carried on their loves,
their sorrows, and even their scoldings, in a whisper. Our play
perfectly deserved the criticism of the old gentleman, who, after a
similar performance, being asked which of the personages he liked best,
candidly replied, "the prompter, for of him he had heard the most and
seen the least."

However, every thing has an end; and we had carried Juliet to the tomb
of all the Capulets, the chant was done, and the mourners were gathered
in the green-room. I was standing, book in hand, preparing for the last
agonies of a love very imperfectly committed to memory, when I heard a
slight confusion in the court-yard, and shortly after the rattle of a
post-chaise. The sound subsided, and I was summoned to my post at the
entrance to the place where the lovely Juliet lay entranced. The
pasteboard gate gave way to knocks enforced with an energy which called
down rapturous applause; and in all the tortures of a broken heart,
rewarded by a profusion of handkerchiefs applied to bright eyes, and a
strong scent of hartshorn round the house, I summoned my fair bride to
my arms. There was no reply. I again invoked her; still silent. Her
trance was evidently of the deepest order. I rose from the ground, where
I had been "taking the measure of my unmade grave," and approaching the
bier, ventured to drop a despairing hand upon her pillow. To my utter
surprise, it was vacant. If I had been another Shakspeare, the situation
was a fine one for a display of original genius. But I was paralyzed. A
sense of the general embarrassment was my first impression, and I was
absolutely struck dumb. But this was soon shaken off. My next was a
sense of the particular burlesque of my situation; I burst out into
laughter, in which the whole house joined; and throwing down my mattock,
rushed off the stage. My theatrical dream was broken up for ever.