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- 2026-01-30T03:48:16.150Z
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- through three millions of my own human kind. The fiendish gas-lights
shooting their Tartarean rays across the muddy, sticky streets, lit up
the pitiless and pitiable scene.
Well, well, if this were but Sunday now, I might conciliate some kind
female pew-opener, and rest me in some inn-like chapel upon some
stranger’s outside bench. But it is Saturday night. The end of the weary
week, and all but the end of weary me.
Disentangling myself at last from those skeins of Pandemonian lanes
which snarl one part of the metropolis between Fleet Street and Holborn,
I found myself at last in a wide and far less noisy street, a short and
shopless one, leading up from the Strand, and terminating at its
junction with a crosswise avenue. The comparative quietude of the place
was inexpressively soothing. It was like emerging upon the green
enclosure surrounding some cathedral church, where sanctity makes all
things still. Two lofty brilliant lights attracted me in this tranquil
street. Thinking it might prove some moral or religious meeting, I
hurried toward the spot; but was surprised to see two tall placards
announcing the appearance that night, of the stately Macready in the
part of Cardinal Richelieu. Very few loiterers hung about the place, the
hour being rather late, and the play-bill hawkers mostly departed, or
keeping entirely quiet. This theatre indeed, as I afterwards discovered,
was not only one of the best in point of acting, but likewise one of the
most decorous in its general management, inside and out. In truth, the
whole neighbourhood, as it seemed to me--issuing from the jam and uproar
of those turbulent tides against which, or borne on irresistibly by
which, I had so long been swimming--the whole neighbourhood, I say, of
this pleasing street seemed in good keeping with the character imputed
to its theatre.
Glad to find one blessed oasis of tranquillity, I stood leaning against
a column of the porch, and striving to lose my sadness in running over
one of the huge placards. No one molested me. A tattered little girl, to
be sure, approached with a hand-bill extended, but marking me more
narrowly, retreated; her strange skill in physiognomy at once enabling
her to determine that I was penniless. As I read, and read--for the
placard, of enormous dimensions, contained minute particulars of each
successive scene in the enacted play--gradually a strong desire to
witness this celebrated Macready in this his celebrated part stole over
me. By one act, I might rest my jaded limbs, and more than jaded
spirits. Where else could I go for rest, unless I crawled into my cold
and lonely bed far up in an attic of Craven Street, looking down upon
the muddy Phlegethon of the Thames. Besides, what I wanted was not
merely rest, but cheer; the making one of many pleased and pleasing
human faces; the getting into a genial humane assembly of my kind; such
as, at its best and highest, is to be found in the unified multitude of
a devout congregation. But no such assemblies were accessible that
night, even if my unbefriended and rather shabby air would overcome the
scruples of those fastidious gentry with red gowns and long gilded
staves, who guard the portals of the first-class London tabernacles from
all profanation of a poor, forlorn, and fainting wanderer like me. Not
inns, but ecclesiastical hotels, where the pews are the rented chambers.
No use to ponder, thought I, at last; it is Saturday night, not Sunday;
and so, a theatre only can receive me. So powerfully in the end did the
longing to get into the edifice come over me, that I almost began to
think of pawning my overcoat for admittance. But from this last
infatuation I was providentially withheld by a sudden cheery summons, in
a voice unmistakably benevolent. I turned, and saw a man who seemed to
be some sort of a working man.
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