of vision, on the other, his individuality of method.  He may fall under the influence of some great master, and see life only through his eyes; or he may become so habituated to the current tricks of the theatrical trade as to lose all sense of their conventionality and falsity, and find himself, in the end, better fitted to write what I have called a quack handbook than a living play.  It would be ridiculous, of course, to urge an aspirant positively to avoid the theatre; but the common advice to steep himself in it is beset with dangers.

It may be asked why, if I have any guidance and help to give, I do not take it myself, and write plays instead of instructing others in the art.  This is a variant of an ancient and fallacious jibe against criticism in general.  It is quite true that almost all critics who are worth their salt are “stickit” artists.  Assuredly, if I had the power, I should write plays instead of writing about them; but one may have a great love for an art, and some insight into its principles and methods, without the innate faculty required for actual production.  On the other hand, there is nothing to show that, if I were a creative artist, I should be a good mentor for beginners.  An accomplished painter may be the best teacher of painters; but an accomplished dramatist is scarcely the best guide for dramatists.  He cannot analyse his own practice, and discriminate between that in it which is of universal validity, and that which may be good for him, but would be bad for any one else.  If he happened to be a great man, he would inevitably, even if unconsciously, seek to impose upon his disciples his individual attitude towards life; if he were a lesser man, he would teach them only his tricks.  But dramatists do not, as a matter of fact, take pupils or write handbooks.[2] When they expound their principles of art, it is generally in answer to, or in anticipation of, criticism—­with a view, in short, not to helping others, but to defending themselves.  If beginners, then, are to find any systematic guidance, they must turn to the critics, not to the dramatists; and no person of common sense holds it a reproach to a critic to tell him that he is a “stickit” playwright.

If questions are worth discussing at all, they are worth discussing gravely.  When, in the following pages, I am found treating with all solemnity matters of apparently trivial detail, I beg the reader to believe that very possibly I do not in my heart overrate their importance.  One thing is certain, and must be emphasized from the outset:  namely, that if any part of the dramatist’s art can be taught, it is only a comparatively mechanical and formal part—­the art of structure.  One may learn how to tell a story in good dramatic form:  how to develop and marshal it in such a way as best to seize and retain the interest of a theatrical audience.  But no teaching or study can enable a man to choose or invent a good story, and much less to do that which alone