The hall is at least a protest against the wearisome stories concerning wills, misers in old castles, lost heirs, and the woeful solutions of such things—­she who has been kept in the castle cellar for twenty years restored to the delights of hair-pins and a mauve dress, the ingenue to the protecting arm, etc.  The music-hall is a protest against Mrs. Kendal’s marital tendernesses and the abortive platitudes of Messrs. Pettit and Sims; the music-hall is a protest against Sardou and the immense drawing-room sets, rich hangings, velvet sofas, etc., so different from the movement of the English comedy with its constant change of scene.  The music-hall is a protest against the villa, the circulating library, the club, and for this the “’all” is inexpressibly dear to me.

But in the interests of those illiterate institutions called theatres it is not permissible for several characters to narrate events in which there is a sequel, by means of dialogue, in a music-hall.  If this vexatious restriction were removed it is possible, if it is not certain, that while some halls remained faithful to comic songs and jugglers others would gradually learn to cater for more intellectual and subtle audiences, and that out of obscurity and disorder new dramatic forms, coloured and permeated by the thought and feeling of to-day, might be definitely evolved.  It is our only chance of again possessing a dramatic literature.

CHAPTER X

It is said that young men of genius come to London with great poems and dramas in their pockets and find every door closed against them.  Chatterton’s death perpetuated this legend.  But when I, Edward Dayne, came to London in search of literary adventure, I found a ready welcome.  Possibly I should not have been accorded any welcome had I been anything but an ordinary person.  Let this be waived.  I was as covered with “fads” as a distinguished foreigner with stars.  Naturalism I wore round my neck, Romanticism was pinned over the heart, Symbolism I carried like a toy revolver in my waistcoat pocket, to be used on an emergency.  I do not judge whether I was charlatan or genius, I merely state that I found all—­actors, managers, editors, publishers, docile and ready to listen to me.  The world may be wicked, cruel, and stupid, but it is patient; on this point I will not be gainsaid, it is patient; I know what I am talking about; I maintain that the world is patient.  If it were not, what would have happened?  I should have been murdered by the editors of (I will suppress names), torn in pieces by the sub-editors, and devoured by the office boys.  There was no wild theory which I did not assail them with, there was no strange plan for the instant extermination of the Philistine, which I did not press upon them, and (here I must whisper), with a fair amount of success, not complete success I am glad to say—­that would have meant for the editors a change from their