But a truce to these compliments.

'I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.'

It is idle to shirk disagreeable questions, and the one I have to ask
is this, 'Has the world been wrong in regarding with disfavour and
lack of esteem the great profession of the stage?'

That the world, ancient and modern, has despised the actor's
profession cannot be denied. An affecting story I read many years ago
--in that elegant and entertaining work, Lempriere's 'Classical
Dictionary'--well illustrates the feeling of the Roman world. Julius
Decimus Laberius was a Roman knight and dramatic author, famous for
his mimes, who had the misfortune to irritate a greater Julius, the
author of the 'Commentaries,' when the latter was at the height of his
power. Caesar, casting about how best he might humble his adversary,
could think of nothing better than to condemn him to take a leading
part in one of his own plays. Laberius entreated in vain. Caesar was
obdurate, and had his way. Laberius played his part--how, Lempriere
sayeth not; but he also took his revenge, after the most effectual of
all fashions, the literary. He composed and delivered a prologue of
considerable power, in which he records the act of spiteful tyranny,
and which, oddly enough, is the only specimen of his dramatic art that
has come down to us. It contains lines which, though they do not seem
to have made Caesar, who sat smirking in the stalls, blush for
himself, make us, 1,900 years afterwards, blush for Caesar. The only
lines, however, now relevant are, being interpreted, as follow:

'After having lived sixty years with honour, I left my home this
morning a Roman knight, but I shall return to it this evening an