Let your thoughts travel back along the past six months; climb from reminiscence to reminiscence, until you come across a very wet day; not the first, nor the second, nor even the third will do. The wet day in question is the wettest in the memory of man or beast. If you have so far followed ce chemin rétrograde, allow me to call your attention to a dinner which took place about the above stated number of months from the present time. You cannot pretend now to misunderstand: your memory is good upon all subjects. On the memorable wet day in question I heard you speak of Virgil, Horace, and Homer, just as if you had passed your baccalauréate the day before. I have, consequently, hopes that you have not forgotten the oysters, Sauterne, and the poularde financière. A man of your excellent taste certainly could not; neither, perhaps, will the cigars and the Chartreuse be wholly unremembered.

After these graphic explanations I feel sure that you are sitting, in memory with me, in company with our dear friends, B.M. and Mr. W. “But why plague me with bitter remembrances,” I hear you say, “Is not past pleasure pain?” I will tell you. But I must begin by asking myself a question, which I will myself answer. What was the subject of our conversation? Dramatic literature, past, present, and future. Nine-tenths of what was said, I have forgotten, in fact, I retain distinctly but one phrase. You said that many subjects (on account of the censorship) were impossible of dramatic treatment for the French stage, although quite admissible on the English, likewise vice versá. There is an historical figure of which I have often dreamt as the central point of a tragedy. It would be impossible, I fear, for the French stage, but in England it could meet with no objection. If the subject please you, might we not write in collaboration?

[SECOND LETTER.]

Paris, June, 1876.

(Bernard Lopez to George Moore.)

Dear Sir, —

I have a vivid recollection of the wet day, and the dinner … for I have excellent reasons to remember both. Firstly, on account of the charming society; secondly, on account of the cook (he must be a Frenchman, who has studied in Italy); and, thirdly, on account of a dreadful cold I caught returning home — there were, if you remember, no cabs on the stand. But, before proceeding further, allow me to compliment you on your good taste; rarely have I met with so keen an appreciation of Sauterne in so young a man as yourself. But you will forgive me if I dismiss this interesting subject with the most unceremonious brevity, and reply at once to your very flattering proposal, for I am more than pressed for time. I frankly confess that I am tempted to accept your offer, for I cannot forget that, although I have lived in France, and written for the French stage all my life, my mother was an English woman, and that my earliest years were spent in England. I should, therefore, feel proud and delighted by the applause of an English audience.

Hoping to hear soon from you on this subject, I remain, Yours truly.

[THIRD LETTER.]

Paris, June, 1876.

(George Moore to Bernard Lopez.)

Dear Sir, ──

Thanks for your very kind letter. I am glad to see that you are disposed to consider my offer to write a play with you for the English stage. You want to know what my subject is? "That is the question." Forgive me the quotation, for I would hang anybody, except myself and you, dear Mr. Lopez, who dared cite so hackneyed a phrase. To speak candidly, I am afraid to tell you. You object at once, saying, "If I am to write in conjunction with you, surely it will oblige you to confide to me at least your subject." I admit what you say is true; but before I unbosom myself entirely will you let me know if you will shrink from writing the yet unmentioned tragedy, when I tell you that the theme is essentially a religious one? …

If I remember right, your reminiscences of the French censor are, indeed, bitter; but, I assure you, that in England a tragedy on the subject of … could meet with no objection.

I await impatiently your answer. Yours.

[FOURTH LETTER.]

Paris, June, 1876.

(Bernard Lopez to George Moore.)

Dear Sir, —

If disengaged to-morrow evening, will you dine with me at Brébant's? I ask you to invite your friend, the unknown, for I am anxious to make his or her acquaintance. We shall dîne tête-à-tête; our guest will play dummy. The proverb says that enough for one is enough for two, in this case we may say for three. I confess to being not a little afraid of the censorship, and with reason; I bear, yet, the scars of many wounds inflicted by his merciless sword — I mean pen, but you ask me, trembling in your shoes, if I have the courage to write a drama on a religious subject. You are, evidently, yourself afraid of your hero; I say hero, for heroine could apply to no one except Jeanne d'Arc, and I do not suppose that you contemplate beguiling me into writing the nine hundredth and ninety-ninth Pucelle d'Orléans. You seem to be labouring under a strange delusion that religious subjects have been banished from the stage in France; are not the Huguenots and the Prophète still played, likewise the above-mentioned young lady? But of late, managers have found her expensive, notwithstanding her exceeding virtue she costs upwards of a hundred pounds a night, on dit.

P.S. — You are secrecy itself, but I have guessed the subject of your projected drama! Is it not on the life of one of whom you have heard me speak with great admiration, St. Ignace de Loyola?

[FIFTH LETTER.]

Paris, July, 1876.

(George Moore to Bernard Lopez.)

Dear Sir, —

Your letter struck me faint! After reading the postscript I sank into a chair, and for a moment was deprived of consciousness. I am now looking languidly out of the window in a state of convalescence. I never dreamt of dramatising the life of St. Ignace de Loyola. You say that the English censor is even more intolerant than the French; I admit that such is the case, but as regards the hero of my tragedy, the dramatic censors of the two countries would have diametrically opposed views. But why do you allow such things to frighten you? The censorship is — what? Through politeness I will call it a Taraxippus.

[SIXTH LETTER.]

Paris, 1876.

(Bernard Lopez to George Moore.)

Dear Mr. Moore, —

It is all very well to write — through politeness I will call the censorship a Taraxippus: a taraxippus was an instrument used to frighten horses in the Olympic games, was it not? But it is only an ass that kicks against the goad, and I had better tell you at once that if you foresee that the English censorship would raise any objections towards the representation of a play written on the subject you have chosen, I would rather have nothing to do with it. There is a yet unwritten history in this letter. I present the title and yet a few personal facts to the future historian. Title, "The Wars between the Dramatic Authors and the Censorship." Here is an anecdote concerning my drama "Le Tribut des cent Vierges." I was in body walking up and down my room in a fine frenzy, but in spirit in a fine frenzy walking up and down the hall of a Spanish palace. All of a sudden a terrible knock at my door and a tramping of feet on the landing sent all dream-world to the winds. The marble walls, the columned courts, the dark-clothed conspirators of whom I was the leader, melted into thin air, and I found myself with a short quill pen in my hand standing by a small table, whereon lay a bundle of papers, the ends of a couple of cigars, a broken ink-bottle, and a half-drunk glass of curaçoa. Wondering who the devil this could be making all this row at my door, as the knocking continued, the original thought occurred to me,

"This mystery to explore.

