ich some might
think important.

The foregoing indicates to some extent the buffeting about which a
searcher for practical advice on play-writing may find himself subject
in this collection of letters. He had better go for mere instruction to
those of a lower order of intellect, whose imaginative or creative
faculties do not monopolize their entire mental area.

But that will hardly serve him better, for the truth is that no one can
convey to him--whether by written words or orally--or even by signs and
miracles--the right and proper method of constructing a play. A few
people know, but they are utterly unable to communicate that knowledge
to others. In one place and one only can this unfortunate person team
how to proceed, and that is the theatre; and the people to see about it
there are situated in front of the foot-lights and not behind them.

A play or drama is not a simple and straight-told story; it is a
device--an invention--a carefully adjusted series of more or less
ingenious traps, independent yet inter-dependent, and so arranged that
while yet trapping they carry forward the plot or theme without a break.
These traps of scene, of situation, of climax, of acts and tableaux or
of whatever they are, require to be set and adjusted with the utmost
nicety and skill so that they will spring at the precise
instant and in the precise manner to seize and hold the
admiration--sympathy--interest--or whatever they may be intended to
capture, of an audience. Their construction and adjustment--once one of
the simplest--is now of necessity most complicated and intricate. They
must operate precisely and effectively, otherwise the play--no matter
how admirable its basic idea--no matter how well the author knows life
and humanity, will fail of its appeal and be worthless--for a play is
worthless that is unable to provide itself with people to play _to_.
The admiration of a few librarians on account of certain arrangements
of the words and phrases which it may contain can give it no value as
drama. Such enthusiasm is not altogether unlike what a barber might
feel over the exquisite way in which the hair has been arranges on
a corpse; despite his approval it becomes quite necessary to bury it.

The play-writer's or playwright's work, then, supposing that he
possesses the requisite knowledge of life as it is lived to go on with,
is to select or evolve from that knowledge the basic idea, plot or
theme, which, skillfully display