The Sun.
London, England, 1831-08-01 00:00:00

ENGLISHMAN'S MAGAZINE.

An intelligent number, but of the heavy and
ponderous school. Elia contributes some
amusing reminiscences of Elliston, en voici.

" Those who have imagined that an unexpected eleva-
tion to the direction of a great London theatre, aff,cted
the consequence of Elliston, or at all changed hie nature,
knew not the essential greatness of the man, whom they
disparage. It was my fortune to encounter him near St.
Dunstan's church (which, with its punctual giants, is now
no more than (lust, and a shadow) on the morning of his
election to that high office. Grasping my hand with a
look of significance, he only uttered,—' Have you heard
the news?'—there with another look following up the
blow, he subjoined, ' I am the future Manager of Drury-
lane Theatre.'—Breathless as he saw me, he staid not for
congratulation or reply, but mutely stalked away, leaving
me to chew upon his new-blown dignities at leisure. In
fact nothing could be said to it. Expressive silence alone
could muse his praise. This was his great style. But
was he less great, (be witness, 0 ye Powers of Equani-
mity, that supported in the ruins of Carthage the consular
exile, and mare recently transmitted for a inure illustrious
exile, the barren constableship of Elba into Ain image of
Imperial France), when in melancholy after-years, again,
much near the same spot, I met him, when that sceptre
bad been wrested from his hand, and his dominion was
curtailed to the petty managership, and part proprietor-
ship, of the small Olympic, his Elba? He still played
nightly upon the boards of Drury, but in parts alas ! al-
lotted to him, not magnificently distributed by him.
Waiving his great loss as nothing, and magnificently
sinking the sense of fallen material grandeur in the more
liberal resentment of depreciations done to his more lofty
intellectual pretensions, ' Have you heard' (his customary
exordium) have you heard,' said he, ' how they treat
me ? they put me in comedy.' Thought I—but his finger
on his lips forbade any verbal interruption—'where
could they have put you better?' Then after a pause—
' Where I formerly played Romeo, I now play Mertutio'
—and so again he stalked away, neither staying, nor caring
for, responses. 0, it was a rich scene,—but Sir Antony
Carlisle, the best of story-tellers, and surgeons, who mends
'a lame narrative almost as well as he sets a fracture, alone
could do justice to it—that I was witness to, in the tar-
nished room (that had once been green) of that same little
Olympic. There, after his deposition from Imperil'
Drury, he substituted a throne. That Olympic 11111 was
his ' highest heaven;' himself ' Jove in his chair.'
There he sate in state, while before him, on complaint of
prompter, was brought for judgment—bow shall I describe
her?—ono of those little tawdry things that flirt at the
tails of choruses—a probationer for the town, in either of
its senses—the pertest little drab—a dirty fringe and ap-
pendage of the lamps' smoke—who, it seems, on some
disapprobation expressed by a " highly respectable" audi-
ence, bad precipitately quitted her station en the boards,
and withdrawn her small talents in disgust. ' And how
dare you,' said her Manager—assuming a censorial seve-
rity, which would have crushed the confidence of a Ves-
tris, and disarmed that beautiful rebel herself of her pro-
fessional caprices—l verily believe, he thought her stand-
ing before him—' how dare you, Madam, withdraw your-
self without a notice from your theatrical duties?' I
was hissed, Sir.' And you have the presumption to
decide upon the taste of the town ?" I don't know that,
Sir, but I will never stand to be hissed,' was the sub-
joinder of young Confidence—when gathering up his fea-
tures into one significant mass of wonder, pity, and expos-
tulatory indignation—in a lesson never to have been lest
upon a creature less forward than she who stood before
him—his words were these. They have hissed me.'
'Twas the identical argument a fortiori, which the son of
Peleus uses to Lycaon trembling under his lance, to per-
suade him to take his destiny with a good grace. ' I too
am mortal.' "

The subjoined lines by T. Hood, are emi-
nently beautiful, particularly the lines marked in
italics :