LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 r, 
 
 Class 
 
BY PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 The Canterbury Pilgrims. A Comedy. 
 
 Feuris, the Wolf. A Tragedy. 
 
 Jeanne D Arc. 
 
 Sappho and Phaon. 
 
 The Scarecrow. A Tragedy of the Ludicrous. 
 
 Mater. An American Study in Comedy. 
 
 The Playhouse and the Play. 
 
 Uniform, i2mo. $1.25 net, each. 
 
 Lincoln: A Centenary Ode. izmo. -j5c.net 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 AND OTHER ADDRESSES 
 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO 
 ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. 
 
 TORONTO 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND 
 THE PLAY 
 
 AND OTHER ADDRESSES 
 
 CONCERNING THE THEATRE 
 
 AND DEMOCRACY IN 
 
 AMERICA 
 
 BY 
 
 PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 gorfc 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1909 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1909, 
 BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1909. 
 
 J. 8. Gushing Co. Berwick & Smith Co. 
 Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
THE DEAR AND HONORED MEMORY 
 OP MY FATHER 
 
 STEELE MACKAYE 
 
 RENASCENT SPIRIT, RESOURCEFUL PIONEER 
 UNDAUNTED VINDICATOR OF THE THEATRE IN AMERICA 
 
 DURING TWENTY YEARS 
 
 AS DRAMATIST, ACTOR, DIRECTOR, ORGANIZER 
 AND INVENTOR 
 
 190805 
 
AN EXCERPT FROM "JUSTICE AND LIBERTY" 
 BY G. LOWES DICKINSON 
 
 A Banker and a Professor are Conversing 
 
 The Banker: No reasonable man imagines that there may 
 not be changes in human nature whereby things may become 
 possible that are not possible now. Only, we say, first 
 change your human nature before you begin meddling with 
 institutions. 
 
 The Professor: That again sounds so reasonable, yet really, 
 in practice, is so obstructive. For if it be true that institu 
 tions depend on human nature, it is also true that human 
 nature depends on them, and on our ideas about them. And 
 if you treat institutions as something sacrosanct, if you rule 
 out all criticism of them, and all experimenting with them, 
 you are hindering precisely the change in human nature 
 which you say you want, by suppressing that insurrection of 
 the spirit which alone can bring it about. . . . What really 
 stirs men is a demonstration that the order under which they 
 live is neither reasonable nor just. They may then come to 
 find it so intolerable that they can no longer rest in it. And 
 then, and then only, you have the condition of your change 
 in human nature. . . . 
 
 The first condition of acquiring knowledge is to desire it. 
 
NOTE 
 
 OF the following contents, The Playhouse 
 and the Play and The Drama of Democracy 
 (the latter published in The Columbia Uni 
 versity Quarterly, June, 1908) are addresses 
 delivered by the author, in 1907-1908, at the 
 universities of Harvard, Yale, Columbia, Chi 
 cago, Michigan, and California, The Twentieth 
 Century Club and The Book and Play Club, 
 Chicago, The MacDowell Association and The 
 League for Political Education, New York, 
 and elsewhere; The Dramatist as Citizen is 
 an address delivered in February, 1909, be 
 fore Harvard, Yale, Columbia, and Brown 
 Universities, The League for Political Edu 
 cation, New York, and elsewhere; Self- 
 Expression a?id the American Drama is 
 reprinted, by permission, from The North 
 American Review for September, 1908; Art 
 and Democracy is an address given before The 
 Society for Ethical Culture, New York, on 
 Lincoln s Birthday, 1908. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A DOZEN PROMPT NOTES . . . . .1 
 
 INTRODUCTION ........ 7 
 
 SOME QUESTIONS BEFORE THE CURTAIN . . .29 
 THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY . . . .41 
 
 THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY . . . . .87 
 
 THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN ..... 121 
 
 SELF-EXPRESSION AND THE AMERICAN DRAMA . . 155 
 
 ART AND DEMOCRACY 183 
 
 SOME COMMENTS BY WAY OF EPILOGUE . . 193 
 
 XUl 
 
A DOZEN PROMPT NOTES 
 
A DOZEN PROMPT NOTES 
 
 i 
 
 SVER before in the history of the Am 
 erican theatre has the future of our na 
 tive drama been so splendid and secure in 
 promise as to-day. In this undoubted fact we 
 may well take joy and courage ; yet we need not 
 be blind to the true causes of the fact. The true 
 causes for the unique promise and the encour 
 aging achievement of the drama to-day arise 
 not from any conducive qualifications of the 
 existing theatrical system as a private specu 
 lative business, but from that great reawaken 
 ing of our national consciousness which every 
 where to-day is increasingly alive to deeper 
 significances in our life and institutions." 
 
 Page 27. 
 II 
 
 " It is absurd to demand that a business 
 man shall ruin his private business. It is 
 
 3 
 
A DOZEN PROMPT NOTES 
 
 not absurd, however, to demand that a private 
 business, whose legitimate function is that of a 
 public art, shall be revolutionized to perform 
 that function properly by ceasing to be a 
 business." 
 
 Page 69. 
 
 Ill 
 
 "An effectual business needs no subsidy; 
 an effectual art cannot live without it." 
 
 Page 207. 
 IV 
 
 " The status of the playhouse in society is as 
 vital as the status of the university in society. 
 The dignity and efficiency of the one demand 
 the same safeguarding against inward deteri 
 oration as the dignity and efficiency of the 
 other. The functions of both are educative. 
 The safeguard of each is endowment." 
 
 Page 79. 
 
 V 
 
 " True democracy is vitally concerned with 
 beauty, and true art is vitally concerned with 
 citizenship." 
 
 Page 190. 
 
A DOZEN PROMPT NOTES 
 
 VI 
 
 "To hold commercial managers primarily 
 responsible for the evils of the playhouse is 
 unreasonable. The managers do not primarily 
 shape their own policies. The basic nature of 
 the existing theatre as an institution its nature 
 as a private speculative business is the great 
 motivating cause which logically produces the 
 policies of the managers. For tolerating that 
 unworthy institutional basis of the theatre, the 
 
 public is responsible." 
 
 Page 69. 
 
 VII 
 
 " Distinct from Segregated Drama (a fine 
 art for the few) and Vaudeville (a heteroge 
 neous entertainment for the many), exists, 
 potential, a third ideal : the ideal of the Drama 
 of Democracy the drama as a fine art for the 
 many." 
 
 Page 103. 
 VIII 
 
 " The highest potentiality of the drama can 
 never be realized until the theatre the drama s 
 communal instrument shall be dedicated to 
 public, not private, ends." 
 
 Page 137. 
 5 
 
A DOZEN PROMPT NOTES 
 
 IX 
 
 " Reformation of the playhouse is not a mat 
 ter of reforming individuals, but of reforming 
 
 conditions." 
 
 Page 85. 
 
 X 
 
 " The efficient regulation of its functions to 
 the ends of greatest public service is the con 
 cern of the leaders of the American people 
 our eminent educators, our civic societies, our 
 
 powerful and altruistic citizens." 
 
 Page 85. 
 
 XI 
 
 "A house of private speculation is not 
 adapted to be a house of public education." 
 
 Page 128. 
 XII 
 
 " Nevertheless, night after night, year after 
 year, our theatres are educating our people by 
 the millions and tens of millions. The ques 
 tion is : Shall the theatre educate those mil 
 lions right or wrong ? " 
 
 Page 84. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 vital problems which confront the 
 -*- drama in America to-day are not pri 
 marily questions of dramatic art; they are 
 questions which concern the opportunities for 
 dramatic art properly to exist and to mature. 
 Primarily, therefore, they are not aesthetic 
 questions; they are civic questions. They 
 are questions which concern a potential dra 
 matic art, and the barriers which prevent or 
 retard its existence. They are questions which 
 concern, on the part of dramatic artists, 
 liberation ; on the part of the public, enlighten 
 ment, i 
 
 To obtain these objects, a thoroughgoing 
 knowledge and discussion of all important 
 issues of the drama are necessary first steps 
 tow r ard their wise solution. Much discussion 
 and some knowledge of these issues have of 
 late been publicly indulged in and acquired, 
 with remarkably encouraging results ; and it is 
 
 9 
 
x INTRODUCTION 
 
 the aim of this volume hopefully to do its 
 slight part in urging still wider discussion, 
 still more searching knowledge, of these matters. 
 
 Of the five essays here included, the 
 first concerns itself with the conditioning in 
 fluences of the theatre upon the drama; the 
 second, with a possible goal for our native 
 drama; the third, with the civic status of the 
 dramatist s profession; the fourth, with the 
 need of leadership ; the fifth, with art as 
 public service. 
 
 Whatever opinions are expressed in these 
 pages are my sincere beliefs at this time. It 
 does not follow, however, that they are unal 
 terable beliefs. I shall hope to profit by criti 
 cism and possible refutation of their tenets by 
 minds wiser than my own ; and I set them forth 
 here solely for the sake of stimulating inquiry 
 and knowledge in the great and vital subject 
 which they inadequately treat. 
 
 For centuries of Anglo-Saxon tradition, the 
 theatre has held an unclassified place in the 
 structure of society. Acknowledged always 
 as a powerful influence upon the lives of men, 
 
 10 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 it has never been systematically utilized as 
 such by the civic leaders of men. As a na 
 tional force, it has never been correlated with 
 the other great forces of citizenship, of law, of 
 industry, of statecraft, of patriotism. Never 
 theless the theatre, in its proper function, is 
 peculiarly fitted for such association. 
 
 Why, then, have the nations hitherto failed 
 so to organize the theatre as to utilize it prop 
 erly as a national force ? 
 
 Historically, they have not always failed to 
 do so. 
 
 Three distinctive traditions of the theatre 
 come down to us from Europe: the Anglo- 
 Saxon, the Continental, the Greek. 
 
 According to Anglo-Saxon tradition, the 
 theatre being concerned with an art was 
 long ago relegated, by the Anglo-Saxon in 
 difference or contempt for all the arts except 
 that of pure literature, to the twilight realm of 
 Bohemia. This has been a lasting result of 
 the Puritan revolution in England. Thus in 
 English-speaking nations the art of the theatre 
 has never been officially recognized by society, 
 
 11 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 or the state, as a force of civilization, 
 This Anglo-Saxon attitude, though modified 
 in recent years by Continental influences, still 
 obtains; and we in America directly inherit 
 the Anglo-Saxon tradition of the theatre, and 
 labor under its disadvantages. 
 
 The most poignant of these disadvantages 
 and the one which has been most disastrous 
 in its results both upon the theatre s own self- 
 respect and upon the character of Anglo-Saxon 
 communities has been the necessity, forced 
 upon it by society, for the theatre to indulge 
 the public taste instead of to guide it. 
 
 Relegated to Bohemianism, it has had to 
 lead a shifty livelihood by using its humanistic 
 powers for the petty ends of commercial exist 
 ence. Not even the lofty stature of a Shak- 
 spere has been able to impress the Anglo- 
 Saxon with the theatre s proper function in the 
 nation. So far from perceiving in Shak- 
 spere a convincing exemplification of the 
 potential dignity of the theatre, Englishmen 
 have for centuries conveniently classified their 
 supreme dramatist as a "bard," consistently 
 
 12 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 extolling his poetic dignity whilst they have 
 degraded the civic status of his art. 
 
 According to Continental traditions, on the 
 other hand, the theatre being concerned 
 with an art has held a position of strong 
 influence and high regard in society, but of 
 less influence in the state proper. This has 
 been a lasting result of its endowment, pro 
 tection, and encouragement by the kings, 
 courts, and principalities of Europe. This, 
 too, has been in accord with the special genius 
 of the Continental civilization, where artists 
 have long been leaders in social taste but not 
 in civic strategy. 
 
 Thus the theatre has exerted, for centuries 
 in France, and for a century or more in Ger 
 many, an extraordinary influence upon man 
 ners and philosophy, dealing authentically 
 with living problems, social and intellectual. 
 But in the larger national issues of politics, 
 national industry, and statecraft, it has exerted 
 comparatively little or no real influence. 
 
 According, however, to Greek tradition 
 the theatre being concerned with an art 
 
 13 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 held a position of double vantage, due to the 
 special genius of that people a people whose 
 artists were also soldiers and statesmen. The 
 theatre in Athens exerted a guiding influence 
 both upon society and the state, and thereby 
 rose to the full dignity of its proper status and 
 function. 
 
 Of these traditions, the Anglo-Saxon ex 
 presses a Bohemian ideal; the Continental, a 
 social ideal ; the Greek, a civic ideal. 
 
 What bearing, then, to-day have these three 
 distinctive traditions of the theatre upon the 
 destiny of the drama in America? 
 
 With regard to all art, America stands in 
 an unique position of inheritance. We are, 
 first, the direct heirs of Anglo-Saxon tradition, 
 and this heritage is chiefly responsible for the 
 unworthy status of dramatic art in our 
 country. 
 
 But more than this, we are increasingly the 
 heirs of Continental tradition, and this heri 
 tage is chiefly responsible for the encouraging 
 signs to-day of an important uplift in the status 
 of dramatic art in America. 
 
 14 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The appearance of a book like Archer and 
 Barker s "Scheme and Estimates for a Na 
 tional Theatre" 1 is one of these auspicious 
 signs. In that volume a work of impressive 
 industry and altruism is epitomized the 
 age-long experience of the best Continental 
 traditions in the theatre, and that experience 
 is rendered available, with specific directness, 
 to whomsoever shall think wise to carry on 
 those traditions in America. 
 
 Those traditions it is the announced policy 
 of the New Theatre, at New York, to foster 
 in a carefully equipped playhouse, partially 
 subsidized though not yet fully endowed 
 by private ownership. This theatre, lately 
 dedicated, will open its first season next au 
 tumn, presenting modern and classic plays in 
 repertoire. Greatly desirable as will be its 
 worthy success in helping to counteract Anglo- 
 Saxon tradition and to confer stability and 
 dignity upon dramatic art, the scope of the 
 New Theatre, being devoted to establishing 
 the methods and aims of Continental tradi- 
 
 1 New York, Duffield and Company, 1908. 
 15 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 tion in the metropolis, necessarily cannot 
 include certain radical objects and national 
 opportunities of the drama, as these freshly 
 unfold themselves to the thoughtful observer 
 of our democracy. 
 
