0 out of "The Crimson Sponge," there has been a feeling that
only through the medium of the stage can literary art find its true
expression. The successful playwright is indeed a man to be envied.
Leaving aside for the moment the question of super-tax, the prizes which
fall to his lot are worth something of an effort. He sees his name
(correctly spelt) on 'buses which go to such different spots as
Hammersmith and West Norwood, and his name (spelt incorrectly) beneath
the photograph of somebody else in "The Illustrated Butler." He is a
welcome figure at the garden-parties of the elect, who are always ready
to encourage him by accepting free seats for his play; actor-managers nod
to him; editors allow him to contribute without charge to a symposium on
the price of golf balls. In short he becomes a "prominent figure in
London Society"--and, if he is not careful, somebody will say so.

But even the unsuccessful dramatist has his moments. I knew a young man
who married somebody else's mother, and was allowed by her fourteen
gardeners to amuse himself sometimes by rolling the tennis-court. It was
an unsatisfying life; and when rash acquaintances asked him what he did,
he used to say that he was for the Bar. Now he says he is writing a
play--and we look round the spacious lawns and terraces and marvel at the
run his last one must have had.

However, I assume that you who read this are actually in need of the
dibs. Your play must be not merely a good play, but a successful one. How
shall this success be achieved?

Frankly I cannot always say. If you came to me and said, "I am on the
Stock Exchange, and bulls are going down," or up, or sideways, or
whatever it might be; "there's no money to be made in the City nowadays,
and I want to write a play instead. How shall I do it?"--well, I couldn't
help you. But suppose you said, "I'm fond of writing; my people always
say my letters home are good enough for 'Punch.' I've got a little idea
for a play about a man and a woman and another woman, and--but perhaps
I'd better keep the plot a secret for the moment. Anyhow it's jolly
exciting, and I can do the dialogue all right. The only thing is, I don't
know anything about technique and stagecraft and the three unities and
that sort of rot. Can you give me a few hints?"--suppose you spoke to me
like this, then I could do something for you. "My dear Sir," I should
reply (or Madam), "you have come to the right shop. Lend me your ear for
ten