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