neighbouring inn. And there, under the broad hat of one of these
rejoicing peasants, I recognised the bull-frog face that had puzzled
me that day at Epsom. In a flash I remembered him and all the scenes
in which he had played a humble part. Far back from the dimness of
some of my earliest theatrical experiences, up to the present moment,
I followed him on his career, simulating joint merriment, bearing one
of many banners, carrying a pike or a halberd in an army similarly
armed, conspiring in a mantle, draining a brimming goblet, but
never--at least within my recollection--taking a part of any
individuality, or one that gave him a chance of singing or speaking a
single line by himself. He had been one of the ruck when I had first
seen him, and now, after at least twenty years, the ruck still claimed
him for its own. I remember I had woven a sort of romance about him.
There, I had thought to myself, is a man who, no doubt, began his
stage career with high aspirations, and noble ambitions. It cannot
have been his aim to figure for ever merely as one of a crowd. And I
had pictured him gradually losing hope, and wearing his heart out
in the bitterness of deferred ambition as he walked gloomily through
life, with the stamp of failure on his brow. The picture was a
pathetic one, you must admit, worthy to take its place on the line
with the well-known fancy sketch of the Clown who, after making the
masses split their sides, goes home to a private life of penury and
despair.

Well, that day I had seen a piece of my friend's private life
at Epsom. Nothing could have been farther removed from misery. A
light-hearted gaiety reigned in his face and ruled his every gesture.
His companions seemed to bow to him, as to their leading humorist and
mirth-maker. I was stimulated by the collapse of my elaborate illusion
to make inquiries about him. I found that he had been born almost on
the stage, and had taken part in stage-life from his earliest years.
He never had any ambition: so long as he could be on the stage,
and take part in its life, his desires were satisfied. He lived an
absolutely contented life, smoked infamous tobacco out of clay-pipes,
and was in high repute amongst his intimates as a singer of jovial
songs, and a teller of brisk theatrical anecdotes. There was not a
spark of envy in his nature. He honoured the great actors, and was
always ready to do all he could to smooth the path of any nervous
youngster with excellent