 Some of these radical objects are already 
 being pursued with zeal by an enterprise of 
 auspicious promise in New York. The Edu 
 cational Theatre for Children and Young 
 People, organized with Mr. Samuel Clemens 
 (" Mark Twain ") as president of its Board of 
 Directors, is utilizing the elemental power of 
 dramatic impulse in young people for the 
 refinement of their imaginations and the up 
 building of character. Dedicated to non-com 
 mercial ends, under the immediate directorship 
 of its initiator, Miss Alice Minnie Herts, the 
 Educational Theatre is helping to create the 
 first requisite of an enlightened theatre an 
 enlightened audience. 
 
 Speaking of the deep-seated instinct utilized 
 by this institution, President Eliot has lately 
 said : 
 
 "Here is this tremendous power over chil- 
 16 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 dren and over fathers and mothers that ought to 
 be utilized for their good. It is true that the 
 dramatic instinct is very general, and it can 
 be used to put into the hearts and minds of 
 children and adults all sorts of noble and influ 
 ential thoughts, and that is the use that ought 
 to be made of it. ... So I say that this power, 
 developed in a very striking manner by Miss 
 Herts in the Educational Theatre, is one that 
 ought to be at least in every school in this 
 country, and moreover I believe that it is 
 going to be." 
 
 In New York, also, under the idealistic 
 direction of Mr. Charles Sprague Smith, the 
 People s Institute has ministered to the higher 
 uses of the drama in practical work, which has 
 long been well known. 
 
 In such humanistic efforts of organized 
 desire, we are (thirdly) the heirs not from 
 overseas, but from within us of a new spirit 
 of democracy; and this heritage, from the 
 resurrecting vernal forces of mankind, is im 
 buing our republic with the promise of a new 
 Hellenism ; with the promise of a nation where 
 o 17 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 our artists, too, shall be soldiers and states 
 men; with a sense of the correlation of all 
 vital human concerns in the pursuit of a world- 
 happiness; with the desire, in brief, of a 
 vaster perfection. 
 
 By the glow of this new spirit of democracy 
 our theatre, too, is being transfigured. In the 
 light of that larger destiny which awaits it 
 in the nation, the chaotic Bohemian ideal of 
 Anglo-Saxon tradition stands like a relique 
 of the dark ages. Its meagre picturesqueness 
 has long since ceased to be an excuse for its 
 unwholesome survival. It must not only be 
 repudiated, it must be pulled down, and give 
 space to the lovelier grandeur of the Theatre 
 of Democracy. 
 
 Moreover, the Continental tradition 
 though it may serve always a very valuable 
 purpose, as conservator of the best in past 
 achievement, and provide a precious museum 
 for th e student and the connoisseur must 
 prove, I believe, inadequate to fulfil the 
 theatre s national function in America. 
 
 In brief, a more inclusive ideal must be 
 18 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 sought for the larger promise which America 
 and the twentieth century hold out to the 
 theatre, an ideal which shall establish the 
 art of the dramatist as a permanent civic 
 agency in the structure of American communi 
 ties; an agency of guidance and liberation to 
 the people. That ideal is found, I believe, 
 with nearest approximation, in the ideal of 
 the Greek tradition of the theatre: an ideal 
 which tends to reconcile the traditions of art 
 and democracy. 
 
 The space of this preface does not permit 
 of enlarging specifically upon the developments 
 of this ideal. Nor, indeed, have I done so 
 in this volume, save as I have merely suggested 
 them in the chapters, " The Drama of Democ 
 racy " and " The Dramatist as Citizen." In a 
 second volume I purpose to do so. But, in 
 passing, I may properly allude to what appears 
 to be a popular fallacy concerning this topic. 
 It is frequently asserted that the ideals of art 
 and of democracy are irreconcilable ; that art 
 differentiates and uplifts, whereas democracy 
 assimilates and levels. To this I venture the 
 
 19 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 opinion that, in such an assertion, the ideals of 
 democracy and of commercialism are confused. 
 Commercialism always levels; true democracy 
 never. And true democracy is reasserting 
 itself to-day as never before. 
 
 The tendencies of art are idealistic; but 
 so are the tendencies of our renascent republic. 
 In the arts as in the industries our people 
 are coming to demand excellence; that is, to 
 demand something over and above an average 
 quality known to themselves. They are com 
 ing to demand the highest quality known to 
 the producer. For giving them that highest 
 quality they put their faith in the producer, 
 and they will exact that excellence in the 
 product. Thus, in accordance with the 
 ideal of true democracy, the citizen, or 
 the artist, is required to dedicate to the peo 
 ple whatever he believes best in himself 
 not merely what the people may suppose 
 to be best. 
 
 More and more, in accordance with that 
 ideal, our people is coming to demand of its 
 leaders that they shall not pay heed to its 
 
 20 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 whimsical demands, however strenuously 
 urged, but to the demands of the nature of the 
 work in hand. In short, they are coming to 
 demand that their leaders shall be experts, who 
 shall behave as experts, for the sake of the pub 
 lic who relies on them in that capacity. In the 
 arts, these experts are called Artists; in the 
 state, Representatives. 
 
 Now, in view of this ideal of art and democ 
 racy, what criticism and reconstruction are 
 pertinent to our American drama? 
 
 To build foundations, ground must first 
 be cleared, and the greater the structure to 
 be raised, the deeper must the bulwarks be 
 fixed in the solid rock of permanence. If we 
 have in mind the revolution of a theatrical 
 season or decade in a particular city, our 
 reformation may be based, with fair confi 
 dence, in the courage, wisdom, and ideality of 
 individual leaders. But if we have in mind 
 the upbuilding of a dramatic era, whose living 
 traditions shall stand for centuries, ennobling 
 a nation, we must base our designs in stuff more 
 perennial; we must base them in reformative 
 
 21 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 conditions, conditions which shall perennially 
 tend to produce such individual leaders. 
 
 This book is concerned with conditions 
 not with persons ; with questions which con 
 cern right and wrong conditions of dramatic 
 art, irrespective of particular individuals. 
 
 It goes without saying that every art exists 
 by reason of the work of artists ; but it should 
 also go without saying that artists, like other 
 phenomena, exist by reason of conditions con 
 ducive to their being. 
 
 The wise harvester does not sow in stubble : 
 first, he removes the stubble. In calculating 
 his wheat crop, he is not satisfied with reflect 
 ing that some sporadic wheat ears will prob 
 ably flourish in spite of the stubble. On the 
 contrary, he cultivates his ground solely for 
 the crop he desires to harvest. In farming, 
 at least, that procedure is considered common 
 sense. In dramatic art 
 
 The time would seem to have arrived to ask 
 ourselves, as citizens: What theatrical crop 
 is most desirable to harvest for the American 
 people ? And how shall it be cultivated ? 
 
 22 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The writer does not profess to answer these 
 questions dogmatically. He believes, however, 
 that it is of unimagined consequence that the 
 leaders of our people should seek adequate 
 answers for themselves. 
 
 The present book seeks to help clear the ground 
 for the upbuilding not in one city only but in 
 all our greater American communities of a per 
 manently endowed theatrical institution, dedi 
 cated solely to dramatic art as a civic agency in 
 the democracy : a civic theatre for the people. 
 
 Another volume, which the author proposes 
 to publish later, will seek to outline the struc 
 tural features, the inward and outward safe- 
 guardings, the proper balance of the con 
 trolling forces, the social ramifications and 
 influences of such an institution, together with 
 the practical steps necessary for its establish 
 ment. The attributes of this imagined theatre 
 will be adapted to the ideals suggested in the 
 essay "The Drama of Democracy," and in 
 several fundamental respects will differ from 
 ideals of the theatre as now founded either 
 in Anglo-Saxon or in Continental tradition. 
 
 23 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 To one devoted to the interests both of our 
 drama and of our country, it becomes increas 
 ingly clear that if the interests of both are to 
 be reconciled, our theatrical leaders may no 
 longer ignore their responsibilities as citizens; 
 our leading citizens may no longer ignore the 
 potentialities of the theatre as a civic institution. 
 
 The contents of this volume have been gath 
 ered together because of the gratifying recep 
 tion already accorded to those portions which 
 I have delivered as addresses before several 
 of our universities. As a result of that pleas 
 ant privilege, I discovered what, I believe, is 
 not yet realized by the public, nor perhaps by 
 the universities themselves that those high 
 est schools of our country are already the seats 
 of a modest but vital dramatic renascence, 
 critical and creative. 
 
 In at least four of our largest universities, 
 I met with groups of young men, banded to 
 gether by a common ardor and a special 
 capacity for the purpose of studying and mas 
 tering the technique of plays. The spirit which 
 imbued these young men appeared not to be 
 
 24 
 
OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF NTRODUCTION 
 
 that of archaic research or dilettantism, of 
 school regime or social fad. On the con 
 trary, they exhibited that fine fellowship of 
 purpose and determination of pursuit, which 
 one associates with the studios of young 
 sculptors and painters art students, happy 
 in their dead earnestness. Their aims were 
 specific, contemporaneous, and prophetic of a 
 new order. It is a fresh phenomenon and a 
 heartening one. It is significant also that, 
 in at least two cases, these university men have 
 grouped themselves under a critical master of 
 large special knowledge and enthusiasm. Pro 
 fessor George Pierce Baker, of Harvard, and 
 Professor William Lyon Phelps, of Yale, are 
 impressing with their trained insight genera 
 tions which promise soon to leaven the Ameri 
 can public with a new reverence for the drama, 
 based upon criteria more clear, accomplish 
 ments more excellent than in the past. 
 
 Now, in the light of the high aims and aspi 
 rations of these young men, and of other 
 American young men and women in all paths 
 of life, who look gladly to the drama as their 
 
 25 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 goal of expression, where shall these seek op 
 portunity for embodying their aspirations effi 
 ciently ? By what standards of the theatre shall 
 they set their actual work, not simply for indi 
 vidual livelihood but for public service ? How 
 shall they focus their efforts and their ideals so 
 as to bring their best gifts to realization and, 
 by patient collaboration toward a common aim, 
 give visible and splendid sign of the renascence 
 which already lives and throbs to be born ? 
 
 Are these questions irrelevant, unneedful? 
 I believe not. 
 
 Countless numbers of the intelligent and 
 the aspiring have brought their birthright to 
 the playhouse, and there have sold it for pot 
 tage, or, refusing to do that, have turned 
 reluctantly away and devoted their fine powers 
 to other vocations. 
 
 Why has this been? What is wrong with 
 the playhouse, or with the aims of these aspi 
 rants, that seemingly they are so maladjusted ? 
 
 Whatever the answer, and we shall try to 
 seek the answer, here undeniably is waste; 
 here undeniably is an abortion of noble im- 
 
 26 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 pulses, talents, faculties, which if we can 
 find the remedy may yet be dedicated to the 
 art which boasts its Sophocles, and to the re 
 public which aspires to excel in civilization. 
 
 In this volume, since it consists chiefly of ad 
 dresses made at various places and times, there 
 is necessarily a certain amount of repetition. 
 But if the ideas repeated are sound, reiteration 
 will not impair their worth; if they are un 
 sound, reiteration will serve the useful purpose 
 of emphasizing their defects, thus helping the 
 cause of truth, which is their only object. 
 
 Because also of the special emphasis of this 
 book, it is possible that some of my statements 
 may be construed as expressions of pessimism. 
 If so, that would be wrongly to construe my 
 real convictions. In this volume, I may re 
 peat, I attempt only to deal suggestively with 
 a few important sides of a many-sided subject. 
 Necessarily there is much hiatus and omission. 
 But if I have sought to reveal inherent defects 
 in existing theatrical conditions, I am none the 
 less gladly aware of the many auspicious 
 signs prophetic of a finer order of things. 
 
 27 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Never before in the history of the American 
 theatre has the future of our native drama been 
 so splendid and secure in promise as to-day. 
 In this undoubted fact we may well take joy and 
 courage; yet we need not be blind to the 
 true causes of the fact. The true causes for 
 the unique promise and the encouraging achieve 
 ment of our drama to-day arise not from any 
 conducive qualifications of the existing theatri 
 cal system as a private speculative business, 
 but from that great reawakening of our national 
 consciousness which everywhere to-day is in 
 creasingly alive to deeper significances in our 
 life and institutions. 
 
 In brief, our national life now claims the 
 theatre to express itself, and to that end the 
 theatre, sooner or later, must be overhauled 
 and reconstructed to meet the larger needs of 
 national life. 
 
 In America itself lies the assured renascence 
 of American drama. 
 
 PERCY MACKAYE. 
 
 CORNISH, NEW HAMPSHIRE, 
 February, 1909. 
 
 28 
 
SOME QUESTIONS BEFORE 
 THE CURTAIN 
 
 CITIZENS OP THE BOXES, THE GALLERIES, AND THE 
 STALLS : 
 
 As one of many workers behind the curtain, I submit to 
 you these questions before it. 
 
 It is of small importance that you answer them as I would ; 
 it is of great importance that you consider them and answer 
 them as you would. 
 
 When all of the playgoers of America shall have put 
 similar questions to themselves and answered them, then the 
 playhouse and the play in our country will possess what 
 now they lack the indispensable basis for their wholesome 
 prosperity: enlightened public opinion. 
 
SOME QUESTIONS BEFORE 
 THE CURTAIN 
 
 WHAT is a play ? 
 What is a good play? 
 
 Is it (to quote an eminent theatrical author 
 ity) "a play that succeeds: that s all"? 
 
 What is a bad play ? 
 
 Is it (to quote the same authority) "a play 
 that fails: that s all"? 
 
 In view of the above definitions, is " Hamlet" 
 being a play which has both succeeded and 
 failed a good play or a bad play ? 
 
 If either, why ? 
 
