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._