To singers, the convenient position of the prompter is a matter of real importance.  Their memories are severely tried, for, in addition to the words, they have to bear in mind the music of their parts.  While delivering their scenas they are compelled to remain almost stationary, well in front of the stage, so that their voices may be thrown towards their audience and not lose effect by escaping into the flies.  Meanwhile their hasty movement towards a prompter in the wings, upon any sudden forgetfulness of the words of their songs, would be most awkward and unseemly.  It is very necessary that their prompter and their conductor should be their near neighbours, able to render them assistance and support upon the shortest notice.  But this proximity of the prompter has, perhaps, induced them to rely too much upon his help, and to burden their memories too little.  The majority of singers are but indifferently acquainted with the words they are required to utter.  They gather these as they want them, from the hidden friend in his hutch at their feet.  The occupants of the proscenium boxes at the opera-houses must be familiarly acquainted with the tones of the prompter’s voice, as he delivers to the singers, line by line, the matter of their parts; and occasionally these stage whispers are audible at a greater distance from the foot-lights.  In operatic performances, however, the words are of very inferior importance to the music; the composer quite eclipses the author.  A musician has been known to call a libretto the “verbiage” of his opera.  The term was not perhaps altogether inappropriate.  Even actors are apt to underrate the importance of the speeches they are called upon to deliver, laying the greater stress upon the “business” they propose to originate, or the scenic effects that are to be introduced into the play.  They sometimes describe the words of their parts as “cackle.”  But perhaps this term also may be accepted as applying, fitly enough, to much of the dialogue of the modern drama.

It is a popular notion that, although all persons may not be endowed with histrionic gifts, it is open to everybody to perform the duties of a prompter without preparation or study.  Still the office requires some exercise of care and judgment.  “Here’s a nice mess you’ve got me into,” said once a tragedian, imperfect in his text, to an inexperienced or incautious prompter.  “What am I to do now?  Thanks to you, I’ve been and spoken all the next act!” And the prompter has a task of serious difficulty before him when the actors are but distantly acquainted with their parts, or “shy of the syls,” that is, syllables, as they prefer to describe their condition.  “Where have they got to now?” he has sometimes to ask himself, when he finds them making havoc of their speeches, missing their cues, and leading him a sort of steeple-chase through the book of the play.  It is the golden rule of the player who is “stuck”—­at a loss for words—­to “come to Hecuba,”