velvet mantle and laid it aside, he muttered almost unconsciously
the words of Horatio, "Good-night, sweet Prince;" then turning to his
friend, "Ah," said he, "I am just beginning to realize the sweetness,
the tenderness, the gentleness of this dear Hamlet!" Believe me, the
true artist never lingers fondly upon what he has done. He is ever
thinking of what remains undone: ever striving toward an ideal it may
never be his fortune to attain.

We are sometimes told that to read the best dramatic poetry is more
educating than to see it acted. I do not think this theory is very
widely held, for it is in conflict with the dramatic instinct, which
everybody possesses in a greater or less degree. You never met a
playwright who could conceive himself willing--even if endowed with
the highest literary gifts--to prefer a reading to a playgoing
public. He thinks his work deserving of all the rewards of print and
publisher, but he will be much more elated if it should appeal to the
world in the theatre as a skilful representation of human passions.
In one of her letters George Eliot says: "In opposition to most people
who love to _read_ Shakespeare, I like to see his plays acted better
than any others; his great tragedies thrill me, let them be acted
how they may." All this is so simple and intelligible, that it seems
scarcely worth while to argue that in proportion to the readiness with
which the reader of Shakespeare imagines the attributes of the various
characters, and is interested in their personality, he will, as a
rule, be eager to see their tragedy or comedy in action. He will then
find that very much which he could not imagine with any definiteness
presents new images every moment--the eloquence of look and gesture,
the by-play, the inexhaustible significance of the human voice. There
are people who fancy they have more music in their souls than was ever
translated into harmony by Beethoven or Mozart. There are others who