'Sir,' said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore,

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly came your tapping — tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you' — here I opened wide the door,"

and found not darkness, and nothing more, but a detective with five or six policemen, who informed me in a voice as hoarse as a raven, "You are accused of Republican sentiments, and I have come to search your papers." I answered, “With the greatest pleasure." The first paper he laid his hands on was a cunningly-arranged plot to murder a king. Exclamations of astonishment from the agents, and a quiet smile from the detective, as much as to say, "I knew of all this." However, I was able to explain by some other papers that it was only proposed to assassinate a King of Castille, which death had done long since, and not His Majesty Louis Philippe. A few months after, the censorship found no objection to the representation of a piece filled with most knightley sentiments. I was grievously tormented about my first comedy: "Les chevau-légers de la Reine." The plot turned upon the incident of a gallant who had received in the dark favours of a lady who had been substituted for another; this situation is identical with that in the comedy of Dumas Père, "Mademoiselle de Belleisle." The censorship permitted in the Théâtre Français what could not be allowed in the Variétés; for this reason, that it was not a literary theatre! The play was only licensed upon the condition that it should be made clear that the two lovers had only exchanged rings in the obscurity of the night! But I am forgetting, perhaps, the most curious of all; a play of mine was accepted at the Vaudeville, called "Les Mystères de ma femme." The principal part was to have been played by the celebrated comedian Arnal. The censorship wished to cut out the two children's parts in my play, for it was proposed during the reign of Louis Philippe to interdict children appearing on the stage. It was only through hunting up deputies and ministers in company with M. Lachaud, the son-in-law of M. Ancelot, the manager of the theatre, that we obtained the necessary permission. As to my comedy in verse, "Le sage et le fou," played at the Théâtre Français, this is what happened — I wished to call it "L'École des jeunes gens," but was prevented by the censorship for this reason: the idea of the play is this, that it is better for a young man to have several mistresses than to have one, for when he wishes to marry it is easier to get rid of twenty than of one. I remember well the long interview between Méry, with whom I wrote the comedy, myself and the reader of plays, who wasted two hours trying to prove to us that it was impossible to permit such a work to be called “The School for Young Men." I will not refer to my unfortunate play "Le Roi de Rome," a piece forbidden under Napoleon III, as being too much in favour of his dynasty.

[SEVENTH LETTER.]

Paris, August, 1876.

(George Moore to Bernard Lopez.)

Dear Sir, —

God made the world in six days. On the first He said, let there be light, and there was light; on the second He separated the land from the seas. Hélas! we poor mortals are not so expeditious: this is our seventh letter, and our world is still in chaos. I am plunged within the nether deeps of despair. I hoped to confide gradually to you my dream-world, that you might wave the wand, saying, Let there be light. But after a voluminous correspondence I find myself not a jot further advanced than when I put my pen to paper to write the Dear Sir of my first letter. What is to be done? To speak out and risk killing you with an apoplectic fit? — for the truth is terrible! I see no other outlet for escape; you must be sacrificed. Alors, allons y gaíment. Let me propose as central figure of a tragedy, Martin Luther!

[EIGHTH LETTER.]

Paris, August, 1876.

(From Bernard Lopez to George Moore.)

Dear Mr. Moore, —

Great, doubtless, will be your astonishment when I tell you that I am delighted with your choice of subject, and that if I followed the impulses of my own opinions and sentiments, I would not only accept with enthusiasm your offer to write a play in conjunction with me for the English stage, but also your hero as the central sun around which to distribute the lesser lights of that eventful age. Your choice of subject has the rare merit of originality, and lends itself to dramatic treatment. I am lost in bewilderment as the strange truth is forced upon my mind, that there has never been a tragedy written on the life of Luther! Was it not he who shook within his Titan arms the pillars of the mighty edifice whose shadow overspread the world until dome, cupola, and tower reeled, and the whole trembled unto the last stone of the deep foundations? In France, Luther as a tragedy is impossible, but who in England would dare to raise dissenting voice, for is he not the apostle of her people? If such are my opinions, then why do I hesitate? The answer suggests thoughts. How strangely are the spirit and body intermingled one with the other; how closely allied is the ridiculous to the sublime, prose and poetry, truth and falsehood; the keener the analysis the more hopeless becomes the investigation. But I am digressing. I feel that you are getting impatient, and am morally sure that you are skipping every second line of my eloquent and philosophical tirades; if so, you are the loser — for I know them by heart — in your impatience to know why I hesitate to write a tragedy on the life of Luther. I said just now that there was but one step between prose and poetry; my dream of writing Luther is poetry, my reasons for not doing are prose. Judge for yourself. A marriage is impossible in France without the intervention of the priests. You must not suppose from this that I am either going to take a wife to my bosom or turn priest. You are saying to yourself, "But you have neither son nor daughter." I hear you, and I answer, "True," but I have a nephew in a banking house at Bordeaux, and tidings have reached me that he is about to marry a young lady of large fortune; this match lies entirely in the hands of the. Clergy … Were I to write "Luther," what would become of my poor nephew? It may be my duty. If it is, believe me, I will not shrink; but I must be convinced by outward sign of inward grace before I sacrifice him on the altar of the muses.

[NINTH LETTER.]

Paris, November, 1876.

(From George Moore to Bernard Lopez.)

Dear Sir, —

I can only describe your letter as acting on the spirit precisely as a Turkish bath on the body; the first half was the hot-room, the second the cold douche. It was not, however, altogether unsatisfactory. You like my subject, and say that it lends itself to dramatic treatment; and, were it not for your nephew, you would begin it at once. I earnestly hope the necessary outward sign of inward grace, you speak of, will shortly be revealed to you; and that I, officiating as High Priest, shall kill cock sparrow with my little pen, and that Melpomene will not think the sacrifice unworthy of her honour. But to speak seriously, you say that Martin Luther is admissible as the subject of a tragedy for the English stage, because England is a Protestant country; this, I think, no one will deny, but I take it only as a partial truth. "Martin Luther" would be accepted by a French public as well as by an English one; it would be only condemned by the censorship, for I do not believe that any liberal-minded Catholic would oppose, even were it in his power, the representation of a tragedy on the life of Luther; for it would not attack the fundamental doctrines of his religion, but only the abuses and vices which disgraced, during the middle ages, the Church of Rome. Will any Catholic deny that Rome was the highest seat of profligacy during the reigns of Julius II., Innocent, Alexander the VIth, etc., etc.? Is there a human being who will defend and uphold the Spanish Inquisition as a good and holy institution? Such a defence would necessitate his declaring that its dissolution is, in his opinion, a general loss to humanity and a gain to the devil. As long as Bedlam exists no one will ever dream of making such statement. Will any Catholic defend the persecutions which were waged against the Albigenses, the storming and the siege of Carcassonne? The answer is obviously no! A Catholic would probably reply: “There have been Popes, bishops, priests and monks who have committed the most terrible of crimes. We have never said that man cannot err. What we maintain is, that in matters of faith the Church of Rome is infallible." In fact, I do not think I am going too far when I state that a Catholic might answer, being asked his opinion of Martin Luther, this: “I consider that he rendered important services to the Church of Rome; for his rebellion against her rule raised her from the slough of profligacy in which she then lay." You need not feel any apprehension that our play may give offence to a part of the English public. No one could maintain that a tragedy on the life of Luther hurts his religious sentiments; he might as well pretend indignation because he found a history of the Reformation in a national library, and to demand the suppression of the drama from the stage would be equivalent to asking for the expurgation of the book from the library. The Reformation is history, and history is common property after the fashion of the sun, moon and stars. The people who would find it disagreeable to their feelings to see a tragedy on the life of Luther are, indeed, to be pitied. They have, doubtlessly, many other little grievances; perhaps they find the sunlight too warm, or too cold. A pamphlet from them on the subject would be interesting.

