laps? I knew a dramatic author who turned preacher. He preached that the doors of the theatre were the gates of hell; but he looked very sharply after his fees at the Dramatic Authors' Society.

When the declared opponents of the drama are unable, in the midst of their furious denunciations, wholly to conquer their hankering for the delights of the stage, it is little wonder that the love which those, who have no scruples, entertain for it, should so often amount to a passion. I have heard it said, and I believe it to be true, that some of our most eminent writers of romances and poems went to their graves envious and dissatisfied because they had never been able to write a successful play. To go as far back as possible, and to avoid the mention of present company, Milton was not content until he had written plays; and John Home, reverend and Presbyterian, risked his Geneva gown to taste the sweets of theatrical applause.

This predisposition towards dramatic literature is easily accounted for. To say nothing of the natural inclination of youth to indulge in the most lofty aspirations, and to essay that which is most difficult, there is, first of all, the desire to inscribe one's name on the same scroll with Shakespeare, even if it should be at the very bottom of the parchment. Then there is the popular belief, which stands fast amidst the ruin of all other creeds, that the world behind the scenes, to which the dramatic author is admitted, is a world of ideal beauty and delight-a wit's Paradise. Further, the aspirant has delicious visions of secing his name in play-bills and theatrical annals, of being called before the curtain to receive the applause of delighted thousands-of his portrait, perhaps, in the print-shop windows. Last, and most cogent of allsuccessful dramatic writing, successful even in the lowest and least degree, is the shortest road to fame. While other writers are toiling up the weary ascent with poems, or novels, or essays in their pockets, the fortunate youth who manages to squeeze through the stage-door with a farce in his hand, finds himself, at one bound, more than half way up Parnassus.

I daresay it is the thought of this that, on occasions, imparts fury to the pen of the outraged critic, condemned to tread the paths of obscurity. When I consider what aged, able, and unrequited critics have to endure in this way, I am only surprised that they are as amiable and indulgent as we find them. But it just shows how much we all love the drama, how much we respect it, that we are willing to glorify the author of even a piece of dramatic nonsense, translated from the French. Jest any one should question my statement, that the

shortest cut to literary fame is through the stage-door, let me give an illustration. Supposing that the unknown Jones were to write and print a volume of tolerably good poems, how many reviewers would trouble themselves to read them, and give an opinion upon them? Supposing the unknown Jones were to publish a tolerably good novel -say a very good novel-how long would it be before Jones's talent as a novelist would meet with due recognition? Weeks, months, years perhaps Jones the novelist would never be recognized. But let Jones write a farce-let him display his genius by making a number of dramatis persone knock each other into bandboxes, and break trayfuls of cups and saucers, and, lo and behold! the name of Jones is blazing next morning in every newspaper of the day. The labours of the poet and the novelist can wait for an indefinite period; but Jones the dramatic author, the adapter of a farce, must be attended to at once. Critics must sit up half the night to chronicle the exquisite humour of his bandboxes, and cups, and saucers.

Happy man, Jones. So thinks the play-going public; so, with envy, malice, and all uncharitableness towards Jones, think the army of disappointed aspirants for dramatic honours who have not chanced to succeed in squeezing themselves through the stage-door. Happy, indeed! How true it is that every man is apt to consider his neighbour's estate better than his own. Little does Jones think, in the first flush of his little triumph, that he is entering on a career of vexation and misery; that while he is weaving for himself a crown of laurels, he is at the same time stuffing his pillow with thorns.

Dramatic success is much valued, much envied. For this reason your literary companions never forgive you for getting a piece produced, and making a success on the stage. Envy and malice accumulate at every step of your career, and unless morally you have, as it were, the hide of a rhinoceros, your life will be made a torment to you. Walk in humble literary ways; write reports, reviews, leading articles, essays, any modest anonymous work of that kind, and you will be the best fellow and the cleverest fellow in the world with all your associates; but once let your name appear in a play-bill, and they hate you and envy you on the instant. You are no longer a good fellow, no longer a clever fellow.

A dramatic author once asked me to take a prominent part in bearding a manager of a theatre. His reason for selecting me was given thus:-"I am a dramatic author, and may some time or other have dealings with him, but you are never likely to write for the stage.”

"I beg your pardon," I answered, "I am likely to write for the stage. I am writing a piece for the stage now."

I shall never forget my friend's look of injury and amazement. I could see that it was a blow to him. All his reasons for liking me and associating with me were gone in that instant. I read in his mournful, reproachful eye, "This from you, whom I have loved, and patted on the back, and called clever."

The piece that I was then meditating was produced, and proved a great success. It was reported to me that a young author, who was two or three pieces ahead of me, was heard to exclaim, when the curtain fell amid thunders of applause and calls for the author, "Hang the fellow!"

The first misery which the newly-fledged dramatic author endures, is the envy of the unproduced. The literary associates who were on familiar and friendly terms of equality with him previously, become cold and distant on the morrow of his success. They cannot find it in their hearts to praise or glorify their fortunate friend. They are oppressed with a feeling that he has left them behind, that they could do what he has done much better. Good fellows though they may be at heart, they cannot wish him well in his new career. A vague, halfformed hope and desire arises in their breasts that his next piece may be a failure, or not quite so successful as the first. Let me say, before I go any further, that I am not greatly indignant at this; it is a weakness of human nature. I had such feelings myself when I was unproduced, and, though I despised, I could not entirely conquer, them.

