The stage is with him the fixed orb around which the
whole world revolves; there is nothing worthy of a moment's devotion one
hundred yards from the green-room. It is amusing to perceive how blind,
how dead, is our real Actor to the stir and turmoil of politics; he will
turn from a Salamanca to admire a _Sir John Brute's_ wig; Waterloo
sinks into insignificance before the amber-headed cane of a _Sir Peter
Teazle_. What is St. Stephen's to him--what the memory of Burke and
Chatham? To be sure, Sheridan is well remembered; but then Sheridan
wrote the _Critic_.
A mackerel lives longer out of water than does an Actor out of his
element: 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.
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