ed, will attract; and then to invent,
plan, devise, and construct the trap wherein it is to be used to snare
the sympathies, etc., of audiences.

But audiences are a most undependable and unusual species of game. From
time immemorial their tastes, requirements, habits, appetites,
sentiments and general characteristics have undergone constant change
and modification; and thus continues without pause to the present day.
The dramatic trap that would work like a charm not long ago may not work
at all to-day; the successful trap of to-day may be useless junk
tomorrow.

It must be obvious, then, that for light and instruction on the
judicious selection of the bait, and on the best method or methods of
devising the trap wherein that bait is to be displayed (that is to say
the play) but one thing can avail; and that one thing is a most diligent
and constant study of the habits and tastes of this game which it is our
business to capture--if we can. To go for information about these things
to people sitting by their firesides dreaming of bygone days, or,
indeed, to go to anyone sitting anywhere, is merely humorous. The
information which the dramatist seeks cannot be told--even by those who
know. For the gaining of such knowledge is the acquirement of an
instinct which enables its possessor automatically to make use of the
effective in play-writing and construction and devising, and
automatically to shun the ineffective. This instinct must be planted and
nourisht by more or less (more if possible) _living_ with audiences,
until it becomes a part of the system--yet constantly alert for the
necessary modifications which correspond to the changes which the tastes
and requirements of these audiences undergo.

An education like this is likely to take the dramatist a great deal of
time--unless he is so fortunate as to be a genius. Perhaps the main
difference between the play-writing genius and the rest of us is that he
can associate but briefly with audiences and know it all, whereas we
must spend our lives at it and know but little. I have never happened to
hear of a genius of this description; but that is no argument against
the possibility of his existence.

As to the talented authors of these letters, they know excellently
well--every one of them--how to write a play--or did while still
alive--even tho some of them see fit to deny it; but they cannot tell
_us_ how to do it for the very good reason that it cannot be told.
Their