[TENTH LETTER.]

Paris, January, 1877.

(Bernard Lopez to George Moore.)

Dear Sir, —

It is true I said I was delighted with your choice of subject, and that I thought it lent itself to dramatic treatment. I spoke suddenly without reflection, for I was carried away on the wings of enthusiasm, and was momentarily blinded to the material difficulties which beset the subject, as I gazed on the dazzling figure of Luther, drawn with the fire and flame of truth and reason on the dark background of error and superstition. You propose to write a tragedy on his life; alas! my young friend, it does not contain the elements necessary for a tragedy; if you had proposed a drama, I would have understood you better. I thought that the tragedy was a thing of the past, and that none ever again would dream of writing one; yet you, you whom I believed a romantique enragé, incite me to commit this terrible crime against humanity. The dramatic literature of each age should be made of its bones, clothed with its flesh, and live with its blood; it should be instinct with its feelings, sentiments, loves and hates; it should paint its religious, social and political opinions. The tragedy did this for the Greeks, but it cannot do so for us, because between their time and ours there lies the vast wall of eighteen hundred years — whose stones are creeds, governments, climates, discoveries — inaccessible, for it stands between us and the past as the wall of a tomb.

Beneath these fifteen or eighteen hundred years lies the corpse of a dead society, and the followers of Racine and Corneille are so many resurrectionists, who burrow and delve, striving to steal an eye or a tooth from this Titan fossil, or at least a portion of its cerements; for what were once raiments are now but graveclothes. The tragedy demands the three unities — action, time, and place. This form suited exactly the requirements of the Greek stage, for their tragedy was nothing more than an ode written in dialogue, the action did not pass on the stage, but in a temple or elsewhere; but when we take this form, and fill it with the dramatic action required by an audience of the nineteenth century, we find the perfectly proportioned figure has grown pot- bellied and hunched-backed, and that its sonorous voice has dwindled into a cracked treble, and the beautiful limbs that marched with so firm and stately a tread are shrunken and bandied, and limp on both feet at once. The unity of place was observed by the Greeks; they had no temptation to violate this rule, for their tragedy being nothing more than a poem, explaining an event which occurred elsewhere, a shifting of scene could never have entered into the brain of a Sophocles or Euripides. We who have increased the body without enlarging the clothes, find that in adopting unity of place we are obliged to bring all the personages of our play into a place where they could not possibly be. Conspirators conspire to murder a king in his bed-room, misers stroll through brigand-infested mountains with money bags hanging out of their pockets, and virgins sing hymns to chastity in houses of ill repute. The second unity left to examine is the unity of time. This unity, like the first, was as fitted to the Greek tragedy as it is unfitted to ours; for to be consequent, as you increase the action you must increase the time, if not, as I have already said, the first proportions are lost, and the result is a monster. The dramatic story is, or ought to be, a picture of life, and must walk from its beginning to its end in the same progression as life itself. You cannot condense events, which would require for their natural development ten years, into twenty-four hours. The third and last unity left to examine is the unity of subject, and this is the one of real importance. To violate the unity of subject is the negation of all art. To produce effect all things must converge towards one centre. In the third act of "Hernani," there is only la scène des tableaux, in the fifth there is the scene of the poisoning; in the fourth act of "Cromwell" there is the scene with the sentry — there is but one scene in each; the scene is developed, but there is nothing else. This rule applies not only to dramatic writing, but likewise to painting and music. You find this axiom never violated neither in play, nor picture, nor sonnet, nor epic poem, nor novel, nor symphony, nor fable. In France, Voltaire was the first innovator, for he not only wrote tragedies based on Greek and Roman subjects, but also upon American and even Chinese. It is to him we owe historical exactness of costume; before his time actors played in the costumes of their respective time, regardless of the anachronisms. But it was not until 1827 that the classic traditions were swept away on the flood of romantisme out of sight and lost in the obscurity of night. The fiery star of Hugo arose and divided the light from the darkness, and we knew it was the first day. The unity of time was completely broken, but the second unity of place was so but half; the Théâtre Français admitted that each act might occur in a different place, but would not hear of a shifting of scene in the act itself. Enraged, the dramatic authors fled to the Porte St. Martin, where they built barricades of all kinds of new rules and licentious licenses between themselves and the classics. Shakspeare shifts the scene many times during an act, but never allows more than a few hours to elapse between each, not because somebody else had established the principle before him, but from data which his unerring dramatic instinct enabled him to find in Nature herself; for he clearly saw that, were weeks and months permitted to pass between the scenes of the same act, the gap would be too great, and no audience could follow the poet's story. The writers of the Porte St. Martin — I name this theatre for it was their stronghold and citadel, but shall make myself better understood by speaking of the authors of the five-acts drama in eight or twelve scenes, such as the "Reine Margot," "Jeunesse des Mousquetaires, "Tour de Nesle" and "Chevalier de Maisonrouge." The writers in adopting, or rather adapting, the Shakspearian drama somewhat spoiled the original form, as their predecessors did the Greek, for not only they frequently allowed too much time to elapse between their scenes, but they inaugurated the barbarism of shifting the scene by the aid of the drop curtain, in order to be able to obtain two set scenes following each other. This, of course, completely destroyed the unity of the Shakspearian method, and it is only by courtesy we can call their dramas dramas in five acts, for they are in reality in eight, nine, ten, or eleven, or twelve, for their acts and scenes in no wise differ one from the other. I have written many dramas in this hybrid form, but that does not prevent my condemning it. I accepted the customs of my time. The Shakspearian drama is the true form, at least, it is the only one that fulfils the wants and requirements of the present age. It is the form that best suits nearly all subjects, and assuredly Luther is not an exception, for from Luther's life you can detach no part, so closely is each day of it enwoven with the yesterday and the morrow, it must be looked at as a whole, as a whole only it is dramatic and instructive. For were we to construct a play after the Greek form, upon the Diet of Worms, the result would be a lifeless inert thing, that would give no more a picture of the great apostle and prophet of the middle ages than a leaf plucked from an oak would give to one who had never seen the king of the forest an idea of the tree. I will now conclude this long letter by a promise. I will read again the life of Luther, and tell you if there is to be found therein a dramatic drama. Perhaps a biographical outline would furnish sufficient movement and variety.

