that art. Tragedy dogged my footsteps and marked me for
her own from the first. I was bullied; that was bad enough. I was
caned; that was worse. I had to learn Latin verbs; that was worst of
all. I was a practised tragedian at seven. Acts one, two, and three
were performed as a rule once a day, and now and then encored.

The worst of it was that the person who got most of the applause was not
the wretched actor, but the author. I was quite overlooked. This
convinced me early that it is more profitable to make tragedies for
other people to act than to act in them oneself; and at a tender age,
therefore, I set before myself the profession of a tragic author.

For long enough, however, I had to wait my inspiration. I was kept so
busy in the capacity of actor (from which my special talents would not
permit me to retire as early as I should myself have wished) that it was
comparatively late in life--I mean I had turned twelve--before the grand
idea of writing a tragedy dawned in my ardent breast. Even then it was
destined to simmer for three or four years, owing to pressure of other
work and the still more pressing lack of a subject.

Meanwhile, however, I read tragedies ardently. I read Shakespeare, more
or less, and admired him rather, although I could see his weak points,
and thought him considerably overrated. I had also read the nursery
rhymes carefully, and most of the harrowing stories of history and
fiction, particularly the latter. I had, moreover, recently made a
tragic acquaintance with the Greek Drama in the person of a scoundrel
called Aeschylus, whose sickening lucubrations I was forced to learn by
heart, and now and then to copy out, a hundred lines at a time, till I
grew to detest him.

All these circumstances combined decided me to write a tragedy on my own
account; which, while following Shakespeare in his good points, should
avoid his weaknesses, which should embody the best features of the
nursery rhymes, and which should avoid like poison the shockingly
debased style of Aeschylus.

After mature reflection I hit upon a theme which I flattered myself was
original and suggestive. Shakespeare had kept off it, and it was after
Aeschylus' time; and as far as I knew I was the first to clothe it in a
tragic garb. I refer to the story of Romulus and Remus. It was
classical, sanguinary, and sounded well on a title-page. Besides, as
very little was known about it, there was plenty of scope for