I now, for the first time in my theatrical life, knew what true
pleasure is. I have known enough of notoriety to pity the poor devils
who are called favorites of the public. I would rather be a kitten in
the arms of a spoiled child, to be one moment petted and pampered, and
the next moment thumped over the head with the spoon. I smile, too, to
see our leading actors, fretting themselves with envy and jealousy
about a trumpery renown, questionable in its quality and uncertain in
its duration. I laugh, too, though of course in my sleeve, at the
bustle and importance and trouble and perplexities of our manager, who
is harassing himself to death in the hopeless effort to please every
body.
I have found among my fellow subalterns two or three quondam managers,
who, like myself, have wielded the sceptres of country theatres; and we
have many a sly joke together at the expense of the manager and the
public. Sometimes, too, we meet like deposed and exiled kings, talk
over the events of our respective reigns; moralize over a tankard of
ale, and laugh at the humbug of the great and little world; which, I
take it, is the very essence of practical philosophy.
Thus end the anecdotes of Buckthorne and his friends. A few mornings
after our hearing the history of the ex-manager, he bounced into my
room before I was out of bed.
"Give me joy! give me joy!" said he, rubbing his hands with the utmost
glee, "my great expectations are realized!"
I stared at him with a look of wonder and inquiry.
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