[ELEVENTH LETTER.]

Paris, January, 1876.

(George Moore to Bernard Lopez.)

Dear Mr. Lopez, —

I have neither ink, time, or paper to waste in abusing you for your groundless accusation. You accuse me of wishing to write a classical tragedy on the subject of Luther. Have you not then read my "Flowers of Passion.” I sent them to you with a little note, warning you not to leave them in your bedroom (to sleep with flowers in the room has always been pronounced unwholesome); and have I not read to you my "Sappho," Hermaphroditus," and "The Metamorphoses of the Vampire" (que j'ai en carton) which with many other contes of the same kind will be given to the world in defiance of Mrs. Grundy, in a handsomely bound square volume, entitled "Roses of Midnight;" and yet, notwithstanding all this, you accuse me of desiring to write a classical tragedy. But I have no time to reproach you as you deserve, so you must take the will for the deed. In the last phrase of your letter you say that you will reflect and tell me if there is, in your opinion, a dramatic drama to be found in the life of Luther. You who have written in conjunction with Scribe and Dumas — the idea, therefore, to write an undramatic drama could not enter your head. Do not suppose from this that it exists in mine; on the contrary, it is my earnest desire to write an actable, and not an unactable drama. To write for the stage has not only fallen in England out of fashion, but actually into disrepute. Undramatic dramas have taken the place of dramatic, and we find the country of Jonson, Shakspeare, Marlow, Beaumont, Ford and Massinger, without a dramatic literature. Is not this an undeniable fact, and one well worthy of investigation?

I will not stay to answer the voices who will shriek after me the names of Dryden, Lee, Cumberland, and Otway. Yes, Otway was a poet, who was a dramatic writer. There were, during the reign of Charles the Second, some great writers who wrote for the stage: Congreve, Witcherly — but at this name I must pause. Was it not he who invented the commerce of importation of plays from France, a trade not quite unknown in the present day, but the few names that may be called as witness against my statement only serve to strengthen rather than to refute my argument. All the Elizabethan poets wrote for the stage, with the exception of Spenser. If the age of Shakspeare be not our Augustan age, the title will certainly fall to the age of Shelley, if not to the age of Swinburne. He is a venturesome man who will endeavour to decide between the three. But, great as was the age of Shelley, did it produce a dramatic literature? No. Has it given us one great drama? I say no, with the Cenci before my eyes, for it is not an actable play, it sins against construction over and over again; the opening scene between the Count and Cardinal moves so quickly that no audience could follow it. How very differently Shakspeare would write a preparatory scene. It is, nevertheless, a wonderful play, the greatest since the great dramatic age. If I find a fault in preference to a merit, it is because I am forced to illustrate my theory by examples, and because another pen has done in praise adequately what mine could do but superficially. I will not speak of Coleridge's "Remorse;" of that the least said the better. Wordsworth never wrote a play except the “Borderers," a tragedy of an unrivalled dullness, and Southey, I don't know whether he did or did not; and Sir Walter Scott refused to accept the verdict of the pit. Byron, in the preface to "Sardanapalus," writes: "In publishing the following tragedies, I have only to repeat that they were not composed with the most remote view to the stage." I quote this to show how entirely the English poets have repudiated the idea of writing for the stage. It now remains for me to speak of my own time. The three leading English poets of the present day are Mr. Browning, Mr. Tennyson, and Mr. Swinburne. Mr. Browning has written many tragedies, but none for the stage. Mr. Tennyson has written two, "Queen Mary" and "Harold." The former was, at the theatre, a dead failure. I am merely stating a fact. Of Mr. Tennyson's poetry, I am, as you know, an ardent admirer. His "Harold" I sent you, it contains some of the most beautiful writing in English literature, but not a single dramatic scene. Any audience, whether French or English, would declare it to be of the temperature of the North Pole. Mr. Swinburne has written three plays: "The Queen Mother," "Chastelard" and "Bothwell." I sent you "Chastelard" some time ago, but you have not yet given me your opinion. Is it not as perfectly beautiful as a rose? It seems to me to be more like a flower that has grown than a flower of human construction. What a wonderful portrait he has given us of the queen, that strange cat-like creature, who bends and leans against the caressing hand, but, upon its withdrawal, strikes with cruel claws! How strangely he has fashioned this fair flower of flesh. I can only compare her to the sea; her nature has its rhythmic motion. As the sea pauses and sways beneath the wind, so does she beneath the breath of her passion. She is like the sea, sweet to look at, bitter to taste. Her beautiful face, her large arms, her "deep-curved hands," and her lovely breasts are as firmly and simply moulded as a Greek sculptor's Venus. The soft, sweet woman, Mary Beaton, how you feel her love turn bitter when Chastelard tears up the pardon she brings him. What mysterious force there is in the last and crowning scene, when the queen comes to ask back the pardon, and, finding it destroyed, loves him again, knowing she has nought now to fear. To have written "Chastelard" required the united talents of Balzac and Shelley, and Mr. Swinburne, in my opinion, possesses them. But to these and many other merits "Chastelard'' adds the original one of being an actable play. Why is it not acted? But, notwithstanding, Mr Swinburne has accomplished the unprecedented feat of writing a tragedy that any one could arrange for representation, for it contains all the requisites of an acting play, he has, like all the others, placed his veto against poets writing for the stage. I take up "Bothwell," and on the title page I read a tragedy in two volumes! But if these poets have given us unactable dramas, another group of contemporary English poets have not so sinned. Mr. Rossetti, Mr. Morris, Mr. O'Shaughnessy, Mr. Arnold, Mr. Payne, Mr. Gosse, and Mr. Scott have, I do not suppose, ever dreamt of writing a play — perhaps upon the principle that there is nothing so easy to do as not to write a drama.

In France is it the same?

No!

All French poets write for the stage. Victor Hugo, the greatest, perhaps, of lyrical poets, has produced a dramatic literature; Alfred de Vigny, Casimir Delavigne, and Ponsard have all written great tragedies. Théodore de Banville, Catulle Mendès, Coppée, have more or less written for the stage. In one word, France possesses a dramatic literature,

England does not!

Why?

