remuneration for ordinary translations from
the French, I would rather not mention what
that is. And, indeed, there is no need I
should do so. We are talking of the stage
in its present relation to English literature.
Suppose I wrote for it, as some of my friends
suggest I should ; and suppose I could produce
one thoroughly original play, with a story of
my own sole invention, with characters of
my own sole creation, every year. The
utmost annual income the English stage
would, at present prices, pay me, after
exhausting my brains in its service, would be
three hundred pounds !

I use the expression " exhausting my
brains," advisedly. For a man who produces
a new work, every year, which has any real
value and completeness as a work of literary
Art, does, let him be who he may, for a time,
exhaust his brain by the process, and leave
it sorely in need of an after-period of absolute
repose. Three hundred a-year, therefore,
is the utmost that a fertile original
author can expect to get by the stage, at
present market-rates of remuneration.

Such is now the position of the dramatic
writer—a special man, with a special faculty.
What is now the position of the dramatic
performer, when he happens to be a special
man, with a special faculty also? Is his
income three hundred a-year! Is his
manager's income three hundred a-year?
The popular actors of the time when Colman
got his twelve hundred pounds would be
struck dumb with amazement, if they saw what
salaries their successors are getting now. If
stage remuneration has decreased sordidly in
our time for authorship, it has increased
splendidly for actorship. When a manager tells
me now that his theatre cannot afford to pay
me half or a quarter as much for my idea in
the form of a play, as I can get for it in the
form of a novel—or as I could have got for
it in Colman's time—he really means that he
and his actors take a great deal more now
from the nightly receipts of the theatres than
they ever thought of taking in the time of
John Bull. When the actors' profits from
the theatre are largely increased, somebody
else's profits from the same theatre must be
decreased. That somebody else is the
dramatic author. There you have the real
secret of the mean rate at which the English
stage now estimates the assistance of English
Literature.

There are persons whose interest it may
be to deny this; and who will deny it. It is
not a question of assertion or denial, but a
question of figures. How much per week did
a popular actor get in Colman's time ? How
much per week does a popular actor get now?
The biographies of dead players will answer
the first question. And the managers' books,
for the past ten or fifteen years, will answer
the second. I must not give offence by
comparisons between living and dead men—I
must not enter into details, because they
would lead me too near to the private affairs
of other people. But I tell you again, that
the remuneration for good acting has
immensely increased in our time, and I am not
afraid of having that assertion contradicted
by proofs.

I know it may be said that, in quoting
Colman's twelve hundred pounds, I have
quoted an exceptional instance. Perfectly
true. But the admission strengthens my
case, for it sets results in this form: in
Colman's time, the exceptional price was twelve
hundred pounds; in ours it is three hundred.
Let us go into particulars, and see whether
facts and figures justify the extraordinary
disproportion between the reward which
theatrical success brought to the author at
the beginning of the present century, and
the reward which it brings now.

Colman's comedy of John Bull, was
produced at Covent Garden Theatre in the
year eighteen hundred and three. The
average receipts taken at the doors during
the run of the play, were four hundred
and seventy pounds, per night. John Bull
ran forty-seven nights. Multiply four hundred
and seventy pounds by forty-seven
nights, and the gross receipts of the theatre,
during the time of John Bull, amount, in
round numbers, to twenty-two thousand
pounds. A prodigious sum, produced by an
exceptional dramatic success. Exceptional
remuneration to author, twelve hundred pounds.

Now, for the present time. A remarkably
successful play runs one hundred nights at
the present day. But we must set against
that fact in the author's favour, two facts in
the manager's favour. Excepting Drury Lane,
all our theatres are smaller than the Covent
Garden Theatre of Colman's time; and, in
every case, Drury Lane included, our prices
of admission are much lower. We will say,
therefore, that while an unusually successful
modern play runs its hundred nights, the
theatre takes at the doors only one hundred
and ten pounds per night. Any
person conversant with theatrical matters
would probably tell you that one hundred
and fifty pounds per night would be nearer
the average of the money taken at the
doors of all our theatres—large and small—
during the run of a particularly successful
play. However, we will err on the right
side; we will exaggerate the poverty-stricken
condition of starving actors and managers
in the present day; and we will say that
our modern play which is a great "hit,"
runs one hundred nights to houses which
take one hundred and ten pounds per night
at the doors. Multiply one hundred and ten
pounds by one hundred nights, and the
product is eleven thousand pounds. Exactly
half of what the theatre got in the time of
John Bull. Does the successful author meet
with the same justice now, which he met
with in Colman's time?—in other words,
does he get half of what Colman got, for