the genteel people in the boxes to roll themselves
ungenteely on the red velvet cushions; you
must cause ribs to ache, and the eyes overflow.
In three acts you may venture to be respectable;
but in a farce — a mere trifle, an absurdity.
Nothing short of the great convulsion of human
nature — that of making people laugh till they cry
— will satisfy the public, and, let me add, the
manager. I have found out what the manager
of the Royal Screamer does on the first nights of
my farces. For some time I flattered myself that
he sat in a private box to enjoy my productions
in common with the public. I have been cruelly
undeceived. He sits upstairs in his room, writing
his letters — leaving the door open to hear
whether the people laugh or not. If his critical
ear should catch a prolonged roar every other
second, he is satisfied that the piece is a good
one, and pays without a murmur. But if there
be anything like wide gaps of time between the
roars — say a minute and a half — he will probably
propose a reduction.

Now look at the cruelty and injustice of this
proceeding! Supposing I were employed to
write five-act comedies — for which high class of
drama I am peculiarly fitted — would the manager
then be able to judge of my productions from
distant echoes? Certainly not. The test of a
comedy is not laughter. A comedy does not
require to be funny. Speaking of modern
comedy, I am confirmed in the opinion that the
one essential requisite of pieces of that class is
a negative one. If they don't make the people
absolutely hiss, they are a success, and their
authors are dignified with the name of dramatists;
while I, whose merits are of the most
positive kind, am set down as a writer of
"trifles." How do the critics notice Shakespeare
Smith's comedy in five acts? Well, they
don't say it is good — how should they? But
they devote a column to it, and exalt it with the
name of a " work;" while I am disposed of in a
few hasty lines, though it is admitted that I
sent the audience home with aching sides.
Shakespeare Smith, who, I have no hesitation in
saying, is imbecile, gets credit for " works." I
— born a true poet — am dubbed a farceur. The
taunt pursues me even to the domestic circle
and the social board. Does not my friend
M'Fling open upon me at our club suppers in
the terrible accents of Clackmannan, and ask, in
the intervals of shouting for mair toddy, why I
don't write " worrks?" " Write worrks, sir,"
roars M'Fling; " worrrks, worrrrks" — and he
snaps his fingers at me in contempt. Why, I
ask, is Shakespeare Smith, who is known by
every one of his acquaintance to be a dull dog —
with some slight knowledge of the French language
— why is this person to be exalted above
me? Because of his superior talent? No;
simply because he writes in five dull acts,
instead of in one single lively act. He writes
worrks.

And there is the sensation dramatist: that
great man of this age of thunder, whose treasury
is a golden mint, who resides in a palatial mansion
and drives down to the dingy stage-door in
a magnificent chariot. If you were to get at
this illustrious man's opinion of himself (and it
is not difficult to obtain), you would probably
find that he places himself on the same pedestal
with Shakespeare — I don't mean Shakespeare
Smith, but Shakespeare of Avon. Now here am
I occupying a Bloomsbury first floor and riding
down to the Screamer on rehearsal days — only
on wet ones — in the twopenny 'bus. Why is
this? Do you mean to tell me that I could not
write sensation dramas and coin my own money,
if I had the chance? Could not I buy a shilling
book at a stall — or, in default of the shilling,
borrow one — and make a drama out of it? And
would it be a work of superhuman genius in me,
or, in the words of the classic orator, any other
man, to write in at the end of the second act as
a stage direction, " Here the villain carries the
heroine off in a balloon; the lover arrives, fires
a rifle at the villain, who tumbles to the earth,
and the heroine descends in safety in a
parachute, extemporised out of her crinoline"? I
really must be allowed to say that my genius is
equal to this. But where is the manager who
will allow me to take so short and easy a road
to fame and fortune? I pause for a reply. No
response. Of course not. " Stick to your farces
and burlesques, my boy. These big works are
not in your line; leave them to Pouncer and
Bouncer."

Now, look you, my friends, I am well acquainted
with Pouncer. I have taken stock of
his mental machinery, and know every spring and
cog in it. In fact, he has taken the whole
machine to pieces, and laid it before me repeatedly.
What I say, then, of the case, Pouncer,
is, that it encloses a very common movement.
No escapement, no jewelled holes, no three-quarter
plate— quite a common verge affair.
Why do I not stand in the shoes — patent
leather — of Pouncer? Be it understood I envy
no man; but quite in an abstract way, and as a
question of art: I repeat, Why do I not stand
in the high-heeled patent leathers of Pouncer?
Simply for this reason: — Pouncer and I went
out one day without shoes, and it happened
quite by accident that Pouncer stumbled upon
that high-heeled patent leather pair, while I,
less favoured by fate, or fortune, fell in with
these low-heeled slippers. Perhaps you ask why,
if I am so much stronger than Pouncer, I did
not hustle him, and take the patent leathers
from him? Not so easy a matter as you imagine.
When the world catches you in a good pair of
shoes it nails them to your feet; or, with the
same even-handed injustice, let it catch you in
down-at-heel slippers, and it nails, it clenches,
them upon you. I am firmly persuaded that if
I had had the good fortune to stumble upon the
shoes, Pouncer would have worn out the slippers
in treading the walks of Profound Obscurity.
One, with whom I have everything in
common, has said, " All the world's a stage."
Let me carry out the simile in my own way,
and add, perforated with round and square
holes — and all the men and women merely
pegs. Now, I am thoroughly convinced that,