The answer is obvious, because the French poets have identified themselves with the stage, and learned its necessities and requirements, whilst the English have turned their backs upon it. Our stage has fallen into the lowest slums of degradation. It is in the hands of men who are, for the most part, not even men of letters, and who live parasitically on the brains of their French superiors. I will now turn round upon the novelists. Who are the French novelists who have not written with success for the stage? Balzac is the solitary exception, Dumas, George Sand, Dumas fils, etc., etc., etc., have contributed towards the dramatic literature of their country. In England, Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot, Charlotte Brontë, where are their dramatic works? Wilkie Collins has, it is true, dramatized one or two of his novels, but I don't think that this fact goes to prove much. These truths — were England, like Spain and Italy, entirely bereft of a present literature — would be less extraordinary, but such is not the case. Never has she possessed greater poets and novelists than her living writers. All forms of fiction have reached their meridian height with the one exception of the dramatic. I am satisfied that I have proved my case, that my arguments are irrefutable. But … but … but I find myself on the very sharp horns of a dilemma. How am I to finish my letter? I am like a rat in a corner without a hole. I hear you laugh, I hear "et alors, concluez … and say that you are of opinion that you are just the person wanted to fill the vacant place." That is, dear Mr. Lopez, a sneer, and, consequently, worth nothing. I am not so foolish as to suppose anything of the kind. I merely mean to say that I believe that if Browning, Swinburne, Tennyson, Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot, and Charlotte Brontë had written for the stage, our dramatic literature would be as great today as it was in the great day that has passed.

[TWELFTH LETTER.]

Paris, February, 1877.

(Bernard Lopez to George Moore.)

My Dear Moore, —

I share your admiration of Mr. Swinburne's "Chastelard;" it is a lovely piece of sculpture. I have read with delight his "Songs before Sunrise;" they are the loudest and loftiest melodies that have ever been played on that most sonorous of poetic instruments, the English language. It is indeed surprising that he has not written for the stage, and it is, doubtless, a great loss to your dramatic literature. You are unfortunately right in your statement that the majority of English poets do not write for the stage, but I think that you exaggerate somewhat the truth. You make no mention of Lord Lytton; have you forgotten his "Richelieu" and his “Lady of Lyons," and his beautiful comedy "Money?" There is also Knowles with his "Hunchback," and Sheridan with his "School for Scandal." Both plays have come, and will go down to posterity. But to return to "Luther." I am glad to see that you are desirous to write for the stage, and not for the library exclusively. It has always been my opinion that a drama, to be a drama, must be dramatic. Victor Hugo's "Cromwell," although it is twice the length of an acting play, is always scenic; the scenes are developed to an immense size, but always au point de vue du théâtre. Were our day of forty-eight instead of twenty-four hours, and our powers of endurance increased in the same proportion, "Cromwell" would be a play absolutely fitted in every respect for the stage. The Greek theatre was a temple, ours is a play-house; a modern playwright can therefore have no greater merit than to be amusing. If he has other qualities, so much the better. He is allowed to be a poet, a philosopher, and a moralist if he is an amusing author. A modern audience always tolerates, sometimes admires, but never imperatively demands anything, except to be amused. The novel, the play, the fable, and the poem must be amusing. To no writer is an exception made, unless it be to the authors of tracts and prayer-books. But I hear somebody say with horror, "Is there, then, nothing sacred in your eyes? Do you demand of an Epic poem to be amusing?" "Of course I do; a great work need not to be tiresome." Mr. Swinburne's "Erectheus" — in my opinion one of the most perfect pieces of poetic writing the world has ever seen — is as interesting as a novel by Daudet. For my part, I have given up reading dull books; but the some body will cry again, "You surely have not given up reading Cowper, and you will surely not declare him to be gay; and yet 'The Task' is a great work." No, I certainly do not consider him a lively writer; he is of an ultra-legitimate dullness, and as for being very great, it is very great — it is a very big poem, and takes a great while to read it, for a nap of at least three hours between each twenty lines is a necessity of nature. But it is useless to discuss such subjects. The world has agreed that we can measure a man's talents exactly by counting the years since his death. I read in the papers a few months ago that a virgin of Raphael "La vierge aux candélabres" was sold the other day in England for the sum of 19,000 pounds. There is no answer to be made. Every student of the Beaux Arts knows that these virgins, composed and painted after the manner of Perugino, would scarcely find a place in the Louvre were they painted by a modern artist. Raphael became a great man after he had studied Michael Angelo. His cartoons and Transfiguration are great works, even by the side of the “Creation of Adam," which is probably the highest effort of genius the world has seen. This picture is one of the few composed without that naïveté which so often disfigures the works of the old masters. It is composed with greater science, and wrought with greater execution, than even the modern French school can boast of, to which is added a power or force of poetical conception never before possessed by man, unless by some of the Greek sculptors. Every one knows that the "Étude" of Lefebvre is more scientific than any of Titian's Venuses; every one knows that Paul Delaroche, Cabanel, Bouguereau have produced better than the Raphael-Perugino Virgins, yet we are all too timid to admit this manifest truth. But to return to "Luther." Is it amusing? is a rule by means of which all plays may be measured — the religious drama as well as the opera. It is for this reason that I propose the Shakspearian drama; not a slavish imitation of the form he has given us, for why not graft upon the old stock the improvements of modern construction? The theatre, like everything, has progressed. You complain that the English dramatic authors do not know how to fit and fashion a drama for representation. What you say may or may not be the case but anyhow such is not the fault with the French dramatic authors, for we have pursued to its furthest limits the art of construction:

Le théâtre bien fait —

This is the formula: that every character should appear to be what it is not, and that the events should happen simply because they ought not to have happened. The number of tragical subjects and situations is extremely limited. It is for this reason that the great masters have sought to obtain variety and interest by force and brilliancy of style, by character drawing, by the study political, social, or simply picturesque, in the middle of which the action passes. Le théátre bien fait consists of simply shaking up or turning inside out old situations into as many ways as possible. After a time this becomes not more fruitful in surprises than a game of dominoes. The poet, on the other hand, at every step crosses the boundaries of untrodden lands, for in soul-searching he recreates old subjects — of Orestes he makes Hamlet, of King Lear the Père Goriot. It will not do to write a mathematically constructed drama on the life of Luther. Something more than that is required. There is the black night of the middle ages broken by the immense and suddenly rising dawn of the Reformation, to be painted; there is the great figure of Luther to be drawn against dark and light, as he walked forward unhesitatingly through the tempest, the struggle and turmoil of his eventful career. This is what has to be done; who is the man who could face so arduous a way confident to reach the summit? You will now understand why I hesitate to accept your offer to write Martin Luther in conjunction with you for the English stage. It is because I have a deep sense of my own unworthiness.

