to
whether I should not have informed the manager of his physical
condition, and the possibility that he might some evening perpetrate a
real tragedy on the mimic stage, but on the first performance of "The
Destruction of Sennacherib," which I conscientiously attended, I was
somewhat relieved. I had often been amused with the placid way in
which the chorus in the opera invariably received the most astounding
information, and witnessed the most appalling tragedies by poison or
the block, without anything more than a vocal protest or command,
always delivered to the audience and never to the actors, but I think
my poor friend's utter impassiveness to the wild carnage and the
terrible exhibitions of incendiarism that were going on around him
transcended even that. Dressed in a costume that seemed to be the very
soul of anachronism, he stood a little outside the proscenium, holding
a spear, the other hand pressed apparently upon the secret within his
breast, calmly surveying, with his waxen face, the gay auditorium. I
could not help thinking that there was a certain pride visible even in
his placid features, as of one who was conscious that at any moment he
might change this simulated catastrophe into real terror. I could not
help saying this to the Doctor, who was with me. "Yes," he said with
professional exactitude; "when it happens he'll throw his arms up above
his head, utter an ejaculation, and fall forward on his face,--it's a
singular thing, they always fall forward on their face,--and they'll
pick up the man as dead as Julius Caesar."

After that, I used to go night after night, with a certain hideous
fascination; but, while it will be remembered the "Destruction of
Sennacherib" had a tremendous run, it will also be remembered that not
a single life was really lost during its representation.

It was only a few weeks after this modest first appearance on the
boards of "The Man with an Aneurism," that, happening to be at dinner
party of practical business men, I sought to interest them with the
details of the above story, delivered with such skill and pathos as I
could command. I regret to say that, as a pathetic story, it for a
moment seemed to be a dead failure. At last a prominent banker sitting
next to me turned to me with the awful question: "Why don't your friend
try to realize on his life insurance?" I begged his pardon, I didn't
quite understand. "Oh, discount, sell out. Look here--(after a
pause)