to _your_ words and dignity to _your_ actions; to quell all
opposition by the majesty of your bearing or the brilliancy of your
wit; and finally, either to triumph over disaster, or if you be cast
in tragedy, happier still, to die upon the stage, supremely pitied and
honestly mourned for at least a minute? And then, from first to last,
applause loud and long--not postponed, not even delayed, but following
immediately after. For a piece of diseased egotism--that is, for a
man--what a lot is this!

How pointed, how poignant the contrast between a hero on the boards
and a hero in the streets! In the world's theatre the man who is
really playing the leading part--did we but know it--is too often, in
the general estimate, accounted but one of the supernumeraries, a
figure in dingy attire, who might well be spared, and who may consider
himself well paid with a pound a week. _His_ utterances procure
no silence. He has to pronounce them as best he may, whilst the
gallery sucks its orange, the pit pares its nails, the boxes babble,
and the stalls yawn. Amidst, these pleasant distractions he is lucky
if he is heard at all; and perhaps the best thing that can befall him
is for somebody to think him worth the trouble of a hiss. As for
applause, it may chance with such men, if they live long enough, as it
has to the great ones who have preceded them, in their old age,

'When they are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of themselves,
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.'

The great actor may sink to sleep, soothed by the memory of the tears
or laughter he has evoked, and wake to find the day far advanced,