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stage; and I ask, Would not my fellows and myself largely remunerate a similar opportunity? For though the rich go repeatedly to the play, yet the middle-class are so much more numerous that the difference is amply compensated.
I think we may take it, then, that an experiment in the depicting of professional life would, even from the financial standpoint, be workable; and I would even go so far as to suggest that a play could be written in which there did not appear one single lord, general, Member of Parliament, baronet, professional beauty, usurer (upon a large scale at least) or Cabinet Minister.
The thing is possible: and I can modestly say that in the little effort appended as an example to these lines it has been done successfully; but here must be mentioned the second point in my thesis--I could never have achieved what I have here achieved in dramatic art had I not harked back to the great tradition of the English heroic decasyllable such as our Shakespeare has handled with so felicitous an effect.
The play--which I have called "The Crisis," and which I design to be the model of the school founded by these present advices--is specially designed for acting with the sumptuous accessories at the disposal of a great manager, such as Mr. (now Sir Henry) Beerbohm Tree, or for the narrower circumstances of the suburban drawing-room.
There is perhaps but one character which needs any long rehearsal, that of the dog Fido, and luckily this is one which can easily be supplied by mechanical means, as by the use of a toy dog of sufficient size which barks upon the pressure of a pneumatic attachment.
In connexion with this character I would have the student note that I have introduced into the dog's part just before the curtain a whole line of dactyls. I hope the hint will not be wasted. Such exceptions relieve the monotony of our English trochees. But, saving in this instance, I have confined myself throughout to the example of William Shakespeare, surely the best master for those who, as I fondly hope, will follow me in the regeneration of the British Stage.

THE CRISIS
PLACE: The Study at the Vicarage. TIME 9.15 _p.m._
DRAMATIS PERSON?
THE REV. ARCHIBALD HAVERTON: The Vicar.
MRS. HAVERTON: His Wife.
MISS GROSVENOR: A Governess.
MATILDA: A Maid.
FIDO: A Dog.
HERMIONE COBLEY: Daughter of a cottager who takes in washing.
MISS HARVEY: A guest, cousin to Mrs. Haverton, a Unitarian.
(The REV. ARCHIBALD HAVERTON _is reading the "Standard" by a lamp with a green shade_. MRS. HAVERTON is hemming a towel. FIDO _is asleep on the rug. On the walls are three engravings from Landseer, a portrait of Her late Majesty Queen Victoria, a bookcase with books in it, and a looking-glass_.)
MRS. HAVERTON: My dear--I hope I do not interrupt you-- Helen has given notice.
REV. A. HAVERTON (_looking up suddenly_). Given notice? Who? Helen? Given notice? Bless my soul! (A pause.) I never thought that she would give us notice. (_Ponders and frowns._)
MRS. HAVERTON: Well, but she has, and now the question is, What shall we do to find another cook? Servants are very difficult to get. (_Sighs._) Especially to come into the country To such a place as this. (_Sighs._) No wonder, either! Oh! Mercy! When one comes to think of it, One cannot blame them. (_Sighs._) Heaven only knows I try to do my duty! (_Sighs profoundly._)
REV. A. HAVERTON (_uneasily_): Well, my dear, I cannot make preferment.
(_Front door-bell rings._)
FIDO: Bow! wow! wow!
REV. A. HAVERTON (_patting him to soothe him_): There, Fido, there!
FIDO: Wow! wow!
REV. A. HAVERTON: Good dog, there!
FIDO: Wow, Wow, wow!
REV. A. HAVERTON (_very nervous_): There!
FIDO: Wow! wow!
REV. A. HAVERTON (_in an agony_): Good dog!
FIDO: Bow! wow! wow! Wow, wow! Wow!! WOW!!!
MRS. HAVERTON (_very excited_): Oh, Lord, he'll wake the children!
REV. A. HAVERTON (_exploding_): How often have I told you, Dorothy, Not to exclaim "Good Lord!"... Apart from manners-- Which have their own importance--blasphemy (And I regard the phrase as blasphemous) Cannot--
MRS. HAVERTON (_uneasily_): Oh, very well!... Oh, very well! (Exploding in her turn.) Upon my soul, you are intolerable! (_She jumps up and makes for the door. Before she gets to it there is a knock and_ MATILDA enters.)
MATILDA: Please, m'm, it's only Mrs. Cobley's daughter To say the washing shall be sent to-morrow, And would you check the list again and see, Because she thinks she never had two collars Of what you sent, but only five, because You marked it seven; and Mrs. Cobley says There must be some mistake.
REV. A. HAVERTON (_pompously_): I will attend to it.
MRS. HAVERTON (_whispering angrily_): How can you, Archibald! You haven't got The ghost of an idea about the washing! Sit down. (He does so.) (_To Matilda_) Send the Girl in here.
MRS. HAVERTON sits down in a fume.
REV. A. HAVERTON: I think....
MRS. HAVERTON (_snapping_): I don't care