Volume 159 — TO OUR PLAY-MAKERS.
Reading edition
[The Daisy and The Crossing, which both dealt with the life after death, have come to an untimely end; and, in deference to public feeling, the heroine of Every Woman's Privilege has been furnished with a fresh fiancé.]
When in my stall at eve I sit (And these remarks would still apply, Perhaps with greater force, were I Accommodated in the Pit)— Worn with the long day's dusty strife, I ask a brief surcease of gloom; I want a mirror held to life, But not the life beyond the tomb. The views of parties who have "crossed" (Meaning to Jordan's further shore), Those, as they say, who've "gone before," But not (unhappily) been "lost"— They make me ill; they decompose My vital essence at its fount (Excepting Barrie's Mary Rose, But then, of course, he doesn't count). Give me the life that quick men lead, Of which I know the hopes and fears Better than those of shadier spheres; And, if at first you don't succeed, If you should hear the critics croak, "As to your heroine's choice, you err," Just hand her to the other bloke— That's what they did with Marie Löhr. So shall creative art suggest A world where people may revise Their silly past, and realise Those second thoughts which are the best; Where, having seen the larger light, A perfect liberty to hedge And swap the wrong man for the right Is "Every Woman's Privilege." O. S.