flower in the imagination of the dramatist.

When that day comes, the actor, who used to "create" the part, will
have to be content to let the part create him. The play will make
the actor, not the actor the play; to the great benefit of both play
and actor.

But why be so serious over an art whose end is only to amuse? To
amuse? Yes; but we are not all equally amused by the same things.
There may be forms of humour which tickle some people more
exquisitely than even that magnificent making of tea in an old
gentleman's hat, which convulses the _Charley's Aunt_ audience. And
if amusement be the object of the drama, we must take the word in an
extended sense. I should myself roughly define a good play as one
that, when adequately performed, can hold the attention of an
unprejudiced audience from beginning to end, whether it amuses or
merely interests them. It does not follow that because it may shock,
or even bore, some worthy people it is a bad play. Even farcical
comedy bores some people, with whom I cannot sympathise.

And now, if I have been rather hard upon the "well-made play," it
must not be assumed that it is because I do not value construction.
I do value it. But it should be vital, not academic, organic, not
mechanical. Still, even mechanical construction is better than none
at all. A play without plot is invertebrate, without bones. It is
at his peril that a dramatist departs from accepted rules, even
those respecting "strong" curtains and "strong" exits, though in
certain cases weak curtains and weak exits may be more really
dramatic. Then, valuable as dialogue is, it may be redundant, and
make a play "flabby." The actor's rule, that all talk that does not