 Is a play a play before its production? 
 
 What is theatrical production? its proper 
 relation toward the play ? its proper function 
 toward the public ? 
 
 How far does the public confuse the creative 
 work of the dramatist with the interpretative 
 work of the actor ? 
 
 31 
 
QUESTIONS BEFORE THE CURTAIN 
 
 How far is this confusion necessary ? useful ? 
 
 Is it true that plays are usually written as 
 vehicles for particular actors? 
 
 If so, what effect is that fact likely to have 
 upon the plays themselves, as works of drama 
 turgy? upon the theatrical situation? its fu 
 ture? 
 
 What is the rational adjustment of actor, 
 dramatist, stage-director, to theatrical produc 
 tion? 
 
 If theatrical production be an art of many 
 delicate interrelations, ought it to be ordered 
 and harmonized by a single competent director ? 
 
 Is it true that no concerted action has ever 
 been taken in this country to establish such 
 securely permanent theatrical conditions as 
 shall educate and supply expert theatrical 
 directors ? 
 
 Does the lack of demand for such supply 
 impugn the present system, which creates 
 theatrical demand? 
 
 Does the present system create theatrical 
 demand ? 
 
 32 
 
QUESTIONS BEFORE THE CURTAIN 
 
 Or does the public? 
 What is public demand? 
 
 Our theatres in America are attended nightly 
 by tens of millions of citizens : What steps have 
 been taken to investigate whether the theatres 
 are instituted upon a basis which tends to im 
 prove, and not to deteriorate, the citizenship of 
 such vast numbers in qualities of taste, moral 
 ity, and mentality? 
 
 Our theatres in America are the recipients 
 annually of hundreds of millions of dollars from 
 the people: What steps have been taken to 
 investigate whether a much smaller contribu 
 tion on the part of the people, combined with 
 a safeguarded basis of public or private endow 
 ment, might not achieve results of greater pub 
 lic service than the theatre is now able to render ? 
 
 What civic societies concern themselves with 
 abuses of the theatre s proper function in the 
 community ? 
 
 What churches ? 
 
 What social clubs ? 
 
 What universities ? 
 
 D 33 
 
QUESTIONS BEFORE THE CURTAIN 
 
 Does the public care whether a play makes 
 money ? 
 
 Is public taste a matter of public concern? 
 
 Considering once or twice in a year to be 
 seldom, what proportion of our municipal 
 communities seldom goes to the theatre? 
 
 Of what social status and degree of education 
 is such proportion? 
 
 Since theatrical productions are reported 
 and interpreted to the public by dramatic 
 critics, what is the usual nature of education 
 in dramatic criticism? 
 
 Who appoints dramatic critics? 
 
 When appointed, what standard of excel 
 lence must they maintain in order to practise 
 their profession? 
 
 Can they be guilty of malpractice without 
 expulsion ? 
 
 Can they, on the other hand, be expelled 
 for practising their vocation justly? 
 
 Is it always permitted to them to make im 
 partial and unbiassed judgments ? 
 
 Or are they, in any cases, constrained to 
 34 
 
QUESTIONS BEFORE THE CURTAIN 
 
 follow the particular policies of their news 
 papers with regard to theatrical advertisements, 
 if they would hold their positions ? 
 
 Through what channels has the public any 
 means of being informed on these matters? 
 
 Are such channels competent? unbiassed? 
 
 Is it true that the first night of a production 
 is usually the least representative of the play 
 and the acting? 
 
 If so, why are first-night performances usu 
 ally the only performances which are criticised? 
 
 Under present conditions, in what space of 
 time, and under what circumstances, con 
 ducive or not to mature judgment, must 
 dramatic criticisms be written? 
 
 Are these conditions acceptable to critics? 
 to the public ? 
 
 To whom are they acceptable? 
 
 What are the elementary criteria of dramatic 
 criticism ? 
 
 What are the statistics of the public s weekly 
 attendance of the churches ? of the theatres ? 
 Have these statistics any bearing upon the 
 35 
 
QUESTIONS BEFORE THE CURTAIN 
 
 relative functions of church and theatre in the 
 community ? 
 
 If you have attended the rehearsals and 
 performances given at the Educational The 
 atre for Children and Young People, New 
 York, and also attended the rehearsals and 
 performances of any professional theatre in 
 the regular business on Broadway, or else 
 where, have you ever made a mental compari 
 son of the underlying motives of the two? 
 
 In power to develop the capacity and joy 
 of expression, which of the two is the better 
 qualified? Why? 
 
 As a humanizing force in civilization, which 
 is the more potent ? Why ? 
 
 Theatrical production arose from church 
 ritual: Why did it diverge? 
 
 Do the historic reasons for its divergence still 
 hold good? 
 
 What kinship, if any, has the dramatic 
 instinct with the religious? 
 
 Considering the very wide public advertise 
 ment of theatrical personalities, what accounts 
 
 36 
 
QUESTIONS BEFORE THE CURTAIN 
 
 for the very limited public knowledge of the 
 art of the theatre? 
 What are the wares of the theatrical business ? 
 
 What local societies have been formed in 
 our towns and cities for the purposes of in 
 vestigation, study, statistics, public suggestion, 
 regarding the conditions of acting, play- 
 writing, theatrical management, as these are 
 related to the public welfare? 
 
 Hundreds of social clubs in America devote 
 a large part of their activities to considering the 
 aesthetics of the drama in Europe : How many 
 devote any attention to considering the specific 
 obstacles to the aesthetics of the drama in 
 America ? 
 
 Modern actors are called upon to interpret 
 characters drawn by the dramatist from all 
 classes of modern society: What opportuni 
 ties are provided to actors by the hours and 
 necessities of their profession wherein to study 
 such characters from real life ? 
 
 If no such opportunity is provided to actors 
 by their profession, how does this fact affect 
 the competent interpretation of plays ? 
 
 37 
 
QUESTIONS BEFORE THE CURTAIN 
 
 How does it affect the scope of the drama 
 tist s character-drawing ? 
 
 Is it true that actors are provided, by the 
 practice of their profession, with little or no 
 opportunity for fundamental training in the 
 traditions of their art? in the mastery of 
 diction? of spoken verse? of gesture? with 
 opportunity for the comparison of their own 
 work with that of living masters in their art? 
 
 If so, how does this lack of efficient oppor 
 tunity affect the practical scope of the arts of 
 actor and dramatist ? 
 
 How may such efficient opportunity be 
 provided ? 
 
 Why should lovers of art blame theatrical 
 managers for adopting consistent methods to 
 improve their business ? 
 
 Do lovers of art condemn business men in 
 Wall Street for being equally consistent in 
 their methods ? 
 
 If lovers of art do not like the results of such 
 methods, why do they not take steps to make 
 the pursuit of better methods logical? 
 
 38 
 
QUESTIONS BEFORE THE CURTAIN 
 
 It is easy to demand self-sacrifice and finan 
 cial risk from a business man : but is it rea 
 sonable ? 
 
 What is meant by "the higher drama"? 
 
 To deserve that classification, must a play 
 possess literary appeal? convey a moral? 
 an intellectual message? 
 
 To what extent have the contemporary 
 dramatists of Europe influenced American 
 dramaturgy? 
 
 To what extent is this influence salutary? 
 To what extent harmful? 
 
 Are Endowment and Subsidy by Subscrip 
 tion the same in principle ? 
 
 If they are utterly different in principle, 
 why are theatrical enterprises, supported by 
 subscription, frequently referred to by authori 
 ties as "endowed theatres"? 
 
 Does not such reference obscure the real 
 issue of endowment to the public mind? 
 
 What book has ever narrated the complete 
 and true history of a successful play before and 
 after its first performance ? 
 
 39 
 
QUESTIONS BEFORE THE CURTAIN 
 
 How do exceedingly long runs of plays affect 
 the actor ? the dramatist ? the public taste ? 
 
 What eminent American educator has called 
 national attention to the cause of dramatic 
 art in this country ? 
 
 How many chairs of the drama have been 
 founded in our universities ? 
 
 How much attention is given in the courses 
 of our universities to Shakspere in the sixteenth 
 century ? How much to his art in the twentieth ? 
 
 In America, committees for the critical 
 selection and exhibition of works in sculpture 
 are composed of expert sculptors, such as 
 Saint-Gaudens, Barnard, French, MacMon- 
 nies: How are committees for the critical 
 selection and exhibition of plays composed? 
 
 In America, committees for the critical selec 
 tion and exhibition of works in painting are 
 composed of expert painters, such as John 
 Alexander, Edwin Blashfield, Kenyon Cox, 
 Abbott Thayer : How are committees for the 
 critical selection and exhibition of plays com 
 posed ? 
 
 40 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 IT is a prevalent tendency in the discussion 
 of plays to place the drama as an art upon 
 practically the same footing of artistic inde 
 pendence as the novel, essay, lyric, and other 
 forms of literature. In the universities, schol 
 arly minds frequently discuss the works of 
 Shakspere with little or no reference to the 
 theatrical conditions of his time. Literary 
 clubs, critical reviews, similarly discuss the 
 works of modern dramatists, with little or no 
 foreknowledge of inexorable conditions which 
 have determined the scope and form of those 
 works. A modern poet, himself a dramatist 
 of distinction, Mr. W. B. Yeats, writes in 
 the Preface of his volume of plays, lately 
 published, "The dramatist is as free as the 
 painter of good pictures and the writer of 
 good books." And so, in general, the liter 
 ary press regards the writer of plays, estimat 
 ing his work by standards similar to those by 
 
 43 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 which the worth of a novel, an essay, or a 
 poem is estimated. 
 
 These judgments usually ignore a funda 
 mental standard of dramatic criticism: Jljgv 
 ignore the primary conditions which deter 
 mine the very nature of a play; that is, they 
 ignore the limiting nature of the playhouse. 
 I propose, therefore, to discuss the nature of 
 the playhouse as a conditioning influence upon 
 the nature of the drama itself. 
 
 Except, however, for purposes of compari 
 son, I shall confine our discussion to theat 
 rical conditions in America to-day. I shall 
 seek to make an analysis of those theatrical 
 conditions with a view to determining the chief 
 underlying forces, psychological and social, 
 which cause the conditions. With this aim, 
 I shall view the theatrical field in its widest 
 aspect, and shall try to deal impersonally with 
 certain large general considerations. In doing 
 so, many statements and deductions which I 
 shall make will probably be liable to specific ex 
 ception. For the very reason that I shall deal 
 with the working of general causes, certain 
 
 44 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 individual exceptions may by the livelier 
 appeal of their personal equation appear 
 to confute my reasoning. Such personal ex 
 ceptions, however, I shall not in the scope 
 of this paper have time to specify. I ask 
 leave, therefore, to emphasize this necessary 
 limitation at the outset. In order not to ob 
 scure the nature of a few main issues of vital 
 importance to our subject, I shall limit my 
 self to an impersonal discussion of the play 
 house and the play. 
 
 As we find it, the nature of the playhouse is 
 twofold. It is 
 
 A house in which to produce plays; 
 
 A house in which to sell the product. 
 
 Thus, on the one hand, it is the complex in 
 strument of a special art; and on the other, it 
 is the saleshouse of a special business. 
 
 Now, as a limiting influence upon the play, 
 this twofold nature of the playhouse is active 
 in twofold measure : 
 
 First, as the complex instrument of theatric 
 art, it determines the form, or technique, of 
 the play ; 
 
 45 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 Secondly, as the saleshouse of histrionic and 
 dramatic wares, it affects the content or scope 
 of the play the message of the dramatist 
 himself, as thinker and artist. 
 
 First, then, we will consider how, as the in 
 strument for the production of plays, the play 
 house determines the technique of the play; 
 secondly, how, as the house in which theatrical 
 productions are for sale, the playhouse deter 
 mines the scope of the dramatist s expression. 
 
 The principal elements of theatrical pro 
 duction are familiar to every one. They are 
 the play, actors, stage, scenery, light effects, 
 orchestral music, etc. Now, as one among 
 these, the play may dominate the other ele 
 ments or it may be subordinated to the others. 
 Thus the relative emphasis of these elements 
 is the basis for the organization of theatrical 
 productions under their familiar special classes : 
 "Legitimate Drama," Vaudeville, Grand 
 Opera, Musical Comedy, etc. 
 
 If it be granted, however, that dramatic 
 art is a form of expression fitted and ordained 
 to convey an intellectual message, the ideal 
 
 46 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 proportion of these elements in theatrical 
 production will be that in which the Play 
 the element of the creative Idea is domi 
 nant. 
 
 Yet, granting this, it is nevertheless clear that 
 the other elements thus subordinated will 
 still exert a limiting influence upon the form 
 or technique of the play. So, for example, 
 the out-door stage, the facial mask, the chorus, 
 the permanent scene, were elements of ancient 
 production which conditioned the dramatic 
 technique of the Greeks; so, also, the bare, 
 three-sided platform, the up-stage exit, the 
 curtainless climax of acts, the "plastic" 
 groupings of the actors, conditioned the crafts 
 manship of Shakspere. And so the pic 
 ture-scenes of our modern stage, its curtain, 
 its footlights, its wings and scenery, its mod 
 ern time-limit of performance, based on the 
 exigencies of our evening hours, and the anxie 
 ties of "commuters"; its time-divisions into 
 acts, adjusted psychologically to the concen- 
 trative power of our audiences: these things, 
 and more, determine our modern dramaturgy. 
 
 47 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 The playhouse, in brief, is a complex and 
 delicate instrument, comparable, one might 
 say, to a gigantic organ. The compositions 
 which are written for it must, therefore, be 
 practically adapted to its special qualities 
 and limitations as an instrument to the 
 scope of its various stops. Thus, as all 
 musical compositions are not necessarily organ 
 scores, all dialogues are not necessarily plays. 
 The playhouse, not less than the organ, pre 
 determines its special compositions. 
 
 All this is perhaps obvious and trite, yet it 
 is so frequently ignored by current criticism 
 and discussion of plays, that it has seemed 
 worthy of preliminary mention in order to 
 clarify our subject. We need not, however, 
 dwell upon it longer. 
 
