er companion as they passed the stage-door on their way home. "I have
not laughed, my dear, till to-night," she was saying, the good, gay
tears still in her eyes, "since the day poor Sally died." Was not
that alone worth the old stale tricks you so hated? Aye, they were
commonplace and conventional, those antics of yours that made us laugh;
are not the antics that make us weep commonplace and conventional also?
Are not all the plays, played since the booth was opened, but of one
pattern, the plot old-fashioned now, the scenes now commonplace? Hero,
villain, cynic--are their parts so much the fresher? The love duets,
are they so very new? The death-bed scenes, would you call them
UNcommonplace? Hate, and Evil, and Wrong--are THEIR voices new to the
booth? What are you waiting for, people? a play with a plot that is
novel, with characters that have never strutted before? It will be ready
for you, perhaps, when you are ready for it, with new tears and new
laughter.

You, Mr. Merryman, were the true philosopher. You saved us from
forgetting the reality when the fiction grew somewhat strenuous. How we
all applauded your gag in answer to the hero, when, bewailing his
sad fate, he demanded of Heaven how much longer he was to suffer evil
fortune. "Well, there cannot be much more of it in store for you," you
answered him; "it's nearly nine o'clock already, and the show closes at
ten." And true to your prophecy the curtain fell at the time appointed,
and his troubles were of the past. You showed us the truth behind the
mask. When pompous Lord Shallow, in ermine and wig, went to take his
seat amid the fawning crowd, you pulled the chair from under him, and
down he sat plump on the floor. His robe flew open, his wig flew off.
No longer he awed us. His aped dignity fell from him; we saw him a
stupid-eyed, bald little man; he imposed no longer upon us. It is your
fool who is the only true wise man.

Yours was the best part in the play, Brother Merryman, had you and the
audience but known it. But you dreamt of a showier part, where you loved
and fought. I have heard you now and again, when you did not know I was
near, shouting with sword in hand before your looking-glass. You had
thrown your motley aside to don a dingy red coat; you were the hero of
the play, you performed the gallant deeds, you made the noble speeches.
I wonder what the play would be like, were we all to write our own
parts. There would be no clowns, no singing cham