on against the interlopers. I am, indeed,
one of them myself. And I am worse than one of them. I do not merely go
to this or that court on this or that special occasion. I frequent the
courts whenever I have nothing better to do. And it is rarely that, as
one who cares to study his fellow-creatures, I have anything better to
do. I greatly wonder that the courts are frequented by so few other
people who have no special business there.

I can understand the glamour of the theatre. You find yourself in a
queerly-shaped place, cut off from the world, with plenty of gilding
and red velvet or blue satin. An orchestra plays tunes calculated to
promote suppressed excitement. Presently up goes a curtain, revealing
to you a mimic world, with ladies and gentlemen painted and padded to
appear different from what they are. It is precisely the people most
susceptible to the glamour of the theatre who are the greatest
hindrances to serious dramatic art. They will stand anything, no matter
how silly, in a theatre. Fortunately, there seems to be a decline in
the number of people who are acutely susceptible to the theatre's
glamour. I rather think the reason for this is that the theatre has
been over-exploited by the press. Quite old people will describe to you
their early playgoings with a sense of wonder, an enthusiasm,
which--leaving a wide margin for the charm that past things must always
have--will not be possible to us when we babble to our grandchildren.
Quite young people, people ranging between the ages of four and five,
who have seen but one or two pantomimes, still seem to have the glamour
of the theatre full on them. But adolescents, and people in the prime
of life, do merely, for the most part, grumble about the quality of the
plays. Yet the plays of our time are somewhat better than the plays
that were written for our elders. Certainly the glamour of the theatre
has waned. And so much the better for the drama's future.

It is a matter of concern, that future, to me who have for so long a
time been a dramatic critic. A man soon comes to care, quite
unselfishly, about the welfare of the thing in which he has
specialised. Of course, I care selfishly too. For, though it is just as
easy for a critic to write interestingly about bad things as about good
things, he would rather, for choice, be in contact with good things. It
is always nice to combine business and pleasure. But one regrets, even
then, the business. If I were a for