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Now I arrive at my project, and make my suggestion.  From the look of this lightsome feast, I conclude that what you need is a tonic.  Send for ‘The Master of Palmyra.’  You are trying to make yourself believe that life is a comedy, that its sole business is fun, that there is nothing serious in it.  You are ignoring the skeleton in your closet.  Send for ‘The Master of Palmyra.’  You are neglecting a valuable side of your life; presently it will be atrophied.  You are eating too much mental sugar; you will bring on Bright’s disease of the intellect.  You need a tonic; you need it very much.  Send for ‘The Master of Palmyra.’  You will not need to translate it; its story is as plain as a procession of pictures.

I have made my suggestion.  Now I wish to put an annex to it.  And that is this:  It is right and wholesome to have those light comedies and entertaining shows; and I shouldn’t wish to see them diminished.  But none of us is always in the comedy spirit; we have our graver moods; they come to us all; the lightest of us cannot escape them.  These moods have their appetites—­healthy and legitimate appetites—­and there ought to be some way of satisfying them.  It seems to me that New York ought to have one theatre devoted to tragedy.  With her three millions of population, and seventy outside millions to draw upon, she can afford it, she can support it.  America devotes more time, labour, money and attention to distributing literary and musical culture among the general public than does any other nation, perhaps; yet here you find her neglecting what is possibly the most effective of all the breeders and nurses and disseminators of high literary taste and lofty emotion—­the tragic stage.  To leave that powerful agency out is to haul the culture-wagon with a crippled team.  Nowadays, when a mood comes which only Shakespeare can set to music, what must we do?  Read Shakespeare ourselves!  Isn’t it pitiful?  It is playing an organ solo on a jew’s-harp.  We can’t read.  None but the Booths can do it.

Thirty years ago Edwin Booth played ‘Hamlet’ a hundred nights in New York.  With three times the population, how often is ‘Hamlet’ played now in a year?  If Booth were back now in his prime, how often could he play it in New York?  Some will say twenty-five nights.  I will say three hundred, and say it with confidence.  The tragedians are dead; but I think that the taste and intelligence which made their market are not.

What has come over us English-speaking people?  During the first half of this century tragedies and great tragedians were as common with us as farce and comedy; and it was the same in England.  Now we have not a tragedian, I believe, and London, with her fifty shows and theatres, has but three, I think.  It is an astonishing thing, when you come to consider it.  Vienna remains upon the ancient basis:  there has been no change.  She sticks to the