the public eye. I have adapted this simple device to our occasion by
thrusting into my perfectly modern three-act play a totally extraneous
act in which my hero, enchanted by the air of the Sierra, has a dream in
which his Mozartian ancestor appears and philosophizes at great length
in a Shavio-Socratic dialogue with the lady, the statue, and the devil.

But this pleasantry is not the essence of the play. Over this essence
I have no control. You propound a certain social substance, sexual
attraction to wit, for dramatic distillation; and I distil it for you.
I do not adulterate the product with aphrodisiacs nor dilute it with
romance and water; for I am merely executing your commission, not
producing a popular play for the market. You must therefore (unless,
like most wise men, you read the play first and the preface afterwards)
prepare yourself to face a trumpery story of modern London life, a life
in which, as you know, the ordinary man's main business is to get means
to keep up the position and habits of a gentleman, and the ordinary
woman's business is to get married. In 9,999 cases out of 10,000, you
can count on their doing nothing, whether noble or base, that conflicts
with these ends; and that assurance is what you rely on as their
religion, their morality, their principles, their patriotism, their
reputation, their honor and so forth.

On the whole, this is a sensible and satisfactory foundation for
society. Money means nourishment and marriage means children; and that
men should put nourishment first and women children first is, broadly
speaking, the law of Nature and not the dictate of personal ambition.
The secret of the prosaic man's success, such as it is, is the
simplicity with which he pursues these ends: the secret of the artistic
man's failure, such as that is, is the versatility with which he strays
in all directions after secondary ideals. The artist is either a poet