“Ah, that’s good; that’s very good, indeed,” said the actor, nodding sagely.  “Do you remember what I was saying to you the other day about the educative power of the stage?  That’s what it is, you see; the greatest educative power in the land.  How did that last scene go?  Made the people in the stalls sit up a bit, I reckon.  Ah, it’s a great life, this.  Talk of art!  I tell you, young gentleman, acting’s the only art worthy of the name.  The actor’s all the artists in creation rolled into one.  Every art that exists conspires to produce him and to perfect him.  Painting, for instance; did you ever see anything to compare with that Banqueting Scene in the Palace?  Why, it’s a triumph of pictorial art, and, by Jove, of architecture too.  And the actor doesn’t only paint scenes—­or get them painted for him, it comes to the same thing—­he paints himself.  Look at me, for instance.  Why, I could paint you, young gentleman, so that your own mother wouldn’t know you.  With a few strokes of the brush I could transform you into a beautiful young girl, or a wrinkled old Jew, or an Artful Dodger, or anything else you had a fancy for.  Music, again—­think of the effect of that slow music in the first act.  There was pathos for you, if you like.  Oratory—­talk of Demosthenes or Cicero, Mr Gladstone or John Bright!  Why, they’re nowhere, my dear young friend, literally nowhere.  Didn’t my description of the dream just fetch you?  Be honest now; by George, Sir, it thrilled the house.  Look here, young man”—­and Sardanapalus began to speak very slowly, with tremendous emphasis and solemnity—­“and remember what I’m going to say until your dying day.  If I were to drink too much of this, I should be intoxicated; but what is the intoxication produced by whiskey compared with the intoxication of applause?  Just think of it, as soberly and calmly as you can—­hundreds of people, all in their right minds, stamping and shouting and yelling for you to come and show yourself before the curtain; the entire house at your feet.  Why, it’s worship, Sir, sheer worship; and worship is a very sacred thing.  Show me the man who’s superior to that, and I’ll show you a man who’s either above or below the level of human nature.  Whatever he may be, I don’t envy him.  To-morrow morning I shall be an ordinary citizen in a frock-coat and a tall hat.  To-night I’m a king, a god.  What other artist can say as much?”

So saying, Sardanapalus puffed up his cigar and swallowed another half-glass of liquor.  The pungent smoke made Austin cough and blink.  “It must indeed be an exciting life,” he ventured; “quite delirious, to judge from what you say.”

“It requires a cool head,” replied Sardanapalus, with a stoical shrug.  “Ah! there’s the bell,” he added, as a loud ting was heard outside.  “The curtain’s going up.  Now hurry away to the front, and see the last act.  The scene where I’m burnt on the top of all my treasures isn’t to be missed.  It’s the grandest and most moving scene in any play upon the stage.  And watch the expression of my face,” said Mr Buskin, as he applied the powder-puff to his cheeks and nose.  “Gestures are all very well—­any fool can be taught to act with his arms and legs.  But expression!  That’s where the heaven-born genius comes in.  However, I must be off.  Good-night, young gentleman, good-night.”