born manuscript with charitable listening; for they
would come forth in real order of time, the first having priority, and
not the best, ungarnished, unweeded, uncared-for, humbly, and without
any further flourish of trumpets.

* * * * *

Serjeant Ion--I beg his pardon, Talfourd--somewhere gives it as his
opinion, that most people, in any way troubled with a mind, have at some
time or other meditated a tragedy. Truly, too, it _is_ a fine vehicle
for poetical solemnities, a stout-built vessel for an author's graver
thoughts; and the bare possibility of seeing one's own heart-stirring
creation visually set before a crowded theatre, the preclusive echoes
of anticipated thundering applause, the expected grilling silence
attendant on a pet scene or sentiment, all the tangible, accessories of
painting and music, clever acting and effective situation, and beyond
and beside these the certain glories of the property-wardrobe, make most
young minds press forward to the little-likely prize of successful
tragedy. That at one weak period I was bitten, my honesty would scorn to
deny; but fortunately for my peace of mind, "Melpomene looked upon me
with an aspect of little favour," and sturdy truth-telling Tacitus made
me at last but lightly regardful of my subject. Moreover, my Pegasus was
visited with a very abrupt pull-up from other causes; it has been my
fatality more than once or twice, as you will ere long see, to drop upon
other people's topics--for who can find any thing new under the
sun?--and I had already been mentally delivered of divers fag-ends of
speeches, stinging dialogues, and choice tit-bits of scenes, (all of
which I will mercifully spare you,) when a chance peep into Johnson's
'_Lives of the Poets_' showed me mine own fine subject as the work of
some long-forgotten bard! This moral earthquake demolished in a moment
my goodly aerial fabric; the fair plot burst like a meteor; and an
after-recollection of a certain French tragedy-queen, Agrippina, showed
me that the ground was still further preoccupied. But it is high time to
tell the destined name of my abortive play; in four letters, then,

NERO;

A CLASSICAL TRAGEDY:

IN SEVEN SCENES.

And now, in pity to an afflicted parent, hear for a while his
offspring's Roscian capabilities. First of all, however, (and you know
how I rejoice in all things preliminary,) let me clear my road by
explanations: we must pioneer away a ti