[THIRTEENTH LETTER.]

[Undated]

(George Moore to Bernard Lopez.)

My Dear Mr. Lopez, —

Allow me to assure you again: I am entirely of your opinion that the Shakspearian drama is the only form sufficiently elastic to exhibit in its gradual development the whole life of Luther, for the life of the great Reformer, as you have said in a previous letter, is intensely dramatic when looked at as a whole, but only moderately so in any one separate part. Write five acts, as Racine would at the Diet of Worms, each act commencing with a little scene of preparation; then two or three long speeches, and when you read it over — your tragedy after the Greek model of about eleven or twelve hundred verses — the conviction will force itself upon you that you have but done something as tiresome as a picture by David. It is only by means of the Shakspearian drama we can show the sowing of the seed, the ripening of the corn, and the ultimate harvest; and it is only thus that drama is possible, instructive and significant. To do this effectively we shall have to group around Luther many dramatic and poetic incidents. What I mean is this, we shall have to make him meet Catherine Bora — how shall we say? Ah! as a priest he is called in to attend a dying bed; the sick person is Catherine, Or, better still, Catherine, in her vocation as a nun, is tending the sick bed in question. Then again, when we show Luther in middle age, although with a world-wide renown, working with his hands to support his wife and children, we may suppose that one of these children is a Roman Catholic, and so dissect at once the mental and physical sufferings of the man. This is the poet's right; this we may do without fear of blame or censure from any one as long as our hero acts with the same sentiments and feelings in the fictitious incidents which we invent as he did in the real ones which history gives us. But what is fatal, is to step over the boundaries that history and common consent have set around a figure. For instance, were we to represent Luther in his old age falling back upon Rome for consolation, the whole edifice would fall to pieces as "Hamlet" would were it to be arranged to suit the tastes of a modern audience — who do not like unhappy endings — by supposing Hamlet's mother to be innocent of her husband's murder and Ophelia saved from the river to marry her eccentric lover. Luther was a resolute man who knew not the meaning of fear; it was the intensity of his belief in his dogma that upheld and gave him strength to fight single-handed against the whole force of Rome, and to breathe life into this immense phantom of the past. You must make up your mind, while you are writing our projected drama, to be absolutely and entirely a Lutheran, even at the risk of ruining your nephew's chance of marrying an heiress. There must be no shilly-shallying; there is no use in trying to make an omelet without smashing the eggs. Luther must not only speak as Luther would speak, but he must likewise be in the right; to waive any arguments that might be invoked in favour of the other side would be fatal. To art ecclesiasticism is as deadly as arsenic to the body. If a painter sits down to paint a Venus, he must erase from his mind every trace of Christianity. A feverish fervour of delight in the beauty of earthly things must take the place of mournful mysticism; he must look upon the lovely flesh before him as he would upon a blooming rose that leans its head towards the day to drink of the golden flood of sunlight that falls slanting through the green of interlacing leaves. Not death and its terrors must have place in his thoughts, but life and its delights; his dreams must be of beautiful youths and maidens dressed in floating raiments, who, singing and dancing, pass in procession towards the shrine of some glad Pagan god, and not with blood-stained saints crawling to a martyrdom. If, on the contrary, the painter paints a Christ, his mind must be filled with thoughts of the shortness of life, its cares and its troubles, the certainty of death, and the length of eternity. He must believe, and intensely, in the divinity of the Galilean, the hideousness of the body and the loveliness of the soul. A dramatic author is a naturalised citizen in all creeds, opinions, and sentiments. If a poet cannot identify himself with the feelings of others, let him write concerning his own. But in any case he must believe in what he writes; if not, he will produce only a bloodless form, perfect, may be, in every shape, but devoid of the great principle — life. You will understand, therefore, why I do not see that the fact of your being a Catholic should prevent you from writing Martin Luther. An author is in no wise responsible for the opinions of his dramatis personæ. You cannot be found guilty of being a Protestant and a Catholic at the same time. "Contradictions cannot both be true — that is, do not coëxist in nature." This Mr. Mill regarded as the quintessence of axiomatic undeniability, and as we shall have Catholics as well as Protestants on the stage, no one will have the right to accuse you of being one more than the other, and the impossibility of the double accusation may lead some to denounce you as an Anabaptist. Voltaire wrote a "Mahomet," yet no one, not even an archbishop, ever dreamt of accusing him of Mahometanism.

[FOURTEENTH LETTER.]

Paris, April, 1877.

(Bernard Lopez to George Moore.)

My Dear Moore, —

I have decided to write “Luther," so I invite you to breakfast, and a first séance de collaboration. As I wish to talk of nothing but the matter in hand and to settle, au moins le point de départ, I will tell you about my nephew. In a former letter you proposed, yourself officiating as high priest, to sacrifice him upon the altar of Melpomene. This the gods have not decreed to you; he has immolated himself upon that of Hymen — a case of "out of the frying-pan into the fire." In one word, he has married a Jewess, a remarkably pretty girl, immense dark eyes, set in a small olive-coloured face; a delicate little nose, just above a rather large and sensuous upper lip. The chin is very decided, but beautifully formed; the forehead is broad and somewhat low, around which grow large heavy tresses of brown black hair, generally thrown back and tied behind the head with a gold band. She is tall and well proportioned; when she walks her beautiful figure swings, or rather oscillates, like a snake that leans its whole length into air. Upon my word, I would not mind exchanging the honour of writing "Luther" with my nephew for Agatha; but marriage is serious, and there is also the second consideration that you might not agree, the third that he might not agree, and the fourth that she might not agree; so on the whole it is perhaps better to take what the gods have given and be thankful, and embrace the monk instead of the Jewess. I beg that you will not be later than half-past eleven; if you are it will fare badly. You need not expect much for breakfast — the bill of fare is two cutlets, a piece of cheese, a bottle of vin ordinaire, and a couple of cups of coffee. Nothing more than the half of the above-mentioned will I give you, for I mean business, and do not want you to sit half asleep all the afternoon in an arm-chair, talking to me about the last opéra bouffe and the conquest you made over night behind the scenes of the Variétés.

[FIFTEENTH LETTER.]

December, 1878.

London, Morley's Hotel.

(George Moore to Bernard Lopez.)