 So much, then, for the limiting influence 
 of theatrical production upon dramatic tech 
 nique, for the limiting influence of the play 
 house, in its first aspect as a complex instru 
 ment of art, upon the play. 
 
 We come now to a far more important 
 limiting influence upon our drama, and one 
 
 48 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 far less understood as being such; namely, 
 the influence of the playhouse in its second 
 
 aspect the limiting influence of theatrical 
 
 ^ , _ - 
 
 business upon the scope and content of plays. 
 
 In its second aspect, the playhouse is, as 
 we have said, a house of private business, 
 for the sale of histrionic and dramatic com 
 modities. The elements of theatrical pro 
 duction, then, are not merely the elements 
 of an art for the people they are also the ^.g^ 
 manager s wares. Among these elements, it 
 is immaterial to him as a business man which 
 element shall dominate as long as it makes 
 him money. In his capacity as merchant, he 
 prefers only that which will sell the highest, 
 or to the greatest number, or both. If "The 
 Merry Wives of Windsor" draws better then 
 "Florodora," he prefers "The Merry Wives"; 
 and vice versa. He is concerned simply with 
 commercial supply and demand. 
 
 What, then, in_general, does the public v^ 
 demand from a theatrical production? In 
 one word, diversion, diversion by some kind 
 of stimulation. Roughly speaking, human 
 * 49 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 nature is susceptible of three kinds of stimu 
 lation intellectual, aesthetic, emotional. 
 
 The appeal of the first is to the intellect 
 alone; of the second, to the intellect and the 
 senses combined; of the third, to the senses 
 alone. Now the drama is an art whose 
 function is to convey an intellectual appeal by 
 means of an appeal to the senses. Which of 
 these three kinds of stimulation, then, will 
 ideally be best adapted for the drama to 
 excite? Clearly not the first, which appeals 
 to the intellect alone; nor the third, which 
 appeals to the senses alone; but the second, 
 which appeals to both combined. ^Esthetic 
 stimulation, then, is ideally adapted for the 
 drama to excite. It is, therefore, the rational 
 aim of dramatic art. But is it adapted to the 
 greatest public demand ? 
 
 Of these three kinds of stimulation, which 
 kind is most strongly, permanently, uni 
 versally desired? 
 
 Psychology predicts, and experience proves, 
 that of these three the kind which most strongly, 
 most permanently, most universally is desired, 
 
 50 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 is the third emotional stimulation ; and the 
 kind which is least strongly, least permanently, 
 least universally desired, is the first intel 
 lectual stimulation. 
 
 The reasonable policy of the manager, 
 therefore, is clear. As a sound business man, 
 it becomes his policy to provide the least 
 possible amount of the first kind of stimu 
 lation, and the greatest possible amount of 
 the third kind. The second kind, aesthetic 
 stimulation, he may reasonably ignore alto 
 gether, as a superfluous combination. Thus 
 it becomes the rational aim of theatrical busi 
 ness to ignore the rational aim of dramatic art. 
 Moreover, if he is to be a wise and enter 
 prising business man, the manager will, by ju 
 dicious advertisement and the organization of 
 his business, endeavor to increase and deepen 
 the demand for emotional stimulation, and to 
 lessen and nullify the demand for intellectual 
 stimulation. 
 
 Thjis modern theatrical business is based 
 broadly and firmly in human psychology on 
 the law of increasing emotional and decreasing 
 
 51 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 intellectual demand, a law which is accelerated 
 by the night- weariness of our strenuous mod 
 ern days. This law JL shall name the Law of 
 Dramatic Deterioration. 1 
 
 The general course and effects of this law, 
 or tendency, though evident in any given 
 theatrical season, are better traceable over a 
 space of years, and by comparison with con 
 ditions in other lands. Originally, in America, 
 when actors themselves were frequently 
 both business men and artists, taking the 
 financial risk, but revelling in the aesthetics 
 of "the profession," the motive of theatrical 
 production was often based more in the art 
 of acting than in the box office. Acting, 
 however, not dramaturgy, was then the chief 
 goal of artistic aspiration in the theatre. 2 The 
 Law of Dramatic Deterioration, then, as af 
 fecting the actor, was not infrequently counter 
 acted by the personal sacrifice of actors them 
 selves, and limited in scope by the scale of 
 theatrical business. And to-day, in France 
 and Germany, where the dramatist and the 
 1 See Comment on page 199. 2 See page 202. 
 
 52 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 trained director are major influences in the 
 theatre, the chief emphasis of production is 
 not upon gross receipts, but upon dramatic 
 art. The Law of Deterioration there is per 
 manently counteracted by the rational prin 
 ciples of endowment. To-day in America, 
 however, the case is different ; now the Law 
 of Dramatic Deterioration is able to oper 
 ate consistently, and practically unimpeded. 
 Neither artistic self-sacrifice, nor endowment, 
 prevents the vast scale of its working. 1 The 
 reasons for this are simple. The same causes 
 which during the last tw r o decades have created 
 the harmonious organization of the great in 
 dustries and utilities of our nation for their 
 own commercial ends, have operated also 
 and are still operating to organize the 
 theatre as a business upon an immense scale 
 of efficiency and inward harmoniousness for 
 its own ends. What are those ends? They 
 are not many; they are one. The single end 
 
 1 Other great forces, however, do powerfully combat and 
 check this law. These forces are briefly discussed in the 
 Comment on page 199. 
 
 53 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 of theatrical enterprise is to make money. Why 
 should it not be ? Such is the simple end of all 
 other private business enterprise. If the play 
 house is legitimately a house of business, to 
 make an exception of theatrical enterprise is 
 therefore absurd. It is the clear and consistent 
 recognition of this sound analogy which has 
 reorganized and enlarged our theatrical busi- , 
 ness, and established it to-day upon the strong 
 rock of the Law of Dramatic Deterioration. 
 The aim of theatrical business has not always 
 been clearly perceived by artists, who are 
 managers. They have sought to reconcile 
 the aim of art with the aim of money-making : 
 a policy resulting inevitably in frequent self- 
 sacrifice and ultimate failure. Occasionally, 
 to be sure, such managers have been success 
 ful; they adopt methods which seek at once 
 to produce the best art possible and to make 
 the most money possible. But such methods 
 cannot hope permanently to succeed ; for they 
 are based on a divided energy, and a divided 
 law. 1 The manager who adopts methods which 
 
 1 See Comment on page 199. 
 54 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 singly and consistently develop the widest field 
 that exists in human psychology will inevitably 
 outstrip all less consistent competitors. To-day, 
 then, with the increasing adoption of those 
 logical methods by commercial experts, minds 
 frankly and sincerely divorced from all inter 
 est in dramatic art as such, the theatre in 
 America is attaining unprecedented success 
 and power, and holds forth the promise of 
 fortunes undreamed of in the past. 
 
 When, therefore, the commercial manager 
 points to this impressive vindication of his 
 methods in achieving success, we can only 
 agree with him that his methods are admirably 
 effectual, and his aims surpassingly achieved. 
 But we are concerned with a different matter ; 
 we are concerned with the methods and aims 
 of dramatic art. To our present discussion, 
 "the play s the thing." How does all that 
 we have been discussing affect the play 
 the work of the dramatist? 
 
 "The dramatist," says Mr. Yeats, "is as 
 free as the painter of good pictures and the 
 writer of good books." 
 
 55 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 Is he ? Is the dramatist to-day, who writes 
 good plays and would have his plays produced, 
 as free as the painter of good pictures, who 
 would have his paintings exhibited, and the 
 writer of good books, who would have his 
 works published? 
 
 We have seen before that the dramatist 
 must, in his art, meet the limiting demands of 
 the stage itself in order to write a truly practi 
 cal play; that is, a play technically fit for 
 production. By so doing, however, he per 
 fects his work as a work of art, for thereby 
 he shapes it to perform its proper function. 
 
 We are now ready to see that, besides 
 those inevitable limiting constructive demands 
 of stagecraft, the dramatist must also meet 
 the limiting (usually) destructive demands of 
 theatrical business, in order to write a so-called 
 "practical" play; that is, a play likely to be 
 produced. 
 
 Now, of course, a truly practical play may 
 include the province of the so-called practical 
 play, and fulfil both these demands ; that is to 
 say, a play which is adapted by its own 
 
 56 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 technical perfection for stage performance may 
 also be adapted to "draw," and so make 
 money, or, it may not be so adapted. 
 That will depend upon the content, or message 
 of the play: what its dramatist, by means of 
 the play s technique, has to say to the audience. 
 If he says what the audience demands, that 
 is, what it likes, his play will draw and make 
 money; otherwise not. Obviously, then, 
 if public demand must be followed and not 
 guided, the dramatist s expression must de 
 pend upon the nature of his theatrical audi 
 ence, the degree of its taste and mentality 
 which are the causes of its demand. But this 
 demand, as now diligently cultivated by the 
 playhouse, is the law of increasing emotional 
 and decreasing intellectual demand, the 
 Law of Dramatic Deterioration. We have 
 seen that the working of this law is admirably 
 adapted to fulfil the requirements of theatri 
 cal business. But the question arises : Is it 
 adapted to fulfil the requirements of dramatic 
 art? 
 
 "Dramatic art," says Mr. Yeats again in 
 57 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 his Preface, " is a method of expression, and 
 neither an hair-breadth escape nor a love 
 affair more befits it than the passionate ex 
 position of the most delicate and strange in 
 tuitions." But in this, the experienced mana 
 ger does not agree with Mr. Yeats. Of all 
 reliable factors of his experience, hair-breadth 
 escapes and love affairs chiefly befit "dra 
 matic art" as he conceives it. 
 
 And why this preference on the part of the 
 manager for such factors of experience, rather 
 than for " the most passionate exposition of the 
 most delicate and strange intuitions," or than 
 for a thousand larger dramatic themes ex 
 pressible only by fine art? Why does he 
 prefer to deal in the reliable "hair-breadth 
 escape" and the long- tested "love affair"? 
 
 For the same reason that a gentleman s 
 furnisher prefers rather to deal in dress shirts 
 and socks than in dry-goods and woollen stuffs. 
 He has acquired his stock in trade and his 
 constituency. It is conceivable that a change 
 of specialty from socks to suitings might meet 
 with financial success; but since he caters to 
 
 58 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 his own restricted public, the result of such 
 a change would be dubious. 
 
 So, too, the manager has acquired his 
 specialty and his restricted public; so, also, 
 to change his stock in trade, to shift, let 
 us say, from musical comedy to psychologi 
 cal drama, might lose him his constituency 
 his clientele. In a business wherein he has 
 invested thousands, possibly hundreds of 
 thousands, of dollars, to experiment in new 
 brands and labels might prove ruinous; pre 
 carious it would be, in any event. 
 
 Certain emotional commodities such as 
 hair-breadth escapes and love affairs have 
 proved for him "a sure thing in the past, 
 and as such are not to be departed from. For 
 the motto of theatrical business is this: that 
 what has once made money will, rehashed, 
 make money again. A policy with many 
 unseen flaws, proved by as many financial 
 failures; but a simple policy, with large 
 promise of security. Thus commercial neces 
 sity produces artistic monotony. This mo 
 notony, as a result of that policy, is most clearly 
 
 59 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 observable in those departments of the theatri 
 cal business where the creative artist is least 
 dominant; in musical comedy, for instance, 
 where one needs only to compare the popular 
 songs of one season with those of another, to 
 recognize their basic identity. Thus, by 
 financial necessity, the great dramatic ranges 
 of creative thought and imagination are left 
 practically unexplored, uncultivated; and the 
 public itself, by the very nature of conditions, 
 is prevented from enlarging its horizon. 
 
 True, a certain scope of variety in our plays 
 is permissible, even profitable, as novelty. 
 For, as when this year s fashion substitutes 
 a loose-knit tie for last year s ascot, or a 
 soaring picture hat for last season s toque, 
 even so it is with our plays; this season s cow 
 boy is substituted as hero for last season s 
 exiled baronet ; the Lady from Lanes for the 
 Lady of Lyons. Now London drama is the 
 fashion; and now the edict goes forth that 
 "American plays will be worn." 
 
 And this, let us observe, all this is said 
 to be public demand; on all sides, in press, 
 
 60 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 and club, and theatre, it is labelled and ac 
 cepted as "public demand." But how much 
 does the public really demand, or control, the 
 fashions in dress and merchandise? Nega 
 tively, a very little; positively, not at all. 
 Those fashions are set by an undeterminable 
 few, or are set, through the mutual conference 
 of its leaders, by commercial policies of the 
 trade. These policies occasionally the public 
 may restively kick against or reject; but this 
 negative protest is indulged in very seldom. 
 Almost universally the public the great 
 people is docile : to the bag-cut trousers, 
 or the balloon-shaped sleeves, it submits as 
 a sheep to the shearer. No more does the 
 real public the great people demand or 
 control the fashions in plays. Negatively, 
 it may reject, by staying away ; and this pre 
 rogative a considerable percentage of the 
 public makes use of nearly all the time ; for 
 it very seldom goes near the theatre at all 
 because its taste is very seldom pleased there ; 
 and the remaining greater percentage of 
 regular theatre-goers stays away whenever 
 
 61 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 its taste is not pleased. But that taste of 
 the regular theatre-goer, which is so generally 
 labelled and accepted as "public demand," is 
 not really a positive, initial factor of demand, 
 but it is a reflex factor resulting from the educa 
 tion which the play-goer has received from 
 decades of business policy in building up a 
 theatrical constituency; and that policy is 
 based on the aforesaid psychological Law 
 of Dramatic Deterioration, which expresses 
 itself in the motto: "What has once made 
 money will, rehashed, make money again." 
 
 Thus so-called "public demand" is really 
 nothing more than the negative demand of 
 a particular constituency of play-goers, long 
 educated under those business conditions. 
 
