Mrs. Brown's grandfather, or some early ancestor of the New
Doctor's.

We shall criticize Heaven when we get there. I doubt if any of us will
be pleased with the arrangements; we have grown so exceedingly critical.

It was once said of a very superior young man that he seemed to be under
the impression that God Almighty had made the universe chiefly to hear
what he would say about it. Consciously or unconsciously, most of us are
of this way of thinking. It is an age of mutual improvement societies--a
delightful idea, everybody's business being to improve everybody else;
of amateur parliaments, of literary councils, of playgoers' clubs.

First Night criticism seems to have died out of late, the Student of the
Drama having come to the conclusion, possibly, that plays are not worth
criticizing. But in my young days we were very earnest at this work. We
went to the play, less with the selfish desire of enjoying our evening,
than with the noble aim of elevating the Stage. Maybe we did good,
maybe we were needed--let us think so. Certain it is, many of the old
absurdities have disappeared from the Theatre, and our rough-and-ready
criticism may have helped the happy dispatch. A folly is often served by
an unwise remedy.

The dramatist in those days had to reckon with his audience. Gallery and
Pit took an interest in his work such as Galleries and Pits no longer
take. I recollect witnessing the production of a very blood-curdling
melodrama at, I think, the old Queen's Theatre. The heroine had been
given by the author a quite unnecessary amount of conversation, so we
considered. The woman, whenever she appeared on the stage, talked by the
yard; she could not do a simple little thing like cursing the Villain
under about twenty lines. When the hero asked her if she loved him she
stood up and made a speech about it that lasted three minutes by the
watch. One dreaded to see her open her mouth. In the Third Act, somebody
got hold of her and shut her up in a dungeon. He was not a nice man,
speaking generally, but we felt he was the man for the situation, and
the house cheered him to the echo. We flattered ourselves we had got
rid of her for the rest of the evening. Then some fool of a turnkey came
along, and she appealed to him, through the grating, to let her out for
a few minutes. The turnkey, a good but soft-hearted man, hesitated.

"Don't you do it," shouted one earnest Student of the Drama, from the
Gallery; "she's all right