“I believe he was quoting an advertisement,” interpolated Austin.

“An ad., eh?” said the mummer, somewhat disconcerted.  “Oh, well, I shouldn’t be surprised.  Of course I have nothing to do with such things.  That’s the business of the advance-agent.  And did he really put in that?  I positively must speak to him about it.  A good fellow, you know, but rather inclined to let his zeal outrun his discretion.  It’s not good business to raise too great expectations, is it, now?”

Austin, in his innocence, scarcely took in the meaning of all this.  But it was clear enough that Mr Buskin was a great personage in his way, and extremely modest into the bargain.  His interest was now very much excited, and he awaited eagerly what the communicative gentleman would say next.

“I should think it would take,” continued Mr Buskin, warming to his subject.  “It’s a most magnificent spectacle when it’s properly done—­as we do it.  There’s a scene in the third act—­the Banquet in the Royal Palace—­that’s something you won’t forget as long as you live.  A gorgeous hall, brilliantly illuminated—­the whole Court in glittering costumes—­the tables covered with gold and silver plate.  Peals of thunder, and a frightful tempest raging outside.  In the midst of the revels a conspiracy breaks out—­enter Pania, bloody—­Sardanapalus assumes a suit of armour, and admires himself in a looking-glass—­and then the rival armies burst in, and a terrific battle ensues——­”

“What, in the dining-room?” asked the astonished Austin.

“Well, well, the poet allows himself a bit of licence there, I admit; but that only gives us an opportunity of showing what fine stage-management can do,” said Mr Buskin complacently.  “It’s a magnificent situation.  You’ll say you never saw anything like it since you were born, you just mark my words.”

“It certainly must be very wonderful,” remarked Austin.  “But I’m afraid I’m rather ignorant of such matters.  What is ‘Sardanapalus,’ may I ask?”

“What, never heard of Byron’s ’Sardanapalus’?” exclaimed the actor, throwing up his hands.  “Why, it’s one of the finest things ever put upon the boards.  Full of telling effects, and not too many bothering lengths, you know.  The Poet Laureate, dear good man, worried my life out a year ago to let him write a play upon the subject especially for me.  The part of Sardanapalus was to be devised so as to bring out all my particular—­er—­capabilities, and any little hints that might occur to me were to be acted upon and embodied in the text.  But I wouldn’t hear of it.  ‘Me dear Alfred,’ I said, ’it isn’t that I underrate your very well-known talents, but Byron’s good enough for me.  Hang it all, you know, an artist owes something to the classics of his country.’  So now, if that uneasy spirit ever looks this way from the land of the eternal shades, he’ll see something at least to comfort him.  He’ll see that one actor, at least, not unknown to Europe, has vindicated his reputation as a playwright in the face of the British public.”