For the curtain now is rising, and I hear a deafening roar.
Not a word hath Macbeth spoken; he can only bow in token
Of the homage all unbroken. Then the Croaker spoke once more:
“Truly this Macbeth reminds me of a figure seen before
Over many a snuff-shop-door.”
And the Croaker, never flitting, still was sitting, his brows knitting,
Growling oft at Irving’s action, voice, and costume that he wore,
And his eyes had all the seeming of a croaker who was dreaming
Of Macready, Kemble, Kean, and Young, in palmy days of yore;
And the last words that he muttered, as he passed the circle-door,