direst need, that to have had the wit to write and actually to have
written the soliloquies in _Hamlet_, might console a man under
heavier afflictions than the knowledge that in the popular estimate
somebody else spouted those soliloquies better than he did himself. I
can as easily fancy Milton jealous of Tom Davies as Shakespeare of
Richard Burbage. But--good, bad, or indifferent--Shakespeare was an
actor, and as such I tender his testimony.

I now--for really this matter must be cut short--summon pell-mell all
the actors and actresses who have ever strutted their little hour on
the stage, and put to them the following comprehensive question: Is
there in your midst one who had an honest, hearty, downright pride and
pleasure in your calling, or do not you all (tell the truth)
mournfully echo the lines of your great master (whom nevertheless you
never really cared for), and with him

'Your fortunes chide,
That did not better for your lives provide
Than public means, which public manners breeds.'

They all assent: with wonderful unanimity.

But, seriously, I know of no recorded exception, unless it be Thomas
Betterton, who held the stage for half a century--from 1661 to 1708--
and who still lives, as much as an actor can, in the pages of Colley
Cibber's _Apology_. He was a man apparently of simple character,
for he had only one benefit-night all his life.

Who else is there? Read Macready's 'Memoirs'--the King Arthur of the
stage. You will find there, I am sorry to say, all the actor's faults