My Dear Lopez —

You will forgive, I hope, the shortness of this letter, for I have been very ill. I have had a grievous attack of that most terrible of maladies — sea sickness. You need not pooh, pooh. You, who never stir off your boulevards, et vous avez bien raison, cannot imagine the horror and the suffering. Shall I tell you how I was ill? Yes, I will, but you must first allow me to make a note of an important proposition, that may, perhaps, serve to fill the vacant half-hours of some future philosopher. How is it that the serious is always so inextricably mixed with the comic? For instance: I, who am the staidest and the most serious person living, who see all things from the gravest point of view, am perpetually held in a state of siege by the most monstrous of monsters — in a word, I was sick, comme on est malade seulement dans les vaudevilles. This is how it all happened: I had scarcely taken my seat in a first-class compartment, when I was disturbed by the arrival of a quantity of parcels. In the middle of the first batch I discovered a pretty woman; in the middle of the second, her maid. First, I helped in the parcels, and then the lady, and then the maid. These little services started a little conversation between me and the lady, which was, however, eventually monopolised by a Scotchman, who sat next me, and who was, of all things in the world, an astronomer. I consoled myself, and, I confess, very well, in a long and deeply interesting conversation, with a very handsome cat the lady had in a basket, who screamed, as all cats do, to be allowed to come to me. I say handsome, although he was not nearly so beautiful as my Blanchette, and, as for Blanc- blanc, I, of course, shall not insult him by comparing him with any cat, living or dead. During the intervals of my conversation with Fanny, I occupied myself in attentively examining the lady's face, and in then ransacking my brain, and nearly driving myself mad with one perpetual question — Where have I seen that face before? Like one who looks all over the room for a pin, and at last finds it, I came across a beautiful week, full of sunshine and flowers, wherein played a bright and golden-headed Love. Nothing died, nothing changed; the flowers faded not, the air grew not from warm to chill, but at the end of the seventh day the whole thing was like Aladdin's palace, carried clean away; the flowers, the sun-light, the Love, all disappeared from view. I looked again in my memory, and again at the lady, and was convinced, and I said —

"And the worst and the most of this is

That neither is most to blame

For you have forgotten my kisses

And I have forgotten your name."

I hereupon joined in the conversation, but, unfortu-nately, after five minutes, made some observation, which the Scotchman thought improper. He looked at the lady, as much as to say, "I am always ready to protect virtue." The lady looked demure, the maid tried to blush, and I was sent to Coventry.

This continued until we arrived at Amiens, where the Scotchman got out, followed by the maid, leaving me in possession of the lady. So fair an occasion was not to be lost, so I whispered something to her, I will not tell you what, but the answer was, "How dare you; you must be mad!"

I. — Not at all.

SHE. — I shall have to call for assistance!

I. — Don't you remember?

SHE (aside). — I wish the guard would pass.

I. — You are as beautiful as ever.

[Scotchman and maid seen in the distance.

You don't remember Marlow … and the drawing I made of you in the arbour … you don't remember when you sang me the "Printemps," on the river, in the moonlight …

SHE. — What! Marlow! Who are you? Can it be? Is it possible?

I. — Yes.

[Curtain.

The second act contains the rage and astonishment of the Scotchman, and long conversations between Ada and me, from which I can detach no fragment, so you must imagine them.

THIRD ACT.

The deck of a Dover and Calais Steamer.

The lady, being a good sailor, thinks of nothing but remaining on deck, and looking upon the waves and sky; and I, being a bad one, of nothing save going below, and hiding myself.

SHE (poetically). — How beautifully the blue moonlight bathes the horizon!

I. — (feebly) ──'Tis lovely.

SHE. — How wonderful it is to look at the surging roll of these mountainous waves!

I. — Would you like to go below?

SHE. — Not for worlds.

I. — I wonder if the steward could give me pen and ink and paper; I have to write a monologue for "Luther" in my fifth act.

SHE. — Sweet, you never could write while the boat is lurching like this. Nay, tell me, do you love as you did before.

I. — I I— Oh —

[A semi-chorus of Loves.

Horror! horror! horror!

Oh, would that I might die!

[Semi-chorus of Loves.

Love is dead. Love is dead.

[Curtain.

This was my first adventure, but not my last. There is another — a dream — a most extraordinary dream. I will tell you all about it presently. Upon arriving in London I went to bed for a couple of days to recover from my terrible and ghastly sickness. This being accomplished, I went to see my friends, the lyric poets. The dramatic poet is, in my country, a rara avis, so I did not look after him. I was very kindly received; all were glad to see me, and every one was interested in "Luther." I was accordingly invited to dine at — , where I read some scenes from our play, which were greatly admired, notably the "Diet of Worms" and the fifth act, and all declared that we would find but little difficulty in getting the play produced, but advised me to publish it first as a book. I was then interrogated as to what plays I had seen. I might have said I had been to every theatre in London, without the least danger of being found out, for reasons which I will explain anon, but I preferred telling the truth, and confessed that I had not yet been to any, upon which statement there were murmurs of dissatisfaction, which I hushed by a promise that, without delay, I would go the round of the theatres. With this fixed idea, finding myself hopelessly pledged, I walked silently home, and silently went to bed, when —

THE DREAM.

CANTO I.

As I did lie in heavy slumber bound,

An awful phantom of the deathless dead

Before me stood. With laurel he was crowned,

And mournful was his look: then I in dread

Cried out to him, "Shadow or real man,

Which e'er thou art, have pity;" and he said —

"I am from Stratford. Of a simple clan

I came; and I wrote plays and tragedies,

How do they carry on what I began?"

CANTO II.

"Nay, thou art Shakespeare, glorious and wise,"

I said; "thy Hamlet and thy Lear I know,

By heart, or almost so; with eager eyes

"I see thy Merry Wives, the weal and woe

Of dark Othello, Richard, Antony, The love of Juliet and Romeo."

"I led the van — why have none followed me?

Why do you all desert my gonfalon?

Why has the tale replaced the tragedy?

"I left great works that lived and will live on,

Which you admire, and which you read and play.

Come, thou shalt be my guide — let us begone,

"And see what is your theätre to-day."

So did the Master speak. I rose and followed

Behind him close; and so we went away.

CANTO III.

We walked down many dirty foggy streets,

Until we came to the Adelphi; there

We stopped, and for the pit we took two seats.

We did not pay, for no one did appear

To notice us. The house was very full,

And from the plaudits it was very clear,

The piece was a success. "Nay, it is dull,"

My Master said, after an act or two;

"The scenery is very beautiful.

In that you have made progress, it is true,

But all the characters are cut on sizes,

Like trousers ready-made to fit a crew.

"The villain speaks of nought but villainies,

The lover speaks of nothing else but love,

The pious men of nought but pieties.

“Come, let us go, for I have seen enough;

Besides, 'tis from the French, and I would see

An English play, so let us onward move."

CANTO IV.

We sallied forth and walked along the Strand,

My Master leading now, I following,

Until upon the side of our left hand

We saw the Globe. As if considering

Some mighty problem, here the Master stayed

His steps, his eyes were filled with sorrowing.

