gentlemen with the idea that their fascinations had conquered me. No. What
I speak of is rather the genuine pleasure I have derived from some of the
finest acting (in ordinary life, not on the boards) that the world ever
saw, acting in which I protest that the tears, the sighs, the misery, the
gallantry, the courage, the loyal sentiments and the honourable promises
all rang with so sincere a sound that the very actor himself was subdued
like the dyer's hand to the colours he worked in, until he believed himself
to be the most unjustly persecuted of mankind, the most upright of
gentlemen, or whatever the special emotion he simulated required that he
should seem to be for the moment. That he might possibly be what, as a
matter of fact, he often was, a rogue and a knave, mattered little to me at
the time. He was evidently himself ignorant of his potentialities, and in
any case they could not spoil my æsthetic enjoyment of a notable
performance. And after all who is to undertake to draw the line between the
good man and the bad? I have known men with regard to whom I was convinced
that they were admirably equipped by nature for a career of roguery;
somewhere in the backs of their heads I know they carried a complete set of
intellectual implements for the task, but no temptation, as it happened,
ever came to open the door of that secret chamber, and the unconscious
owners of it passed through life honoured by their fellow-citizens, and
their actions still smell sweet and blossom in their dust. Others, of
course, were not so fortunate. Their crisis pursued and captured them,
revealed them to themselves and others, and in many cases only left them,
alas, after cropping both their hair and their reputations. But I leave
these divagations, which can have but little interest for you. What I
rather wish to do is to recall to your memory the curious personality and
the chequered adventures of our common friend, WILFRID COBBYN.

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