order that his inspirations may not be lost, his memory, in the silence of repose, recalls the accent of his voice, the expression of his features, his action—­in a word, the spontaneous workings of his mind, which he had suffered to have free course, and, in effect, everything which in the moments of his exaltation contributed to the effects he had produced.  His intelligence then passes all these means in review, connecting them and fixing them in his memory to re-employ them at pleasure in succeeding representations.  These impressions are often so evanescent that on retiring behind the scenes he must repeat to himself what he had been playing rather than what he had to play.  By this kind of labor the intelligence accumulates and preserves all the creations of sensibility.  It is by this means that at the end of twenty years (it requires at least this length of time) a person destined to display fine talent may at length present to the public a series of characters acted almost to perfection.”

You will readily understand from this that to the actor the well-worn maxim that art is long and life is short has a constant significance.  The older we grow the more acutely alive we are to the difficulties of our craft.  I cannot give you a better illustration of this fact than a story which is told of Macready.  A friend of mine, once a dear friend of his, was with him when he played Hamlet for the last time.  The curtain had fallen, and the great actor was sadly thinking that the part he loved so much would never be his again.  And as he took off his velvet mantle and laid it aside, he muttered almost unconsciously the words of Horatio, “Good-night, sweet Prince;” then turning to his friend, “Ah,” said he, “I am just beginning to realize the sweetness, the tenderness, the gentleness of this dear Hamlet!” Believe me, the true artist never lingers fondly upon what he has done.  He is ever thinking of what remains undone:  ever striving toward an ideal it may never be his fortune to attain.

We are sometimes told that to read the best dramatic poetry is more educating than to see it acted.  I do not think this theory is very widely held, for it is in conflict with the dramatic instinct, which everybody possesses in a greater or less degree.  You never met a playwright who could conceive himself willing—­even if endowed with the highest literary gifts—­to prefer a reading to a playgoing public.  He thinks his work deserving of all the rewards of print and publisher, but he will be much more elated if it should appeal to the world in the theatre as a skilful representation of human passions.  In one of her letters George Eliot says:  “In opposition to most people who love to read Shakespeare, I like to see his plays acted better than any others; his great tragedies thrill me, let them be acted how they may.”  All this is so simple and intelligible, that it seems scarcely worth while to argue that in proportion to the readiness with which the reader of Shakespeare