 But to the demands of this constituency 
 the dramatist, in his capacity of manufacturer 
 for the theatrical retailer, is asked and re 
 quired to bow. That is, he is required to 
 adapt his work not primarily to the require 
 ments of dramatic art, but to the require 
 ments of theatrical business. If he believes 
 in the existence of a real public demand for 
 
 62 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 glimpses of the vast unexplored ranges of 
 dramatic art, or if he believes that such a 
 demand might be created and cultivated in 
 the public, he may keep those convictions to 
 himself, for naturally enough they are 
 of no interest to the retailer. 
 
 When, therefore, Mr. Yeats says, "The 
 dramatist is as free as the painter of good 
 pictures," etc., we may perhaps see more 
 clearly than before how he declares for his 
 fellow-artists an ideal truth, which, if spoken 
 in the theatre box office, would ring like irony. 
 
 For the painter of good pictures, though he 
 is frequently permitted by an ignoring public 
 to starve, has never yet been encouraged to do 
 his worst or his middling best, in order to 
 attain preeminence as a painter; on the con 
 trary, he knows that, to achieve that pre 
 eminence, he must pit his highest powers 
 against the masters, and not the middlemen 
 of his art; and he knows that the public 
 galleries and salons where his works are 
 selected for exhibition, are controlled and 
 directed by his fellow-artists, and not by mer- 
 
 63 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 chants of his art ; that his work will be passed 
 upon by a jury of his* fellow-craftsmen who 
 have attained distinction, a jury wfio, pre 
 sumably, will accept or reject his work ac 
 cording to standards of artistic excellence 
 alone, not by a jury of merchants, whose 
 standards of selection, necessarily are those 
 of the* demand^ of their constituency and of 
 their own ^personal profit. 
 
 A jury of one s peers and masters in art 
 does the public realize what that means to 
 the artist? What that means to the public 
 itself? For the painter, the result in his 
 art is not only the incentive to excel, but the 
 necessity for excelling ; for his public, the 
 result is the maintenance of standards of com 
 parison and appreciation in that art, set, 
 not by their own untutored whims and va 
 garies, or by the long mis-schooling of their 
 instincts, but by the skilled judgment of 
 chosen creative artists. 
 
 Such a necessity for excellence results in the 
 survival of the really fittest! Such competi 
 tion every true artist is joyous to engage in. 
 
 64 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 The musical composer he, too, may pit 
 his best powers against the masters, and find 
 a select body of his peers ready to welcome 
 his work, to judge it, and to choose it for 
 acclaim singly by the standards of his art. 
 But where would the works of our native 
 composers of MacDowell, and Parker, and 
 Converse be played, if no endowed sym 
 phony orchestras existed? In what com 
 mercial concert hall or music pavilion would 
 they be heard ? Or what musical menu would 
 be served by our symphony orchestras them 
 selves if, by necessity, their directors must 
 first consult for their programme the selective 
 judgment of a popular constituency, educated for 
 generations in the demands of average taste ? 
 
 Yet such is the judgment which the producer 
 of plays is compelled to consult. We need 
 hardly wonder, therefore, that the frequent 
 effect of this necessity upon dramatic pro 
 duction as an art is as if the symphony or 
 chestra, bereft of its director, should disin 
 tegrate into a jargon of flute-solos, fiddle-duets, 
 and tattoos of the snare-drum. 
 if 65 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 For the painter, the sculptor, the musical 
 composer, for each in his craft, exists a 
 jury of his peers or masters. For the drama 
 tist, none. For him, such a jury is not even 
 dreamed of; as conditions are, it could not 
 possibly exist. Yet let us be sure of this; 
 that, if there be any pertinent truth in the 
 analogies I have drawn, that dream for our 
 drama must yet be dreamed and realized, 
 those conditions which are, must cease to be, 
 and those which are better must be established. 
 
 In order, however, to realize for our theatre 
 these better conditions of enlightenment and 
 leadership, it is needful for us to understand 
 existing conditions fundamentally, so that 
 we may seek to reform them, not with personal 
 vindictiveness, but with impersonal reason 
 ableness. In this reform we are concerned 
 with an inward opposition of functions in the 
 playhouse the opposition of the functions 
 of art and of business. We are concerned, 
 therefore, not with a conflict of persons and 
 personalities, but with a conflict of social and 
 psychological forces. The forces of commer- 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 cial demand and supply result, as we have seen, 
 in the operation of an accelerative tendency, 
 or law, which I have called the Law of Dra 
 matic Deterioration. This Law is opposed to 
 the rational aim of dramatic art. To solve 
 our problem fundamentally, then, and to 
 establish our reform in the playhouse per 
 manently, the operation of this baneful law 
 must be checked by understanding and re 
 moving its causes; and as a substitute, the 
 operation of a beneficent law must be set in 
 motion, by understanding and utilizing its 
 causes. Now the causes for the operation 
 of the Law of Dramatic Deterioration are the 
 forces of commercial demand and supply. 
 Therefore, to annul that law, the forces of 
 commercial demand and supply must be per 
 manently annulled in the playhouse. As a 
 substitute for those forces, the forces of artistic 
 competition must take their place, and set in 
 motion a law creative of (Esthetic demand and 
 supply a law which may appropriately be 
 called the Law of Dramatic Regeneration. By 
 this means, the skilled judgment of acknowl- 
 
 67 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 edged masters in dramatic art will select, 
 from among competing dramatists, the fittest 
 to survive ; and in turn this selection, through 
 artistic competition, will by its supply create 
 a responsive demand in the public, who will 
 thus, for the first time, acquire unconsciously 
 self-discipline in taste, and cultivate for them 
 selves in the playhouse a joy which does not 
 pall. Just as the competitions of American 
 sculptors are passed upon by a jury of men 
 like French, Barnard, MacMonnies, and the 
 late Augustus Saint- Gaudens, acknowledged 
 masters in sculpture, so is it equally fitting and 
 necessary that the works of competing Ameri 
 can dramatists should be passed upon by the 
 selective judgment of supreme craftsmen in 
 dramatic art. 
 
 The greatest need of the playhouse to-day is 
 this survival of the truly fittest, by the sub 
 stitution of artistic competition for commercial 
 catering. 
 
 Why, then, is this need not remedied? 
 Who is responsible for the undesirable con 
 ditions which exist? 
 
 68 
 
y 
 
 THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 It has become the habit of many intelligent 
 persons devoted to the higher interests of the 
 drama to accuse the commercial managers, 
 as individuals, for the existence of the evils 
 of the playhouse. But this accusation is 
 both wrong and unreasonable; the blame 
 does not lie there. Conditions, not individuals, 
 are to blame. If all the individuals who sway 
 the business management of our theatres were 
 to resign or die to-day, to-morrow would see 
 their places filled by persons pursuing the 
 very same policies as their predecessors. And 
 this would necessarily be so. It is absurd to 
 demand that a business man shall ruin his 
 private business. It is not absurd, however, 
 to demand that a private business, whose 
 legitimate function is that of a public art, shall 
 be revolutionized to perform that function 
 properly, by ceasing to be a business. Not the 
 commercial instincts of the manager, but 
 the commercial functions of the theatre, are 
 illegitimate, in the interests of public welfare. 
 Not, therefore, the manager, nor the star, nor 
 the dramatist, is chiefly responsible for the 
 
 69 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 needless slavery of our drama; not they, but 
 the public and preeminently, the leading 
 spirits of our communities, its powerful citizens 
 and its educators are responsible. For they 
 are responsible for the toleration of the two 
 fold nature of the playhouse, a nature which 
 makes dramatic art at war with itself and, 
 while its double function exists, a perpetual 
 menace to the higher interests of society. 
 
 You also whom I now address are in part 
 responsible. You are responsible for creat 
 ing or failing to create enlightened 
 public opinion, whereby the American play 
 house may be established as an institution 
 adapted to guide and lead the American people 
 by the art of the play. Alone, the writer of 
 plays to-day can do little toward such an end. 
 Unlike his fellow creative artists, the playwright 
 is not expected to guide public taste, but to 
 cater to it. When the playhouse, however, shall 
 become the authentic instrument of dramatic 
 leadership of the creative idea, the play 
 wright will then become a very powerful factor 
 in guiding public taste. His art will then 
 
 70 
 
. THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 become, for the first time, an effectual in 
 fluence for public enlightenment; and the 
 dramatist who most excels in his art will then 
 be the most powerful public leader. Until 
 that time comes, however, the onus ofVre- 
 sponsibility lies upon you the intelligent 
 public. ^Vp 
 
 .nd this leads me to the consideration of 
 a third limiting influence of the playhouse: 
 one which, though less specific than the other 
 two, is all-important; namely, the limiting 
 influence of the status of the playhouse in the 
 community upon the whole of dramatic art. 
 The first limiting influence that of stage 
 craft we saw to be constructive and bene 
 ficial to the art of dramaturgy. The second 
 that of box-office policy we saw to be 
 destructive and harmful to the scope of the 
 dramatist s conception. The third that of 
 social status we shall see to be beneficial 
 or harmful, stimulating or destructive, to 
 both dramatic conception and to dramaturgy, 
 according as the attitude of the public shall 
 determine. 
 
 71 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 But, it may again be objected, if the 
 art of the playhouse were already of higher 
 calibre, its esteem in the community would 
 be higher. 
 
 To which I reply, The reverse of this ob 
 jection is the necessary first step to its solution. 
 If the esteem of the community for dramatic 
 art were higher^ the status of the playhouse 
 would be higher. 
 
 What, then, is the reasonable and fitting 
 esteem in which dramatic art should be held 
 by the community ? What potential qualities 
 does the drama of its nature possess for the 
 reverence and esteem of the public? 
 
 The drama is peculiarly an art for the people; 
 it epitomizes the hearts of millions in an in 
 dividual ; it is capable as no other art is 
 capable of summing up and expressing the 
 vital conflicts and aspirations of a race; the 
 scope and gamut of a nation s consciousness. 
 It has power to rekindle the past, to fore 
 shadow the future, of mankind, by moving 
 images which impress their form upon the 
 plastic present. In essential dignity and power 
 
 72 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 to inspire, it has the same rights to the rever 
 ence of a people as the spirit of religion, to 
 which it is akin. 
 
 The drama of the ancients had its origin 
 beside the altars of their gods; enacted upon 
 a hallowed stage, it expressed the aspiration, 
 joy, and passion of a people. The modern 
 drama had likewise its origin in the popular 
 heart of religion; under the arches of mediae 
 val cathedrals, it bodied forth to the multitude 
 images of heaven and hell; under its charm, 
 the rude mob was refined, the garlic-eating 
 crowds were moved to pity and awe and 
 sympathetic delight. 
 
 Those times have passed away, yet neither 
 the nature of the drama nor of humanity has 
 changed. To-day, as in every age, the drama 
 remains the elemental art of man, and as long 
 as humanity remains sacred to humanity, so 
 long will the drama demand human reverence. 
 Because of this elemental capacity, the drama, 
 more than any other art, may express man s 
 passionate joy of life, whereby its works are 
 felicitously called plays. The playhouse, 
 
 73 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 then, is properly the house of the joy of life, 
 dedicated to the Genius of Aspiration. The 
 function of a temple is its only legitimate 
 function. 
 
 But that same oblique-eyed spirit which 
 broke the beautiful idols of fauns and Grecian 
 deities, and smashed the images of stained- 
 glass saints, long since looked upon the living 
 images of the playhouse with suspicion, and 
 shattered the earlier ideals of play and play 
 ers with contempt. The iconoclast and the 
 Puritan combined to close the doors of the 
 playhouse as a public temple of the joy of life ; 
 and over its doors, suspended, they placed 
 Satan, with Miltonian wings, to shed dark 
 ness on the drama, obscuring its religious 
 function from the people. And so to-day, 
 though the Puritan has departed and Satan 
 has lost his anathema, and though the people 
 once more flock back in multitudes to the 
 playhouse, yet they no longer enter it as a 
 public temple; new generations have for 
 gotten that ever it was one, for they find it 
 occupied by private merchants; and the joy 
 
 74 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 of life which they view there is no longer 
 dedicated to their common aspiration. 
 
 Yet all this is not due to the nature of the 
 people, or of the playhouse; it is due to a 
 historical misconception of the playhouse. 
 That misconception once removed from the 
 public mind, there is no reason why the play 
 house should not revert permanently to its 
 original beneficent function. 
 
 The righting of this mighty misconception 
 has indeed already begun in numerous places. 
 One of the most winning and notable instances 
 is the work or rather the emancipating 
 play of the child-players at the Educational 
 Theatre in New York. Those children, whose 
 leaders, with exceptional insight, have pro 
 vided their spontaneous expression with dis 
 cipline, have adopted, with simple ardor, the 
 earliest ideal of the playhouse. Poor, neglected, 
 overworked in the sweatshops by day, they 
 turn at night to their playhouse as to a place 
 hallowed by the joy of life, and enact their 
 plays like ritual hymns chanted to that res 
 ident deity of Delight. The Educational 
 
 75 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 Theatre for children and young people is build 
 ing a solid corner-stone for an ideal theatre 
 in America. It is not only imbuing our 
 youngest generations with reverence for a 
 great public art, but it is modestly exemplify 
 ing for the intelligent public certain vital 
 issues of the drama. How long, then, will 
 the intelligent public continue to ignore those 
 vital issues as they apply to the whole drama 
 of our nation ? Certainly it cannot be intelli 
 gent and ignore them longer. For our drama 
 is a tide of living influence; strong and im 
 petuous as mighty waters loosed, nightly it 
 rolls over the tired nation, and reanimates its 
 waning forces for better or for worse. 
 
