pace is disastrous. Curiously enough, I have met and envied this gift of
pace in actors who were not conspicuously talented in other respects,
and no Rosalind that I have ever seen has had enough of it. Of course,
it is not a question of swift utterance only, but of swift thinking. I
am able to think more swiftly on the stage now than at the time Charles
Reade wrote to me, and I only wish I were young enough to take advantage
of it. But youth thinks _slowly_, as a rule.

_Vary the pace._ Charles Reade was never tired of saying this, and,
indeed, it is one of the foundations of all good acting.

"You don't seem quite to realize," he writes in the letter before
me, "that uniformity of pace leads inevitably to languor. You
should deliver a pistol-shot or two. Remember Philippa is a fiery
girl; she can snap. If only for variety, she should snap James'
head off when she says, 'Do I _speak_ as if I loved them!'"

My memories of the part of Philippa are rather vague, but I know that
Reade was right in insisting that I needed more "bite" in the passages
when I was dressed as a boy. Though he complimented me on my self-denial
in making what he called "some sacrifice of beauty" to pass for a boy,
"so that the audience can't say, 'Why, James must be a fool not to see
she is a girl,'" he scolded me for my want of bluntness.

"Fix your mind on the adjective 'blunt' and the substantive
'pistol-shot'; they will do you good service."

They did! And I recommend them to anyone who finds it hard to overcome
monotony of pace and languor of diction.