it came up with
her.

It should rejoice those who enter for this kind of racing that the record
need never finally be beaten. The possibilities of success are
incalculable. The play has perforce to be finished in a night, it is
true, but the minor characters, the subordinate actors, can be made to
bear the burden of that necessity. The principals, or those who have
come "to the front of their profession," have an almost unlimited
opportunity and liberty of lagging.

Besides, the competitor in a donkey race is not, let it be borne in mind,
limited to the practice of his own tediousness. Part of his victory is
to be ascribed to his influence upon others. It may be that a determined
actor--a man of more than common strength of will--may so cause his
colleague to get on (let us say "get on," for everything in this world is
relative); may so, then, compel the other actor, with whom he is in
conversation, to get on, as to secure his own final triumph by indirect
means as well as by direct. To be plain, for the sake of those
unfamiliar with the sports of the village, the rider in a donkey race
may, and does, cudgel the mounts of his rivals.

Consider, therefore, how encouraging the prospect really is. The
individual actor may fail--in fact, he must. Where two people ride
together on horseback, the married have ever been warned, one must ride
behind. And when two people are speaking slowly one must needs be the
slowest. Comparative success implies the comparative failure. But where
this actor or that actress fails, the great cause of slowness profits,
obviously. The record is advanced. Pshaw! the word "advanced" comes
unadvised to the pen. It is difficult to remember in what a fatuous
theatrical Royal Presence one is doing this criticism, and how one's
words should go backwards, without exception, in homage to this symbol of
a throne.

It is not long since there took place upon the principal stage in London
the most important event in donkey-racing ever known until that first
night. A tragedian and a secondary actor of renown had a duet together.
It was in "The Dead Heart." No one who heard it can possibly have yet
forgotten it. The two men used echoes of one another's voice, then
outpaused each other. It was a contest so determined, so unrelaxed, so
deadly, so inveterate that you might have slept between its encounters.
You did sleep. These men were strong men, and knew what they wanted. It
is tremendo