 So vast an influence it behooves a people to 
 regulate for their own good. We that expend, 
 in a generation, millions on millions to establish 
 strong reservoirs of uncontaminated water, 
 to supply our cities and their aqueducts 
 how much have we expended, in a century, 
 to preserve pure for our people the well-springs 
 of our drama ? Nothing ; far less than 
 nothing; for we have done the very opposite 
 
 76 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 of this, and increasingly have given our sup 
 port, in money and public opinion, to a noxious 
 misconception of the playhouse and the play. 
 In what civic club in what pulpit in 
 what benevolent society in what organiza 
 tion of leading citizens have we heard 
 rumors of zeal to investigate this scandal ? 
 What chemist experts have tested the diluted 
 poisons which so often distil from those 
 ubiquitous tap-rooms our theatres ? What 
 mass meetings of educators have been called 
 to renovate and cleanse those fountains of our 
 public taste and mentality? You know the 
 answer. These things are ignored univer 
 sally ignored. Yet, until these things shall 
 be realized, until we as a people shall rouse 
 ourselves to investigate and understand the 
 ideal nature of the playhouse, its true func 
 tion in the community, and the potential 
 grandeur of that function in transfusing our 
 common life with agencies of higher public 
 welfare, then to compare with that the 
 bathos and folly of existing conditions, let 
 not the critical and hopeful minority ask, or 
 
 77 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 expect, an effectual renascence of our drama. 
 For I repeat and it is well to repeat that 
 deeper than the limiting influences of stage 
 craft and theatrical business upon the form 
 and scope of our plays, is the limiting influence 
 of the public attitude toward the whole in 
 stitution of the theatre upon dramatic art 
 itself. 
 
 Sporadically, interruptedly, a particular 
 artist, or group of artists, may, by dint of in 
 domitable desire, patience, or special op 
 portunity, rise up, combat conditions, and be 
 heard. But upon this can be founded no 
 universal movement, no permanent tradition, 
 of national drama. The individual artist 
 may perhaps make temporary headway, but, 
 until conditions are changed, he can hope to 
 leave no lasting bulwarks against the strong, 
 perennial billows of commercialism. 
 
 Commercialism : this is a hackneyed word, 
 but it names a potent force; a force which, 
 however it may conduce to the welfare of 
 individuals, serves no useful end in art or in 
 democracy. Realization of this fact has long 
 
 78 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 since banished commercialism from our 
 churches, our public schools, our public 
 libraries, our universities, our symphony or 
 chestras; the same realization is banishing 
 it from other public utilities and arts; the 
 same realization must banish it forever as 
 a vital force from our theatres. 
 
 Such is the only permanent remedy for the 
 evils we are discussing, and there can be no 
 compromise. 
 
 The status of the playhouse in society is 
 as vital as the status of the university in society. 
 The dignity and efficiency of the one demand 
 the same safeguarding against inward de 
 terioration as the dignity and efficiency of the 
 other. The functions of both are educative. 
 And if the special function of the playhouse 
 be to produce civic-inspiring art, and of the 
 university civic-inspiring scholarship, why 
 by what standard, rational or ethical is the 
 playhouse left to perform its proper function, 
 utterly exposed to the temptations and corrup 
 tions of commercial supply and demand, 
 while the university is bastioned, in the serene 
 
 79 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 performance of its function, by the strong 
 walls of endowment? 
 
 Imagine the converse of this. Imagine a 
 university utterly devoid of endowment: a 
 university of which the president, as innocent 
 of all the arts and sciences as he is of English 
 grammar, dictates his policies of private gain 
 to a board of directors, organized to hire a 
 half -tutored faculty, and outwit one another 
 for personal profit; a faculty, gathered from 
 every walk of life, to perform in the lecture 
 halls strange gymnastics and magician s won 
 ders, for the delectation of undergraduates; 
 a professor of classics, strayed haphazard from 
 some nobler foreign institution, in his heart 
 still the vision of sane learning and a beautiful 
 tradition, deputed now to translate Homer 
 into slang, lest his professorship shall be 
 cancelled and his family starve; and between 
 the Homeric cantos that concentration may 
 not weary the students a doctor of philoso 
 phy rises to improvise on the bagpipes, while 
 the Instructor of Fine Arts lately graduated 
 from the barroom, summa cum laude, accom- 
 
 80 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 panics the philosopher amid thunders of 
 applause by a clog dance. 
 
 A grotesque supposition; yes, grotesque; 
 but let us remember this : being devoid of 
 endowment, that university would have to 
 adapt itself to commercial demand and supply, 
 and consequently that grotesque condition 
 would exist by necessity commercial neces 
 sity in order that the university might sur 
 vive! 
 
 But would there be any public use for the 
 survival of such a university? Would its 
 survival be the survival of anything really fit 
 to survive? 
 
 Would the leading citizens and educators of 
 America tolerate a condition of affairs in which 
 such a grotesque kind of university was the 
 only kind in existence ? Or would they rebel, 
 and raise a sufficient sum of money to revo 
 lutionize that absurd condition, a sum, 
 namely, sufficient to transplant that institu 
 tion of the arts and sciences out of the sterile 
 soil of commercial supply and demand, and 
 replant it for all time in the virile soil of 
 
 G 81 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 artistic competition? Would they do this, 
 or not? 
 
 That would doubtless depend upon the 
 nature of intelligent public opinion. But 
 that grotesque institution would probably have 
 educated the so-called intelligent public to be 
 satisfied with it. In any event, the public 
 could hardly expect that institution itself to 
 reform itself out of existence. 
 
 No; reform would have to begin from out 
 side. In all effectual movements for public 
 enlightenment, reform must begin with the 
 intelligent demand of a few for the establish 
 ment of proper conditions, which will create 
 and educate the same intelligent demand from 
 the many. In the theatre, as in the univer 
 sity, those proper conditions are the conditions 
 of endowment. 1 But for John Harvard and 
 Elihu Yale, centuries ago, the organized culti 
 vation of the humanities in America might 
 not have emerged from chaotic neglect 
 who can say till how many years later? In 
 those primitive New England days, to be sure, 
 
 1 See Comment on page 205. 
 82 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 our public benefactors were only concerned 
 with their thousands; to-day, they seek a 
 beneficent use for their millions. 
 
 Where, then, to-day is a John Harvard 
 for the humanities of our theatre ? An Elihu 
 Yale for the higher ministrations of dramatic 
 art? 
 
 But I hear the retort your analogy 
 is not sound; the universities are concerned 
 with education, the theatres with amusement. 
 
 Let us not be deceived by names. 
 
 In theatrical amusement we are concerned 
 with public happiness. Real happiness means 
 education; real education means happiness. 
 And in regard to our drama there can be no 
 sounder, no more enlightening, conviction 
 than this truth: that by whatever name we 
 choose to call it, the influence of our theatres 
 is a colossal, a national influence in forming 
 the taste, the moral will, the mental capacity, 
 of our people. Whether we know it or 
 not, our theatres are supplied in passion, 
 imagination, and delight with means of 
 appeal far more potent than any possessed by 
 
 83 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 our schools and colleges ; and whether we like 
 it or not, night after night, year after year, 
 our theatres are educating our people, by the 
 millions and tens of millions. The question 
 is, Shall the theatres educate those millions 
 right, or wrong? 
 
 I have sought to make clear the relation of 
 play to playhouse, and the double nature of 
 the existing playhouse to this end, that in 
 seeking a rational solution for its problems, 
 we may henceforth consider the legitimate 
 function of the playhouse as single, and not 
 double ; as a function of an art for the people, 
 not of a private business. In brief, I have 
 sought simply to clarify public opinion with 
 reason. For a reasonable understanding has 
 entered little into the public s notice of the 
 playhouse. For him who has ears and eyes, 
 the misuse and misconception of the theatre s 
 function are flagrant; they beckon and shout 
 at us from the streets of all our cities. 
 
 What is to be done? 
 
 From all we have been considering, it is 
 clear that: 
 
 84 
 
J^J 
 
 THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 First: The playhouse, as an institution in 
 America, is a vital concern of the American 
 people. 
 
 Second: As such, the efficient regulation 
 of its functions to the ends of greatest public 
 service is the concern of the leaders of the 
 American people our eminent educators, our 
 civic societies, our powerful and altruistic 
 citizens. 
 
 Third : Reformation of the playhouse is not 
 a matter of reforming individuals, but of re 
 forming conditions. 
 
 Fourth: The efficient regulation of the 
 functions of the playhouse to the ends of 
 greatest public service is impossible without 
 reformation, owing to the present operation 
 of the law of commercial demand and supply, 
 which is identical with the Law of Dramatic 
 Deterioration. 
 
 Fifth: As the chief vital act of reform, there 
 fore, the operation of the Law of Dramatic 
 Deterioration must be permanently checked, 
 and the Law of Dramatic Regeneration must 
 be substituted for it; that is, the motive of 
 
 85 
 
THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY 
 
 commercial demand and supply must be sup 
 planted by the motive of artistic competition for 
 the awards of master craftsmen. 
 
 Thus for the first time in America, the play 
 house will be free to become an institution of 
 leadership in public service. 
 
 To this end, one means first, last, and 
 indispensable is demanded : absolute en- 
 dowment for absolute freedom. 1 
 
 1 See Comment on page 205. 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 a /a 
 
 IN the year 1837, before the Phi Beta 
 Kappa Society at Cambridge, Mass., 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson made his declaration 
 of independence for the American Scholar. 
 Rising to address that body of scholars, he 
 said : " Perhaps the time is already come when 
 the sluggard intellect of this continent will 
 look from under its iron lids, and fill the post 
 poned expectations of the world with some 
 thing better than the exertions of mechanical 
 skill. Our day of dependence, our long 
 apprenticeship to the learning of other lands, 
 draws to a close. The millions that around 
 us are rushing into life, cannot always be fed 
 on the sere remains of foreign harvests. 
 Events, actions, arise, that must be sung, that 
 will sing themselves. Who can doubt that 
 poetry will revive and lead in a new age, and 
 one day be the pole-star for a thousand years ? " 
 
 89 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 And in concluding his address, he said : 
 "Mr. President and Gentlemen, this con 
 fidence in the unsearched might of man 
 belongs, by all motives, by all prophecy, by all 
 preparation, to the American Scholar. We 
 have listened too long to the courtly muses of 
 Europe. The spirit of the American freeman 
 is already suspected to be timid, imitative, 
 tame. Public and private avarice make the 
 air we breathe thick and fat. Young men of 
 the fairest promise, who begin life upon our 
 shores, inflated by the mountain winds, shined 
 upon by all the stars of God, find the earth 
 below not in unison with these, but are 
 hindered from action by the disgust which the 
 principles on which business is managed in 
 spire, and turn drudges, or die of disgust 
 some of them suicides. What is the remedy ? 
 They did not yet see, and thousands of young 
 men as hopeful now crowding to the barriers 
 for the career, do not yet see, that if the single 
 man plant himself indomitably on his in 
 stincts, and there abide, the huge world will 
 come round to him. Brothers and friends 
 
 90 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 we will walk on our own feet; we will work 
 with our own hands; we will speak our own 
 minds." 
 
 It is now seventy years since those words 
 were first spoken. They were revolutionary 
 for all time, and the native bloom and growth 
 of self-reliance which Emerson then predicted 
 have since been evidenced, gradually but in 
 dubitably, through three generations of our 
 American scholars, poets, and artists. 
 
 Yet in one vast field of art and opportunity, 
 there has shown but a faint Spring and a 
 fainter harvest of indigenous confidence and 
 growth. The American Drama still lies fal 
 low for the seed of the native poet ; the Ameri 
 can theatre, its institution, stands walled, and 
 well-nigh hermetically sealed, against the 
 possible percolations of American scholar 
 ship and poetry. For this important effect 
 there are simple and important causes. Not, 
 however, now to analyze the reasons for this 
 unnatural torpidity in so vital an art as the 
 drama, it becomes us none the less to ponder 
 deeply the indisputable fact, and to consider 
 
 91 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 that, as the true scholar has been defined by 
 that same philosopher as "man thinking," 
 so is it now more than ever incumbent upon 
 the American dramatist that he be truly a 
 scholar within that broad definition. 
 
 In view, therefore, of this responsibility, 
 there may, I think, be made to-day a like 
 prediction of independence specifically for the 
 American drama to that which seventy years 
 ago was made, in general, for American 
 scholarship; independence, that is, as well 
 from the persuasive "Muses of Europe," 
 as from their persuaded minstrels in America ; 
 independence wherein are summed up self- 
 knowledge, self-reliance, and the realization 
 of the unique function and the divergent op 
 portunity which are potential in the drama 
 of our democracy. ^ v 
 
 It is needless to remind ourselves of theyin/- 
 calculable debt in art, letters, and civilization, 
 which we owe to those Muses of Europe and 
 of England; it is as needless to reflect that, 
 in this modern day, with increasing ratio, 
 all corners of the earth are conspiring to be- 
 
 92 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 come one in mutual understanding; that 
 world-ideals are being substituted for local 
 ideals; that the phonograph joke and the 
 dance hall proverb are interchangeable symbols 
 among the nations, that the Peace Conference 
 has twice met, and that the parliament of man 
 is a rational presumption. All this needs not 
 even to be granted; it is so. 
 
 But in asking you to consider in dramatic 
 art an ideal of independence, of national 
 diversity, of American self-reliance, I am 
 suggesting nothing which is in conflict with 
 any world-ideal worthy of reason. For if 
 there shall ever be met a parliament of man, 
 in the arts as well as politics, assuredly it 
 shall never meet for the negation of man, but 
 it shall be the richer and mightier for every 
 positive contribution of distinctive experience 
 and tradition which each member shall con 
 serve from his own inheritance and bring to 
 it the Asiatic, the European, the American, 
 each contributive of his peculiar zone and 
 meridian of wisdom, harmonized by the ethics 
 of a common human interest. 
 
 93 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 In America, therefore, where our Cyclopean 
 industries of iron and gold and brass and 
 blazing ores sit on our Appalachians and our 
 Rockies and, like so many Polyphemi, gaze 
 down with fiery eyes upon their smoking 
 hearth-stones ten thousand cities with their 
 consumed humanity ; in America, where again 
 the silent forests range, solitude after solitude, 
 millions of acres, and you shall hear nothing 
 but the water-falls and the wind, and behold 
 nothing but far peaks and endless pines 
 shadowing their own twilight; in America, 
 where our sky-scrapers, tower on tower, build 
 another Sidon in mid-air; where the electric 
 mules tunnel our river-bottoms, and our 
 huddled citizens build conglomerate homes 
 like mud- wasps ; in America, if we shall look 
 around us with fresh eyes, and if, with fresh 
 vision, we peer into that Yankee past which 
 produced us, and beyond to the horizon of 
 cosmopolitan promise which is our destiny 
 to come, surely in this America we shall dis 
 cover, in riches, more than the raw stuff of 
 our bank accounts ; in art, more than a mere 
 
 94 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 standing-place whence we may crane our 
 pygmy necks toward Rome and the Old 
 World ; in prophecy, more than the bourgeois 
 hope of imitation and self-disguise. 
 