Here Hamlet and Othello once I played —

The theatre still bears the old, old name —

But now the actors ply the dismal trade

"Of singing comic couplets — ere the same

To music meaningless that jangles on,

Unto a jingling measure;" here, for shame,

Great Shakespeare hid his face —

Here my memory partially fails me. I might continue, it is true, by interpolating phrases of my own; but a deep sense of duty forbids any tampering with the text, for the blemish would be perceived, and the malice of future commentators is to be dreaded. You may say that there is a sad falling off in the quality of his verses, since the last three hundred silent years; but to this I will merely answer: that you cannot judge a poet by the same standard as wine. The rest of my travels with the immortal bard I will relate in simple prose. I recollect that we went to the Olympic, and that he declared the "Two Orphans" to be little more than "Proof" turned inside out, he then expressed a desire to see a comedy, saying, in majestic verse, something to the following effect: "I clearly see that the drama no longer exists in England. What there is bearing the name, is bad, and that is translated from the French. Is there anything going on in the way of comedy?" I suggested "Diplomacy," but, as we were entering the theatre the ghost of Shakes- peare looked at the bills, notwithstanding that I tried to get between him and them; and, seeing the play was translated from the French, vanished in despair.

And turning then I saw by me a man,

Whom I did recognise as Sheridan,

Who, gaily laughing, took my arm, and said —

"Good God! it is not time to go to bed;

Come, let us drink a bottle, or e'en two,

And I will introduce some girls to you.

Let us pay visits to the theatres,

Damn it, I cannot think now which is her's;

No matter, let us go, no matter where."

Ay, so he spoke, making the people stare,

And off we went, I think it was to see

The "Marjolaine" played at the Royalty.

We scarce had seen two acts, he would not stay;

He only muttered, "Let me see a play."

And then we went, I think 'twas to the Folly,

But there he sighed, and said “'Tis melancholy."

"Well then," I said, "let's try the 'Dominoes;'"

But, in a rage he cried: "Embroglios,

And nothing more! Nay, tell to me, I pray,

Can I then nowhere see an English play?

I readily can understand translation

Of good material, but the adaptation

Of stuff like that I can't conceive a bit,

For verily you have not lost your wit

In other things. The novel has improved

The poem too; forward all things have moved,

Except the play. Nay, tell me, how is this?

There must be something serious amiss.

Society, has it no tender corns

To walk upon? Do husbands carry horns

No more; I heard, indeed, a vague report

That something called Divorce has cut them short.

Is vice stamped out, and do you go to church,

And flog your sinning bodies with the birch?

Are drunkenness and prostitution dead,

And human nature now quite perfected?

If such be not the case, why, why then not

Write comedies as I did? Where are thought

And wit? it is a wretched trade to steal

What is not worth the stealing." ….

I here raised my eyes to look again upon the great Brinsley Sheridan, but to my astonishment I found he had been replaced by two men, whose faces I could not distinguish, for they were masked, and they carried before them a large sheet of paper, and under their arms French dictionaries. And these two men cried out to me, "Go back, go back, walk not further upon the venturesome path you have chosen; for you will fall and perish, as all have done who have dared to raise their heads against us. Lay down your arms, for they are feeble and will be broken, whilst ours are invincible; and come over to us, and fight beneath the banner of the Dictionary." Whereupon they held up the large paper before mine eyes, crying, "Here is the list of our achievements! Read, read, read," and I read: —

PROGRAMME OF THE LONDON THEATRES,

DECEMBER 7, 1878.

Olympic, "The Two Orphans" ("Les deux Orphelins").

The Adelphi, "Proof" ("Une Cause Célèbre").

The Prince of Wales', "Diplomacy" ("Dora").

The Gaiety, "Our Happy Villagers" ("Nos bons Villageois").

The Criterion, "Pink Dominos" ("Les Dominos Roses").

The Alhambra, "La Pèrichole."

The Globe, "Les Cloches de Corneville."

The Folly, "A Husband in Cotton" ("Un mari dans du Coton"), and "The Wedding March" ("Chapeau de paille d'Italie").

The Royalty, "La Marjolaine."

The Court, "A Scrap of Paper," ("Les Pattes de Mouche.")

The Haymarket, "The Crisis" ("Les Fourchambault").

[SIXTEENTH LETTER.]

December, 1878.

London, Morley's Hotel.

(George Moore to Bernard Lopez.)

My Dear Lopez, —

The ink that has written your name wrote the last iambic of our tragedy, Martin Luther. There is, therefore, nothing more to do but to pen the dedication. I shall write mine in French. You have never, by the way, sufficiently admired my French verse. I send you the first four lines of my sonnet-dédicace —

"Je t'apporte mon drame, O poëte sublime,

Ainsi qu'un écolier au maître sa leçon:

Ce livre avec fierté porte comme écusson

Le sceau qu'en nos esprits ta jeune gloire imprime."

After having penned this magnificent quatrain I find it impossible to go on writing prose, so will wish you good-bye.

P.S. — It is impossible to send our child naked into the world; we must write a preface, decency has always demanded a fig leaf, even of the Greek sculptors. Is not a book, in this respect, like to a statue?

[SEVENTEENTH LETTER.]

Paris, December, 1878.

(Bernard Lopez to George Moore.)

My Dear Moore, —

There are many disagreeable things in this world.

To meet a schoolfellow after many years of separation, and to find that he is a poet living upon his rhymes.
To be forced to listen to a Latin play and not to understand a word.
Idem, when you understand it all.
To receive the visit of a love-smitten friend.
To marry a lady for money, and to find after marriage that she has nothing but debts.
To spend a thousand pounds on bribery, and to be afterwards turned out on petition.
To receive your uncle's blessing instead of his property.
For the witty gastronomer and dramatic critic, Charles Monselet, to be obliged to leave a turkey stuffed with truffles, to be in time to see the first act of a melodrama.
To live.
To die.
To love a woman who loves you for love, and another for money.
And the contrary.
When one of your children resembles in an extraordinary way one of your intimate friends.
To see a friend, whom you have mounted, rattling your favourite hunter over stone and mortar.
After a life of mortification to find yourself unable to believe in the existence of a future state.
To read a preface.
And worst of all to contemplate writing, to write, or to have written one.

[EIGHTEENTH LETTER.]

London, 1878.

(George Moore to Bernard Lopez.)

My Dear Lopez, —

It is really too bad, you never said a word in your last letter about my quatrain. I suppose you think it detestable. I wonder you did not include my French poetry in your list of disagreeable things. You evidently will not write a preface, and a preface is absolutely necessary. As I lay awake last night philosophising over the sin of idleness a bright idea struck me — suppose we publish, as a make-shift preface, the letters we have written upon the subject of our drama? They contain all that we would say in another form.

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