dence, genius, chance, society, the world, nature, life; and above all these one would be conscious that something great was soaring!
To this drama, which would be a never-failing source of instruction for the multitude, everything would be allowable, because it would be of its essence to abuse nothing. It would have on its side such a reputation for loyalty, elevation of mind, usefulness, and conscientiousness, that no one would ever accuse it of seeking effect and sensations where it had sought only a moral lesson. It could take François I to Maguelonne's hovel without arousing suspicion; it could, without alarming the sternest moralists, cause pity for Marion to gush from Didier's breast; it could, without being accused of over-emphasis and exaggeration like the author of "Mary Tudor," display freely on the stage, in all its awe-inspiring reality, that dread triangle that appears so often in history: a queen, a favourite, a headsman.
The man who shall create this drama will require two qualities—conscientiousness and genius. The author who is now speaking has only the first, as he well knows. He will nevertheless continue what he has begun, hoping that others will do better than he. To-day an enormous public, constantly increasing in intelligence, sympathizes with all the serious efforts of art. To-day every high-minded critic assists and encourages the poet. The other judges matter little. So let the poet come forth! As for the author of this drama, sure of the future that is in store for progress, certain that, in default of talent, his perseverance will some day be counted in his favour, he gazes with serene and tranquil confidence upon the multitude which every evening encompasses this incomplete work with so much curiosity, anxiety and attention. In presence of that multitude, he realizes the responsibility that rests upon him, and he accepts it calmly. Never in his works does he lose sight for an instant of the people whom the stage civilizes; of history, which the stage explains; of the human heart, to which the stage gives counsel. To-morrow he will lay aside the work that is done for the work that is to do; he will turn his back upon that multitude, to return to his solitude—a profound solitude sheltered from every evil influence of the outside world, where youth, his