 Yes, in all this native material, I think we 
 shall discover national incentives, distinctive 
 sources of appeal, indigenous seeds of growth 
 for the renascence of a popular drama such 
 as, in possibilities of splendour and magni 
 tude, has not been surpassed in history. But 
 to this end it is obligatory that we understand 
 ourselves and our theatrical situation thor 
 oughly. Such a renascence may be, or it 
 may not be, according as the American public 
 does or does not inform itself, according as 
 the American dramatist does or does not 
 liberate himself. It is not enough that we 
 detect pernicious theatrical conditions, if we 
 do not renovate them altogether; it is not 
 enough if we shall half see the potentialities 
 of American drama through eyes educated and 
 enamoured of European ideals; we must 
 see them wholly, distinctly, freshly, through 
 eyes enamoured of what they behold, and 
 
 95 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 so body their large spirit forth in works un 
 adulterated, at once American and universal. 
 
 In the iris of this clear vision, two great 
 motes are lodged as obstacles that blur it. 
 These are: 
 
 First, Our theatrical conditions. 
 
 Second, The exotic nature of our dramatic 
 ideals. The first is all-important objectively, 
 the second, subjectively. 
 
 No extremity of emphasis probably could 
 overstate the influence of the nature of our 
 theatres, as private commercial enterprise, 
 in retarding the growth of American drama 
 as the essential art and expression of national 
 life. A revolution in the existing system is 
 as necessary a premise to the emancipation of 
 the drama as a fine art, as that security of 
 endowment which has established to the 
 Symphony Orchestras their liberty and success 
 a greater revolution, moreover, in propor 
 tion as the drama is, of its nature, a more vital 
 and universal self-expression of the people. 
 But this is a matter which, in itself, would 
 require the full measure of this paper to dis- 
 
 96 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 cuss, and as I have sought to analyze it else 
 where, 1 I must here dismiss its consideration. 
 I will merely repeat that it is of prime im 
 portance to our subject. That ground must 
 be cleared and its encumbrances removed, 
 before ever the stately fabric of a national 
 drama can be builded. 
 
 The second obstacle to the development of 
 a national drama of world-status in America 
 is, as I have said, the exotic nature of our 
 dramatic ideals. I might better call it the 
 suburbanite nature of our ideals. From what 
 ever causes, it so happens that a majority of 
 the educated, and the intellectual amongst us, 
 though robustly American in citizenship, re 
 main, in art and aesthetic aspiration, suburb 
 anites of Paris, Berlin, Rome, London, whence 
 they have, in their happier leisure, drawn 
 their ideals. Around the great lights of those 
 world-centres, mothlike, they flutter and re 
 volve, happy to singe the native hues of their 
 own modest wings and antennae in the fires 
 of those transatlantic stars which blaze upon 
 
 1 In The Playhouse and the Play. 
 H 97 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 our darkness. So, in dramatic art, the in 
 telligent in America are early educated in 
 suburbanite ideals. That is to say, looking 
 to the best and most inspired dramas which 
 modern Europe offers us, and rejoicing in the 
 technique and beauty of those master works, 
 these Americans would appropriate the masters 
 to themselves, and substitute as ideals the 
 foreign motives and technique, which have 
 rightly made those artists masters in their 
 own lands, for the original incentives and 
 the native craftsmanship, which alone can 
 create for us masters and ideals in America. 
 Not to analyze here the relative merits 
 and influences of English and Continental 
 dramatists, it is noteworthy to our subject 
 that the contemporary influence of European 
 upon American drama and dramatic criticism 
 resolves itself through various channels of 
 genius into the dominant influence of Ibsen. 
 Now the technique of every master is adapted 
 to his message. No artist can be subtracted 
 from or superadded to, what he has to say; 
 and the talisman of the master artist is per- 
 
 98 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 feet adaptation of means to end. To a thou 
 sand prophets, as many arts of prophecy. 
 When, therefore, Ibsen is designated by the 
 critical as the dramatic master for us in Amer 
 ica to-day, let us not be first moved to acquies 
 cence by the profound art, the human daring, 
 and the honorable achievement of the great 
 Norwegian, but let us first ask ourselves, 
 What is his message? Is it for us? And is 
 it for all of us as a people? And if it be for 
 us, if it be indeed pertinent and inspiring to 
 the vision of our vast young democracy, let 
 us ordain him master, and rally for him 
 disciples, and appropriate the principles of 
 his technique, that his message may live on in 
 America. But if it is not for us, if it is per 
 tinent only to the different conditions and 
 needs which gave it utterance in his mind and 
 art, let us not ordain him master, but honor 
 ing in him the dauntless Norwegian and the 
 sincere artist, imitate only his daring and his 
 sincerity, and go the way of our own vision, 
 repudiating his domination as he himself 
 repudiated the domination of Shakspere 
 
 99 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 and all the Lilliputian disciples of that 
 giant. 
 
 What, then, is the message of Ibsen? Is 
 it not the suffering of human pathology 
 the courage to meet the subtler diseases of 
 society, the stoicism to diagnose the incurable 
 ills of inheritance? Thus at its best his 
 function as dramatist becomes that of the in 
 formed physician and surgeon, and the sad 
 world his clinic. And so, with diverse mood 
 and accent, reads the philosophy of his Euro 
 pean followers. Theirs is the message, wrung 
 from serious hearts, of a corroded society; 
 their own society, its need of health, its erotic 
 and neurasthenic pangs. Theirs is the mes 
 sage of overpopulation, and all the pessimism 
 of that. 
 
 Is such the predestined message of our 
 American democracy? Is such the timely 
 and peculiar appeal of a drama which shall 
 awaken the authentic response of a people of 
 eighty millions a people to whom the wilder 
 ness is still, thank God, an inspiration; for 
 whom even in their slums the hill-ranging 
 
 100 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 winds are still hope, and the sweat of their 
 labor still pledge of a wholesome futurity? 
 Is such a message indeed for us? Or can 
 any technical mastery make it ours? 
 
 But the art of these Europeans is also some 
 thing other and less than the cry of a degener 
 ate race. For it is not the cry of a race at all, 
 nor of a people, but of a segment of society. 
 Significant is this distinction. Not Norway, 
 nor the peoples of Europe, cry out through 
 Ibsen and his followers; not those peoples, 
 whose great masses are still peasant, full- 
 blooded, inarticulate as in the feudal age; 
 but the sophisticated strata of their so-called 
 upper society, the modern corroding remains 
 of an aristocratical system now mingled with 
 bourgeoisie. Those strata are Ibsen s hu 
 manity; their anaemia the solicitude of his 
 art. It is not, however, simply the pathology 
 of Ibsen s message, but also its restricted 
 public, which characterizes it. This arises 
 out of the nature of the theatre mJEurope as 
 an established institution of those classes 
 its nature as the conservator and home of 
 
 101 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 what may be called the segregated drama. 
 By the segregated drama I mean the drama 
 considered as a fine art for the Jew; that 
 drama which, having its secure home in the 
 court and municipal theatres of Europe, has 
 produced the noblest examples of modern 
 dramaturgy. 
 
 As the popular alternatives to the segregated 
 drama in Europe exist the cockpits, the bull 
 fights, and the cafes chantants. 
 
 In America, a similar distinction has not 
 been, until lately, definitely marked. But 
 with the growth of organization in the theatre 
 as a business it has^ become yearly more ap 
 parent that the chaotic stuff of our dramatic 
 world is revolving itself into two utterly sun 
 dered spheres : 
 
 First: The Segregated Drama, based on 
 European ideals. 
 
 Second: Vaudeville, a melange of amuse 
 ments, variously adapted from the drama, the 
 cafes chantants, and the cockpits. 
 
 In the first, the drama is considered as a 
 fine art for the few. In the second, the drama 
 
 102 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 is considered not as a fine art at all, but as a 
 heterogeneous entertainment for the many. 
 
 Here now is a crucial moment, an inspiring 
 opportunity, in our dramatic history, and 
 hence in our history as a nation. For neither 
 the one nor the other sphere represents, I be 
 lieve, the destiny of American drama. Be 
 tween those two ideals and distinct from each, 
 exists, potential, a third ideal an ideal 
 correspondent to the essential genius and 
 the native opportunity of our American nation 
 and its dramaturgy. That third ideal is the 
 Drama of Democracy the drama as a fine 
 art for the many. 
 
 A momentous ideal; a momentous op 
 portunity. With temperance it may be said, 
 that not since the age of Pericles has there 
 existed a communal field for art comparable 
 in possibility to our own, and ours is a field 
 richer and vaster in promise, as America to-day 
 is, by science and inter-communication, bound 
 the more closely to the whole world than was 
 ancient Greece. 
 
 The drama as a fine art for the many; and 
 103 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 by "the many" I mean "the whole people," 
 both virtuosi and hoi polloi. JSschylus, 
 Sophocles, Aristophanes, and their contempo 
 rary peers, consummate artists, interpreted an 
 eager people to themselves, created for and by 
 their own works a whole nation of dramatic 
 critics, and infused generations of shepherds, 
 bankers, and street gamins with a judicious 
 enthusiasm for the fine art of dramatic 
 poetry. 
 
 It is related that, during the enactment of 
 a play by Aristophanes, one of the actors mis 
 placed the metrical accent of his verse in the 
 dialogue; whereupon the whole audience of 
 thousands rose, as one man, in their seats 
 and hissed their critical rebuke. 
 
 Moreover, by observation at first hand, 
 by a fresh and native insight, those Greek 
 dramatists created their own ideals out of the 
 national consciousness of their fellow-Atheni 
 ans. Compare with this Catullus, Horace, and 
 the Augustan Roman poets, who borrowed 
 their criteria, ready formed, from the Greeks, 
 and sought to foist them upon their anti- 
 
 104 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 pathetic countrymen. With the segregated 
 few they succeeded, but not with the many. 
 The profanum vulgus went its way to the 
 beast-fights and the gladiators. The Coliseum 
 is the monument of a people without a popular 
 fine art; the theatre of Dionysus at Athens 
 a monument to the Drama of Democracy. 
 
 Now, while too close an analogy may not, 
 of course, be drawn, yet one parallel is perti 
 nent. Our creative dramatists, our intelligent 
 public opinion, are guided and enthused by 
 European ideals, which, however admirable 
 to their germane conditions, here, when trans 
 planted to us, are at best a delight to those 
 restricted few whom they thus educate, while 
 at worst, their advocacy by that few permits 
 of one mighty danger to our many; namely, 
 that by importing a fine art which does not, of 
 its nature, appeal to our masses, our masses 
 shall remain without a fine art, and so retro 
 grade; that by the neglect of the enlightened 
 few to provide our whole people with modern 
 national Theatres of Dionysus, the Coliseums 
 of the variety shows shall be increasingly 
 
 105 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 provided for them by the unenlightened as 
 tuteness of private enterprise. 
 
 This very condition threatens us now, when 
 our people as a people, untouched by the art 
 or message of an Ibsen and Maeterlinck (subtle 
 and noble though these be), turns gropingly, 
 and increasingly satisfied, to the ubiquitous 
 Vaudeville Show which a splendidly organized 
 business system provides for them, ignorant 
 or uncaring of the consequences to our civic 
 lifeV Let us remember that theatre-goers in 
 America are numbered by the millions and 
 tens of millions, when we ask ourselves: 
 What are those consequences to us, and to 
 the generations, in our national development ? 
 
 An analysis of the nature of Vaudeville * 
 and its effect upon the masses will, I think, 
 reveabat least these four elements vitiating 
 to the American native capacity for a true 
 drama of democracy : 
 
 First, its intermittent appeal, whereby the 
 Variety Show is destructive of all sustained 
 concentration on the part of its audience, 
 
 1 See Comment on page 195. 
 106 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 numbing its sense of logical coherence, aesthetic 
 unity, and the constructive harmonies of 
 dramatic action. 
 
 Thus, for example, an audience of business 
 men who, in the daytime, whet and educate 
 their inherent capacity for art by analyzing 
 and harmonizing the constructive laws of com 
 merce, and the upbuilding of industry, men, 
 who by day follow their joy and ambition in 
 the inexorable detection of the sequence of 
 cause and effect, these same men will per 
 mit themselves, after dark, to sit like so many 
 aborigines of Patagonia, and applaud with 
 vacuous admiration the sequence of a show 
 as logically coherent as shoes and sealing-wax. 
 
 Compare with this form of amusement a 
 comedy of Aristophanes, with its sustained 
 orchestration of wit and its gamut of lyric 
 fun a true fine art for the masses. 
 
 Secondly, its necessary appeal to average 
 taste and minimum critical faculty. Neces 
 sary it is, because Vaudeville as a business 
 cannot afford to take risks, and, as a business, 
 cannot afford to be educative of criticism. 
 
 107 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 The broadest basis of appeal, with least finan 
 cial risk, 1 is its corner-stone. Now average 
 taste, of course, is bad taste, and since bad 
 taste in factu is more dependable than good 
 taste in posse, the policy of Vaudeville be 
 comes the progressive cultivation in the public 
 of average or bad taste, and the gradual pa 
 ralysis of the people s critical faculty. 
 
 Thirdly, its pseudo-morality. With know 
 ing regard for the prejudices of conventional 
 ethics, the wares of its Variety are advertised 
 as alike innocent for sucklings and sinners; 
 whereas, in actual performance, the equivocal 
 hint and the nameless innuendo, by con 
 sciously avoiding a legal indecency, are doubly 
 corrupt by their hypocrisy. 
 
