not by the stage alone, but by the _theatre_ in a larger
sense of the word: by the audience, the attendants, the arrangements,
the very process of getting to the playhouse. The English stage of
to-day, of which I more particularly speak, certainly holds the mirror
as little as possible up to nature--to any nature, at least, usually
recognized in the British islands. Nine-tenths of the plays performed
upon it are French originals, subjected to the mysterious process of
"adaptation"; marred as French pieces and certainly not mended as
English; transplanted from the Gothic soil into a chill and neutral
region where they bloom hardly longer than a handful of cut flowers
stuck into moist sand. They cease to have any representative value as
regards French manners, and they acquire none as regards English; they
belong to an order of things which has not even the merit of being
"conventional," but in which barbarism, chaos, and crudity hold
undisputed sway. The English drama of the last century deserved the
praise, in default of any higher, of being "conventional"; for there
was at least a certain method in its madness; it had its own ideal, its
own foolish logic and consistency. But he would be wise who should be
able to indicate the ideal, artistic and intellectual, of the English
drama of today. It is violently and hopelessly irresponsible. When one
says "English drama" one uses the term for convenience' sake; one means
simply the plays that are acted at the London theatres and transferred
thence to the American. They are neither English nor a drama; they have
not that minimum of ponderable identity at which appreciation finds a
starting-point. As the metaphysicians say, they are simply not
cognizable. And yet in spite of all this, the writer of these lines has
ventured to believe that the London theatres are highly characteristic
of English civilization. The plays testify indirectly if not directly
to the national manners, and the whole system on which play-going is
conducted completes the impression which the pieces make upon the
observer. One can imagine, indeed, nothing more characteristic than
such a fact as that a theatre-going people is hopelessly destitute of a
drama.

I ventured a month ago to record in these pages a few reminiscences of
the Comedie Francaise; and I have a sort of feeling that my readers may,
in the light of my present undertaking, feel prompted to accuse me of a
certain levity. There is a want of