And say to all the world, this is a man.'
I allude, sir, to the author of 'Conrad of Naples,' a tragedy which, though written in the early years of nonage, bears upon it the unmistakable impress of rich and fruitful soil. Nor is this the only thing which my friend—for I am proud to call him so—has achieved in the difficult walks of the tragic drama. His 'Jack Cade' is a fine, spirited, stirring production, full of noble sentiments, clothed in striking language; and if it could only be so fortunate as to secure for the representative of its hero our own Spartacus, its success upon the stage would be as pre-eminent as its deserts are ample. As an essayist, too, this gentleman has made himself extensively known by the energy and brilliance of his style, the justness and solidity of his ideas, and the comprehensive range of his information. In years gone by, his contributions to the press of this city were everywhere recognized by their bold and manly eloquence; and in the gentle pursuits of the Muses he has exhibited a fervor of thought and a delicacy of expression seldom surpassed by any of our native poets. But I see, sir, that my praises are distasteful to him, and I therefore at once propose
"Robert T. Conrad—Distinguished alike by his success as a dramatist, his skill as a poet, and his rich, ready, and glowing eloquence."
The Hon. R. T. Conrad then addressed the company, as follows:
"To those who are acquainted with the gentleman who has just taken his seat, no act of generosity or kindness coming from him can be wholly unexpected. I will not, therefore, plead, in extenuation of my inability to return a suitable acknowledgment, the surprise which his flattering reference to me, and the still more flattering manner in which that reference was received, have excited. I may, however, regret that the excess of his kindness deprives me of the power of speaking the gratitude which it inspires,—gratitude which is only rendered more profound by a consciousness that his praises are partial and undeserved. The excitement which, when tranquil, fans and kindles expression, when turbulent, overwhelms and extinguishes it. I feel this on the present occasion. The compliment is not only beyond my ambition, but beyond my strength. It comes to me as Jupiter did to the ambitious beauty of old, consuming while it embraces. I am not, however, so completely consumed in my blushes but that enough of me is left to say to the gentleman who has done me this honor, and to the company who joined in it, that I thank him and them most sincerely.
"Mr. McMichael has alluded to my former connection with the drama. The memory of friendship alone could have retained or revived a thought of my humble association, at an earlier period of my life, with the literature of the stage. To me the recollection of those studies will ever be grateful. Even the severest and most ascetic student can have no reason to regret the time spent in the contemplation of the rich stores of the British drama. He who has dwelt amid its glorious structures—who has had the wizard spell of its mighty masters thrown over his spirit—can never recur to it without enjoyment. Years may pass over him, and the current of life drift him far away from those pursuits, but, when recalled by an occasion like the present, he will come back to them with all his former feelings,—
'Feelings long subdued,
Subdued, but cherished long.'
He will find all its haunted paths familiar to him, and the flowers that bloom around those paths as fresh and as bright as when they first sprang forth at the call of genius. Its ancient and lofty halls will ring with the old and well-known voices, and its gorgeous and grotesque creations pass before him like things of life and substance, rather than the airy nothings of the imagination. If such be its ordinary magic, how potent is the spell when the vision becomes half real; when the leaves of the drama, like the written responses of the ancient oracles, flutter with supernatural life; when the figures start from the lifeless canvas and live and move and have their being in the mighty art of a Forrest! Who that has stepped within the charmed circle traced by his wand would sell the memory of its delight?
'His is the spell o'er hearts