insist upon being allowed to do so on the present occasion, as it would not be true to nature—so there! I consider that truth to nature is the dramatic artist's lode-star. I do not know what a lode-star is, but I am quite sure that Lead is a very dull play. No, I have never been hissed. My parts have often been hissed, but no one has ever hissed me.
The learned Judge.—It is hardly necessary to give us that assurance, Miss Jessamine.
The evidence of this witness concluded the case for the prosecution.
The Prisoner, in addressing the jury for his defence, began by begging that they would dismiss from their minds any natural feelings of irritation which the unfortunate events of the evening might have roused. He was a dramatic author, who supported himself, his wife, and a large family entirely by writing original plays. When a piece of his failed, it meant not only so many hundred pounds out of his pocket, it also meant loss of reputation, and a reduced chance of ever being allowed to practise the only calling with which he was familiar. He was in the habit of doing his very best to please his audience, according to his humble means, and if he failed it was through no lack of careful thought and honest hard work on his part, but either through an error of judgment—to which all men, even the very greatest, are liable—or owing to circumstances which he was positively unable to control, and to which he would presently allude at some length. The unhappy play
