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were attempted, it was not unfrequent for a comedian, in the midst of the
laughter occasioned by his disporportioned buffoonery, to find a word or
thought in his part that jarred with his own sense of wretchedness, and
burst from mimic merriment into sobs and tears, while the spectators,
seized with irresistible sympathy, wept, and the pantomimic revelry was
changed to a real exhibition of tragic passion.
It was not in my nature to derive consolation from such scenes; from
theatres, whose buffoon laughter and discordant mirth awakened distempered
sympathy, or where fictitious tears and wailings mocked the heart-felt
grief within; from festival or crowded meeting, where hilarity sprung from
the worst feelings of our nature, or such enthralment of the better ones,
as impressed it with garish and false varnish; from assemblies of mourners
in the guise of revellers. Once however I witnessed a scene of singular
interest at one of the theatres, where nature overpowered art, as an
overflowing cataract will tear away the puny manufacture of a mock cascade,
which had before been fed by a small portion of its waters.
I had come to London to see Adrian. He was not at the palace; and, though
the attendants did not know whither he had gone, they did not expect him
till late at night. It was between six and seven o'clock, a fine summer
afternoon, and I spent my leisure hours in a ramble through the empty
streets of London; now turning to avoid an approaching funeral, now urged
by curiosity to observe the state of a particular spot; my wanderings were
instinct with pain, for silence and desertion characterized every place I
visited, and the few beings I met were so pale and woe-begone, so marked
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