The young dramatic author too often rushes at his second piece without due consideration, and, in consequence, not unfrequently rushes upon his fate. Critics are indulgent to first attempts, not always, perhaps, from the best motives. Perhaps they wish to scare the older hands, or to make a show of their own generosity. We all like to patronize the infant prodigy, who amuses everybody and interferes with nobody; but when the infant prodigy begins to push grown-up folks, who are not prodigies by any means, from their stools, we are apt to be seized with a desire to administer to the presumptuous prodigy a few corrective slaps-to stop his growth.

Young man, beware of your second piece. I have entered the brain of the critics, seated myself in the pineal gland of the dilettanti, and I know what passes there. It is this: Hallo! this young fellow again! He is going to be a regular dramatic author, is he?-going

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to take up a position, and fill a place!" No more infant-prodigy patronage for you, my friend. The critics, if you give them the chance, will be down upon you in all bitterness. But pass this ordeal successfully, and you are safe for the rest of the voyage, provided you continue to sail under the same colours. Half a dozen successful farces, even though they be from the French, are quite enough to cause you to be regarded as an old-established concern, and the world has a great respect for old-established concerns. No one is ready to suspect the presence of trichince in a sausage from Fortnum and Mason's. See how, after a while, they will come to talk, quite as a matter of course, of the fertile and facetious pen of Crasher.

But let the fertile and facetious pen of Crasher plume itself for a higher flight; let Crasher, if he can, persuade a manager to produce something of his in the way of a comedy, or a mild little two-act serio-comic drama. This is considered to be downright audacity upon the part of Crasher. Crasher will find at once that no one believes him capable of anything but farces. There is no reason in the world why a man who can write a good one-act farce should not write a good three, four, or five-act comedy. Indeed, the very fact that an author possesses the faculty of managing an amusing fable in one act, is the strongest presumption in favour of his being able to conduct a story through five acts. Crasher's friends and critics are not ignorant of this, but they don't believe he will succeed in comedy or drama, just because they don't wish him to succeed in that higher department. The dramatic ground is so small, so precious, and so envied, that every half-inch of it must be defended and disputed to the utmost.

Crasher must begin the fight all over again, and the struggle will be repeated at every new stage of his career, and will not cease until, by a repetition of five acts, he shall have beaten all his opponents into submission. No one knows as well as a dramatic author how successful success is.

This same Crasher, whom I have in my eye, began with farces, and ascended gradually, by the steps of pantomime, burlesque, and two-act domestic drama, to the dignity of three acts. Every step was a wellguarded Thermopyla, through which he had to cut his way, passing over the prostrate bodies of the envious, the grudging, and the malignant, himself pierced with a thousand arrows. He fondly hoped that, as he was reaching the eminent goal of three acts, his progress would be no longer opposed; but he was cruelly undeceived. All his

old opponents gathered themselves up for a last final desperate struggle. Crasher should not fix his teeth in that golden apple.

Long experience of pineal glands had quickened Crasher's perception. The very day after the announcement in the papers that he (Crasher) was to write the big drama for the Royal, he saw a blankness in the faces of all his friends and acquaintances, and he knew the cause of it. When he took the piece to the manager, and that great man was pleased to approve of it, he saw that his hopes of success were mingled with a regret that, while putting money in his own purse, he would be obliged to let Crasher make himself famous. The actors who were to play in his piece looked at him with evil eyes, for, though their bread and cheese depended upon his success, they could not allow themselves to believe that Crasher would achieve it. In the green-room, on the stage, in the club, in the streets, Crasher, while his great drama was in preparation, was conscious that envy, and malice, and all uncharitableness, were hanging about him in a foul, stifling atmosphere. He almost felt inclined to cry aloud, "Cleanse your hearts towards me, take those terrible eyes from me, and I will burn this thing, and provoke you no more." But it was too late; he must go on, though envy should choke him.

Crasher was foolish enough to invite a number of his friends to witness a dress rehearsal of his piece on the night preceding its production. Dress rehearsals are always flat and ineffective, and Crasher, standing behind his friends in the stalls, had the satisfaction of seeing and hearing them shrug their shoulders, elevate their eyebrows, and say, "Poor Crasher!" He saw them gather into knots, and whisper mysteriously: he noticed that they shunned him. He had no occasion. to ask their opinion, he saw it in their eyes. The very backs of their ears were ugly with bad omen. [Did nobody ever notice the various expressions of the human ear?

It is not alone dogs whose ears

express savageness and chagrin, and indicate evil thoughts.]

Crasher made a great mistake in inviting his friends to that dress rehearsal. They saw the piece at its worst, and they went away to breathe and look, and with eyebrow and ear-talk to express anticipations of failure. Young man, never be so misguided as to ask friends to a rehearsal. Don't ask your friends to be present even on the first night. The very wife of your bosom, who loves you, if you ask her what she thinks of it on the first night, will be sure to begin her reply by pointing out the faults. It is not in human nature warmly and generously to commend a play, however good it may be, without