Newspaper article titled Confessions of an Ex-Dramatist written by George Arnold for the New York Mercury, regarding his and Frank Cahill's failed attempts to become successful playwrights. Transcription: {For the New York Mercury.} CONFESSIONS O F A N E X ? D R A M A T I S T. ? BY GEORGE ARNOLD. ? I have an affection for my species, and an especial sympathy with those who are given, like myself, to ladling their brains into their stomachs-?; I mean, in short, earning their daily bread by writing. The confession I am about to make is, perhaps, a trifle humiliating-?; for it treats of
Newspaper article titled Confessions of an Ex-Dramatist written by George Arnold for the New York Mercury, regarding his and Frank Cahill's failed attempts to become successful playwrights. Transcription: {For the New York Mercury.} CONFESSIONS O F A N E X ? D R A M A T I S T. ? BY GEORGE ARNOLD. ? I have an affection for my species, and an especial sympathy with those who are given, like myself, to ladling their brains into their stomachs-?; I mean, in short, earning their daily bread by writing. The confession I am about to make is, perhaps, a trifle humiliating-?; for it treats of my failure and defeat. But as the above-mentioned affection and sympathy are stronger than my personal vanity in the matter, I shall tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth ?hoping that my readers may profit by the moral hereinafter contained. May they avoid the pit which received me into its gaping jaws! In the summer of 1856, Frank Haycill [Frank Cahill] and I ?fellow-Bohemians and brothers of the pen ?were suddenly fired with a desire for fame. We had an idea that no happiness could be greater than that of seeing our names on big posters, covering the dead walls of the metropolis. Haycill had been on the stage in London, and had written a little one-act piece ('adapted' from the Chinese, and called, 'I Despise the Matron'), which had been produced at one of the minor theatres here. This pointed the way for the realization of our aspirations, and we considered it. I remember well one evening ?a warm and delicious one in July ?as my friend and myself strolled idly up Broadway, with vacant pockets, and in seedy attire, Frank stopped, wheeled around, and seized me by the arm ?making a melo-dramatic gesture as he did so. At first I thought that he was taken with a fit-?; then I imagined that he had come across a stray quarter in an unexplored pocket, and was about to propose beer. 'Stop-?!' cried he, in a very English stagevoice. 'What is it?' 'See there?' I l
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