whose close is to witness the repetition of his triumph; but the great
man will lie tossing and turning as he reflects on the seemingly
unequal war he is waging with stupidity and prejudice, and be tempted
to exclaim, as Milton tells us he was, with the sad prophet Jeremy:
'Woe is me, my mother, that thou hast borne me, a man of strife and
contention!'

The upshot of all this is, that it is a pleasanter thing to represent
greatness than to be great.

But the actor's calling is not only pleasant in itself--it gives
pleasure to others. In this respect, how favourably it contrasts with
the three learned professions!

Few pleasures are greater than to witness some favourite character,
which hitherto has been but vaguely bodied forth by our sluggish
imaginations, invested with all the graces of living man or woman. A
distinguished man of letters, who years ago was wisely selfish enough
to rob the stage of a jewel and set it in his own crown, has addressed
to his wife some radiant lines which are often on my lips:

'Beloved, whose life is with mine own entwined,
In whom, whilst yet thou wert my dream, I viewed,
Warm with the life of breathing womanhood,
What Shakespeare's visionary eye divined--
Pure Imogen; high-hearted Rosalind,
Kindling with sunshine the dusk greenwood;
Or changing with the poet's changing mood,
Juliet, or Constance of the queenly mind.'