1832. J The Dramatic Monopoly. 215 



mutilation from these two beds of Procrustes ? Is it possible that they 

 should not either be so framed as to avoid having the head lopped off, 

 to make the body fit in the first instance, or that they should, to be 

 represented, be forced to be seen headless after all ? Are no fine ideas 

 cast aside on this account ? and are there no others sacrificed, because 

 the outline of the plot offers no character for A, B, or C ? or the whole 

 might not be advantageously cast among the performers of either theatre ? 

 It is by this that authors are become the few who, dramatically born, 

 must continue dramatists, in spite of their interests the slaves of indi- 

 vidual caprice. It is by the monopoly that they are obliged to give up 

 originality for conventional idea, that they are obliged to build up a 

 new monster for the representative of an old one. 



What would have been the fate of " The Midsummer Night's Dream," 

 or ee The Tempest," if now submitted for the first time to the consideration 

 of a manager of Covent Garden or Drury Lane Theatre ? The highest 

 use that would be made of them would be to submit them, properly 

 cut, to Mr. Farley or Mr. Barrymore, as pretty openings for panto- 

 mimes. Such is, indeed, all they are fit for in the present state of the 

 houses. In theatres, where every word might be heard without painful 

 attention, the case, to be sure, would be somewhat different. The very 

 unfrequency of such subjects would give them a sufficient share of 

 attraction to remunerate author, actors, and manager. Again, how 

 many more plays would be written, if a popular author, in taking up his 

 pen, considered himself amenable to no criticism but that of his own 

 judgment and the taste of the public. Certain that his production 

 would find its value in an open market, he would commence his task 

 cheerfully, and complete it without misgiving. The mere amount of 

 remuneration for each play might not be quite so great at first, but the 

 gross amount would be tenfold, and each author's share proportionate. 

 Let every writer take into his consideration the time he expends upon 

 the chance of getting a play brought out, in conciliating those who 

 ought to hail him with welcome, in the agitation of reconciling almost 

 impossible interests ; let him add this to tlie time taken in composition, 

 and then say how enormous a portion of his life each play costs him. 

 Let him compare, too, the honour and pleasure of the two occupations 

 that of cultivating his own imaginations to their perfection in his closet, 

 with awaiting the caprice of others in halls and porters' lodges. With 

 his unfettered strength, exerted in the certainty of an independent 

 reward, would he not write four times the number of plays that he can 

 at present ? Would he not work out those finer sketches which he 

 is obliged to lay aside for something more common-place and palpable, 

 and therefore more certain ? Woiild he suffer his energies to be 

 diverted to less worthy pursuits, because by them only he can live ? 

 What is the hope of a dramatic author of the first class, as the monopo- 

 lists would have the arrangement remain ? Take up the files of bills 

 of the two great houses for many years, count the number of new pieces, 

 assess the sums yearly paid to authors, mark the number of those forced 

 upon the manager, by aristocratic influence or private connection. If 

 the trade were free, who would dare ask of a manager to ruin himself 

 by the performance of any play he could not conscientiously offer to the 

 public ? 



We know that it has been said, that plays fit to be acted cannot be 



