the stage.  Some great actors have had to struggle against physical disabilities of a serious nature.  Betterton had an unprepossessing face; so had Le Kain.  John Kemble was troubled with a weak, asthmatic voice, and yet by his dignity, and the force of his personality, he was able to achieve the greatest effects.  In some cases a super-abundant physique has incapacitated actors from playing many parts.  The combination in one frame of all the gifts of mind and all the advantages in person is very rare on the stage; but talent will conquer many natural defects when it is sustained by energy and perseverance.

With regard to gesture, Shakespeare’s advice is all-embracing.  “Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance that you over-step not the modesty of nature.”  And here comes the consideration of a very material part of the actor’s business—­by-play.  This is of the very essence of true art.  It is more than anything else significant of the extent to which the actor has identified himself with the character he represents.  Recall the scenes between Iago and Othello, and consider how the whole interest of the situation depends on the skill with which the gradual effect of the poisonous suspicion instilled into the Moor’s mind is depicted in look and tone, slight of themselves, but all contributing to the intensity of the situation.  One of the greatest tests of an actor is his capacity for listening.  By-play must be unobtrusive; the student should remember that the most minute expression attracts attention:  that nothing is lost, that by-play is as mischievous when it is injudicious as it is effective when rightly conceived, and that while trifles make perfection, perfection is no trifle.  This lesson was enjoined on me when I was a very young man by that remarkable actress, Charlotte Cushman.  I remember that when she played Meg Merrilies I was cast for Henry Bertram, on the principle, seemingly, that an actor with no singing voice is admirably fitted for a singing part.  It was my duty to give Meg Merrilies a piece of money, and I did it after the traditional fashion by handing her a large purse full of coin of the realm, in the shape of broken crockery, which was generally used in financial transactions on the stage, because when the virtuous maiden rejected with scorn the advances of the lordly libertine, and threw his pernicious bribe upon the ground, the clatter of the broken crockery suggested fabulous wealth.  But after the play Miss Cushman, in the course of some kindly advice, said to me:  “Instead of giving me that purse don’t you think it would have been much more natural if you had taken a number of coins from your pocket, and given me the smallest?  That is the way one gives alms to a beggar, and it would have added to the realism of the scene.”  I have never forgotten that lesson, for simple as it was, it contained many elements of dramatic truth.  It is most important that an actor should learn that