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There is at present an opinion prevailing, in regard to dramatic works, which, if just, is wholly contradictory to every proof of cause and effect, which has been applied to the rise and fall of other arts, and sciences.

It is said, that modern dramas are the worst that ever appeared on the English stage—yet it is well known, that the English theatres never flourished as they do at present.

When it is inquired, why painting, poetry, and sculpture, decline in England? “Want of encouragement,” is the sure reply—but this reply cannot be given to the question, “Why dramatic literature fails?” for never was there such high remuneration conferred upon every person, and every work, belonging to the drama.

A new play, which, from a reputed wit of former times, would not, with success, bring him a hundred pounds, a manager will now purchase, from a reputed blockhead, at the price of near a thousand; and sustain all risk whether it be condemned or not.

Great must be the attraction of modern plays, to repay such speculation.

It follows, then, if the stage be really sunk so low as it is said to be, that patronage and reward have ruined, instead of having advanced, genius. Or, is it not more likely, that public favour has incited the envious to rail; or, at best, raised up minute inquirers into the excellence of that amusement, which charms a whole nation; and criticism sees faults, as fear sees ghosts—whenever they are looked for.

It is a consolation to the dramatist of the present age, that, while his plays are more attractive than ever those of former writers were, those authors had their contemporary critics as well as he; though less acute and less severe, indeed, than the present race. As a testimony—they often had not satire sharp enough to avert that bitterest punishment to an ambitious author—neglect.

Of this play, “Every One has his Fault,” nothing, in modesty, can be said, beyond mere matter of fact. It has been productive both to the manager and the writer, having, on its first appearance, run, in the theatrical term, near thirty nights; during which, some of the audience were heard to laugh, and some were seen to weep—it may likewise with truth be added, that, whatever critics may please to say against the production, they cannot think more humbly of its worth, than

THE AUTHOR.