he is a figure in a picture, and that the least exaggeration destroys the harmony of the composition.  All the members of the company should work towards a common end, with the nicest subordination of their individuality to the general purpose.  Without this method a play when acted is at best a disjointed and incoherent piece of work, instead of being a harmonious whole like the fine performance of an orchestral symphony.  The root of the matter is that the actor must before all things form a definite conception of what he wishes to convey.  It is better to be wrong and be consistent, than to be right, yet hesitating and uncertain.  This is why great actors are sometimes very bad or very good.  They will do the wrong thing with a courage and thoroughness which makes the error all the more striking; although when they are right they may often be superb.  It is necessary that the actor should learn to think before he speaks; a practice which, I believe, is very useful off the stage.  Let him remember, first, that every sentence expresses a new thought and, therefore, frequently demands a change of intonation; secondly, that the thought precedes the word.  Of course there are passages in which thought and language are borne along by the streams of emotion and completely intermingled.  But more often it will be found that the most natural, the most seemingly accidental effects are obtained when the working of the mind is seen before the tongue gives it words.

You will see that the limits of an actor’s studies are very wide.  To master the technicalities of his craft, to familiarize his mind with the structure, rhythm, and the soul of poetry, to be constantly cultivating his perceptions of life around him and of all the arts—­painting, music, sculpture—­for the actor who is devoted to his profession is susceptible to every harmony of color, sound, and form—­to do this is to labor in a large field of industry.  But all your training, bodily and mental, is subservient to the two great principles in tragedy and comedy—­passion and geniality.  Geniality in comedy is one of the rarest gifts.  Think of the rich unction of Falstaff, the mercurial fancy of Mercutio, the witty vivacity and manly humor of Benedick—­think of the qualities, natural and acquired, that are needed for the complete portrayal of such characters, and you will understand how difficult it is for a comedian to rise to such a sphere.  In tragedy, passion or intensity sweeps all before it, and when I say passion, I mean the passion of pathos as well as wrath or revenge.  These are the supreme elements of the actor’s art, which cannot be taught by any system, however just, and to which all education is but tributary.

Now all that can be said of the necessity of a close regard for nature in acting applies with equal or greater force to the presentation of plays.  You want, above all things, to have a truthful picture which shall appeal to the eye without distracting the imagination from the purpose of the drama.  It is a mistake to suppose that this enterprise is comparatively new to the stage.  Since Shakespeare’s time there has been a steady progress in this direction.  Even in the poet’s day every conceivable property was forced into requisition, and his own sense of shortcomings in this respect is shown in Henry V. when he exclaims:—­