then and ever after in what way they had offended him. In their
opinions, if a man had talent and understood his business, he should
produce portraits with the same ease that he would answer dinner
invitations, and if they paid for, they were in no way bound also to
praise, his work. They were entirely pleased with the result, but did
not consider it necessary to tell him so, no idea having crossed their
minds that he might be in one of those moods so frequent with artistic
natures, when words of approbation and praise are as necessary to them,
as the air we breathe is to us, mortals of a commoner clay.

Even in the theatrical and operatic professions, those hotbeds of
conceit, you will generally find among the "stars" abysmal depths of
discouragement and despair. One great tenor, who has delighted New York
audiences during several winters past, invariably announces to his
intimates on arising that his "voice has gone," and that, in consequence
he will "never sing again," and has to be caressed and cajoled back into
some semblance of confidence before attempting a performance. This same
artist, with an almost limitless repertoire and a reputation no new
successes could enhance, recently risked all to sing what he considered a
higher class of music, infinitely more fatiguing to his voice, because he
was impelled onward by the ideal that forces genius to constant
improvement and development of its powers.

What the people who meet these artists occasionally at a private concert
or behind the scenes during the intense strain of a representation, take
too readily for monumental egoism and conceit, is, the greater part of
the time, merely the desire for a sustaining word, a longing for the
stimulant of praise.

All actors and singers are but big children, and must be humored and
petted like children when you wish them to do their best. It is
necessary for them to feel in touch with their audiences; to be assured
that they are not falling below the high ideals formed for their work.

Some winters ago a performance at the opera nearly came to a standstill
because an all-conquering soprano was found crying in her dressing-room.
After many weary moments of consolation and questioning, it came out that
she felt quite sure she no longer had any talent. One of the other
singers had laughed at her voice, and in consequence there was nothing
left to live for. A half-hour later, owing to judicious "treatment," she
was singin