1829. | The Actor. 127 
his belief in dwarf-box, and thus saw tlie memento of his salvation 
sprouting greenly around him. “ Howel Harris, saved by grace, 17—,” 
taught by the clipping sheers, grew letter by letter in gratifying distinct- 
ness. Now this is precisely what an Actor practises, only with different 
agents. The walls of his house (if he have one) are plastered with his 
character-portraits ; he is multiplied a hundred times ; turn where we 
will, we meet him—not a niche is vacant.* 
A mackerel lives longer out of water than does an Actor out of his ele- 
ment: he ‘cannot, for a minute’ “ look abroad into universality.” Keep 
him to the last edition of a new or old play, the burning of the two 
theatres, or an anecdote of John Kemble, and our Actor sparkles 
amazingly. Put to him an unprofessional question, and you strike him 
dumb ; an abstract truth locks his jaws. On the contrary, listen to the 
stock-joke ; lend an attentive ear to the witticism clubbed by the whole 
green-room—for there is rarely more than one at a time in circulation— 
and no man talks faster—none with a deeper delight to himself—none 
more profound, more knowing. The conversation of our Actor is a fine 
“ piece of mosaic.” Here Shakspeare is laid under contribution—here 
Farquhar—here Otway. We have an undigested mass of quotations, 
dropping without order from him. In words he is absolutely impo- 
verishable. What a lion he stalks in a country town! How he stilts 
himself upon his jokes over the sleek, unsuspecting heads of his asto- 
nished hearers! He tells a story ; and, for the remainder of the night, 
sits embosomed in the ineffable lustre of his humour. 
An Actor can always be recognized in the street ; he seems at ease 
(for where is he not?) in the crowd, yet not one of it. The peacock, 
stripped of its feathers, will still maintain its strut: the Actor has not 
forgotten the part of last night ; his head, accustomed to the velvet cap, 
the overhanging plumes, and the sparkling gem, carries the meek beaver 
with a haughty, jerking air; his foot throws itself forth with deter- 
mination, as though ambition, love, or tyranny yet burned in every toe ; 
his hand still seems to grasp a hilt or cartel ; the coat sets as though it 
knew it had usurped the place of tunic, vest, or robe ; the very cravat 
dilates with the conscious pride of “ station.” He looks at the passers-by 
with the air of an old acquaintance—of one who has obliged them— 
suns himself in the fair eyes that have wept at his “ serious business’”— 
and bathes his spirit in the dewy lips that have tittered at his comedy. 
Verily, we have seen a successful Actor air himself in the Park: we 
have seen him, whilst his inward man was wholly inebriated. with the 
looks and gestures that he drew upon him! 
The vanity of our Actor is never more apparent than in his benevo- 
lent custom of helping the ignorant dramatists whose creations he 
embodies: his philanthropy is unbounded. Even the Bard of Avon’s 
language sometimes gains correction and adornment. We once heard an 
Actor tag the exit of the starved Apothecary with an original interpola- 
tion. We should much like to have the measure of the importance of a 
popular Actor as taken by himself: it would be acuriosity for the study 
of the contemplative. We remember one striking instance. A celebrated 
mimic, a few seasons since, modestly expressed his hope that he might 
* It is odd to perceive how vanity haunts the tribe. There is now lying before us the 
address-card of a truly great tragedian. On the reverse is the Actor placed, like a naughty 
boy in the corner, with a cap on his head, and the following startling intelligence :— 
** Alanienouidet, chief of Huron tribe of Indians.” 