 Fourth, its dementedness. This character 
 istic has already been alluded to, but deserves 
 to be emphasized as a distinct element. To 
 one who enters the average Vaudeville house 
 with the poise of a sane mind, the unwhole 
 some hysteria of the performance is pitifully 
 manifest. The unmeaning haste, the ex- 
 
 1 See Comment on page 197. 
 108 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 aggerated feat of skill, the baseless mirth, 
 the overtaxed fatigue, are evidences not of 
 spontaneous and wholesome revelry, but of 
 neurasthenia. 
 
 All these vitiating elements of Vaudeville 
 are of course glossed, and in part atoned, by 
 frequent exhibits of sound powers, flashes of 
 consummate wit, splendid inventions of science, 
 brief revelations of genius; yet as a substitute 
 for a true drama of democracy, its results 
 are perilous to our generations. For its results 
 are these: that it substitutes forgetfulness of 
 civic life for consciousness of civic life; in 
 dividual entertainment for communal self- 
 expression; sensual callousness for sensuous 
 enkindlement ; and popular "money- tricks" 
 for the supreme fine art of humanity. 
 
 On the other hand, we have the contrasted 
 works and public of the segregated drama, 
 which looks to modern European dramaturgy 
 for its inspiration and technique. There 
 exists also amidst us, to be sure, a more or 
 less popular drama, with no special ideal save 
 that of supplying the histrionic wants of stars, 
 
 109 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 or the commercial needs of managers, and 
 this largely fills the theatres in the " legitimate" 
 business ; but as this has no other basic motive 
 or message, it is necessarily ephemeral and, 
 to our present discussion, negligible. 
 
 The segregated drama, however, is of great 
 importance. It has a definite and within 
 narrowed bounds a lofty ideal. With in 
 creasing revulsion against the banality of 
 the Variety Shows, the very aim of its being is 
 differentiation from the ideals of the masses. 
 It is a fine art for the few. In Europe, in 
 dubitably, the salvation of the drama has lain 
 in segregation; thereby it has maintained its 
 high level of achievement. From Racine to 
 Rostand, from Lessing to Hauptmann, the 
 segregated theatres of France and Germany^ 
 have produced a succession of excelling poet- 
 artists. 
 
 Reasoning from this analogy, the intelligent 
 in America have set their hopes in a like 
 segregation, to this end appropriating those 
 European masters and their art. In this 
 expectation, they neglect two important con- 
 
 110 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 siderations : First, that the success of that art 
 is based upon the original incentives of those 
 masters, and not upon any qualities of that 
 art which may be imitated. Secondly, that 
 even if successfully imported, that foreign 
 art, with its segregative ideals, can never hope 
 to fill the unique opportunity of a drama which 
 shall satisfy the native need and capacity of 
 the American people for self-development in 
 fine art. Alluring, then, even tempting, 
 as the segregative ideal may be to the few, 
 permanent and productive as its function will 
 always be in human society, it is, nevertheless, 
 I believe, not for us the destined ideal, not for 
 us the appropriate goal of the drama of our 
 American democracy. 
 
 That a fine art for the many is a practical 
 ideal has been proved by its realization in at 
 least two historical eras. The dramatic works 
 of Marlowe, Shakspere, Webster, and their 
 inspired contemporaries at once created, and 
 were created by, audiences with receptivity to 
 the large imagination and the sonorous utter 
 ance of those Elizabethans. In more corn- 
 Ill 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 plete measure, as they were the product of 
 more democratical conditions, the works of 
 the great Greek dramatists brought into being 
 a popular fine art, which has been the admira 
 tion and the envy of the segregated artists in 
 all ages. 
 
 In our own time, in the cognate field of music, 
 we have beheld the analogous birth and growth 
 of an universal fine art, through the vision and 
 will of a single artist. Less than fifty years 
 ago, the Wagnerian opera had neither theatres, 
 audiences, nor interpreters ; its technique was 
 scoffed at; its practicality was denied, its 
 possibilities of popular appeal were ignored 
 or ridiculed. We know what it is to-day. 
 But what Wagner accomplished for the drama 
 of song and musical motif may equally be 
 accomplished for the drama of speech and the 
 motif of verse, and with far deeper effect upon 
 the self-development of our whole people, in 
 asmuch as the spoken drama may enter, not 
 as a beautiful thing apart, but as a forming 
 influence, a critical and self-revealing inspira 
 tion, into the very sources of our national life. 
 
 112 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 To compare the scope and relative appeal 
 of the segregated with the democratical ideal 
 in fine art, compare the Don Giovanni of 
 Mozart with the Siegfried of Wagner. Com 
 pare the delineation of that distracted soul, 
 Halvard Solness, the Master Builder, with the 
 delineation of Macbeth; the character draw 
 ing of Oscar Wilde s Lord Windermere, with 
 that of Falstaff; the Peleas and Melisande 
 of Maeterlinck with the Orestes and Electra 
 of Sophocles. Here are the master drawings 
 of masters but masters in two distinct 
 methods and aims. The distinction, in art, 
 is one between individualism and universalism, 
 between naturalism and idealism. Ibsen, 
 Oscar Wilde, Maeterlinck depict individuals, 
 and types of a segment of society ; Shakspere 
 and Sophocles images of all humanity. 
 
 But is, then, this distinction a dead issue? 
 Does modernity necessarily imply individu 
 alism and naturalism? Are the dramatic 
 poets of to-day and to-morrow never more to 
 carry on and upward the tradition and the 
 message of an universal vision? And is 
 i 113 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 poetry for the masses, as some of our modern 
 prophets have chanted, indeed as dead as 
 the door-nail of the proverb ? Patience ! Many 
 such door-nails rivet the coffin of scepticism. 
 There is the horizon of a theatrical season and 
 there is the horizon of the centuries. And 
 from the latter serene horizon looms the un- 
 
 v^ ^ vj*Jt i^AA-Ar W^AjL- 
 
 harvested \ideal of a new drama for our de 
 mocracy. ^nrvv^^-f 
 
 ^ 
 
 A new drama, for though of necessity its 
 main roots will strike for nutriment deep into 
 English tradition and language, and permeate 
 the subsoil of the centuries as far as the age 
 of Pericles, yet trunk and branch shall spread 
 themselves over the nation as indigenous and 
 beneficent as our American elms. 
 
 A drama, it must be, adapted to a people 
 of many millions: many millions, but fused 
 by the American Spirit one nation ; their 
 prairies, their mountains, their vast river 
 valleys, as well as the infinite meanings of their 
 cities, it shall humanly interpret and make 
 vocal to them and their posterity. Its drama 
 tists, peering through imagination into the past, 
 
 114 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 the present, the future, shall strive (as Keats 
 says) "to see as a god sees," and make those 
 images their Dramatis Personse. And espe 
 cially when they look into the past, they shall 
 see with their own eyes, in no archaic spirit, 
 but to reveal its perennial meanings to their 
 modern time. Thus they will create char 
 acters, corresponding in sculpture to the ideal 
 groups of a Phidias as opposed to the gold 
 smith portraiture of a Cellini. These they 
 will delineate with large simplicity and passion, 
 as befits a fine art for the many. No longer 
 Mr. and Mrs. Brown, Smith, Robinson, with 
 all their idiosyncrasies superfluous to a na 
 tional art, shall walk the boards, but, instead, 
 living symbols of our living world, so re-created 
 in imagination as to move and breathe like 
 visible gods and demi-gods of our modernity; 
 beings as simply understandable to our Ameri 
 can masses as the Greek-stage Zeus and Aga 
 memnon were to the Athenians; characters 
 as familiar to the modern man in the audience 
 as the great forces of labor and capital, com 
 petition and graft and reform, of which he 
 
 115 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 reads in his newspaper now tangibly set 
 before him as distinct and breathing images, 
 which shall ever after serve to interpret for 
 him himself and the life of his nation. 
 "Symbols," I have said, yet the dramatic poet 
 of democracy will not, I think, allegorize; 
 neither will he so much symbolize, as see and 
 create in the large. 
 
 Dramatic poet he must be, for in the very 
 nature of its ideal the drama of democracy 
 will be a poetic drama. Not a revival of old 
 forms, not an emulation of Elizabethan blank 
 verse, but a fresh imagining and an original 
 utterance of modern motives which are as 
 yet unimagined and unexpressed. Not a re 
 vival, but a new birth; not a restoration, but a 
 renascence of poetic drama. No bounds can 
 be set prophetically to the particular forms 
 of its expression : those will be determined by 
 its dramatists. There are those to-day who 
 see no futurity for dramatic art save in prose ; 
 yet such are, I think, enamoured of a natural 
 istic ideal. For myself, varied and fascinat 
 ing as I find the gamut of prose, yet in the 
 
 116 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 largeness and the deep passion of our op 
 portunity I can see no form of utterance so 
 appropriate to that world-drama of America 
 as those natural cadences of emotion in speech 
 which are allied to music. A fresh study of 
 the laws of those cadences, as adaptable to the 
 purposes of modern poetic drama and its 
 popular appeal, will result, I believe, in a new 
 harmonious complexity of form in verse and 
 rhythm. 
 
 But whether expressed in prose or verse, 
 the message of the drama of our democracy 
 is equally important with its form. That 
 message will be the message not of an Old 
 World ennui, the fruit of overpopulation; but 
 of a New World optimism, based in the heri 
 tage of the land itself. 
 
 On the boards of its theatre the spirit of 
 Comedy shall be master, and shift with twin 
 kling eyes his tragic masks. There not merely 
 the sad aspiring of a race shall speak in beauty ; 
 huge Satire and the vast guffaw of Folly will 
 chant harmonious; shrill Wit, twanging a 
 lightning bow of verse, shall rattle his barbs 
 
 117 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 of melodious mockery; and Reason, standing 
 in the wings, will smile his sweet, serene smile 
 philosophical. Thus shall that Comic Spirit, 
 which is twin of the American Spirit, be lifted 
 to the large plane of fine art, and illuminating 
 the average American to himself raise thereby 
 his mirth to a finer dignity. 
 
 With the new drama of Democracy, then, 
 will arise a divergent dramatic technique, a 
 native appeal and message, a new and nobler 
 art of impersonation, 1 and above all 
 to administer and develop its vast function, 
 a new theatrical institution, with basic liberty 
 and permanent security for its growth. 
 
 Manifestly, all these things are not as yet; 
 the drama as a popular fine art does not exist ; 
 existing conditions cannot foster it; actors of 
 to-day are not schooled to interpret it; the 
 modern public does not demand it. These 
 are the easy comments of the observer of 
 things as they are. To whom the observer 
 of things as they may well be, shall reply: 
 Of course the drama as a popular fine art does 
 
 1 See Comment on page 198. 
 118 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 not exist ; of course existing conditions cannot 
 foster it ; of course actors are not schooled to 
 it ; of course the public does not demand it. 
 Since, however, we have clearly beheld the 
 vision of such a drama, and seen that it is 
 beautiful, and since all those things which are 
 not yet are necessary for the embodiment of that 
 vision, of course, therefore, we will create them, 
 and those things shall be. 
 
 Patience, once more. A day a decade 
 is not destiny. Why, in our drama, 
 without moving our little fingers either for 
 investigation or for remedy, why do we ex 
 pect that reform and rectitude of conditions 
 which, in banking and insurance and our 
 legislatures, we strive for strenuously in vain ? 
 If I have proffered to you here a credo instead 
 of an accomplishment, it is because it has 
 seemed worth while to communicate a faith, 
 which only time and collaboration of desire 
 can fully substantiate. 
 
 We must take time, but first we must 
 take action. In the path of the prediction I 
 have made, obstacles are intrenched, seem- 
 
 119 
 
THE DRAMA OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 ingly insuperable. Beyond them rises, splen 
 did, the drama of democracy. Let us be 
 swift to face those obstacles, wise to analyze 
 them, patient to resist them, ruthless to re 
 move them. And when we have triumphed, 
 strong, then, and inspired let us be to build 
 beyond them. 
 
 In the gladness of these hopes, these de 
 terminations, it is pleasant to recur to the 
 thoughts of that quiet seer, whom at first I 
 quoted, and to feel, through divers times and 
 responsibilities, the continuity of an American 
 ideal. Himself, serene in his New England 
 orchard, the least dramatic of poets, to whom 
 in his time the world of the theatre was a realm 
 uncharted as the seacoast of Bohemia, yet are 
 his words to-day a blazonry and a call to the 
 drama of our democracy. "Brothers and 
 friends," not only in the technique of our 
 dramatic art, but also in the pioneer work of 
 upbuilding its institution, henceforth "we 
 will walk on our own feet, we will work with 
 our own hands, we will speak our own minds" 
 
 120 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 IN a literal sense, a citizen is one who 
 owes allegiance to his government and, 
 reciprocally, is entitled to protection from 
 it. In our own county, such allegiance com 
 prises the duty and right of the male citizen 
 to vote at the polls, to fight if called upon 
 in war, and of all citizens to pay taxes as 
 legally assessed, and to obey the statutes. 
 
 In that restrictive sense, the government of 
 the United States accords citizenship to many 
 millions. 
 
 But in a larger sense, a citizen is one who 
 owes to his fellow-countrymen all public ser 
 vice of his special capacity and, reciprocally, 
 is entitled to opportunity from public opinion 
 to perform such service. That special capac 
 ity will chiefly depend on his vocation in the 
 community. 
 
 In this larger sense, public opinion in the 
 United States recognizes men and women of 
 
 123 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 special capacity in numerous vocations as 
 "leading citizens," or "public servants." 
 
 Traditionally, certain vocations are more 
 widely looked to than others as sources of 
 public service. Such, for example, are the 
 vocations of the statesman, the minister, the 
 physician. To take rank in these callings it 
 is necessary for a man to succeed not merely 
 in the labors of self-seeking, but of altruism. 
 Of the statesman, or the minister, or the 
 physician, it is demanded at the risk of 
 public stigma that he shall serve the good 
 of society. This demand is just, for it is 
 proportioned to the public influence, for good 
 or for evil, inherent in the nature of his pro 
 fession. By the nature of their vocations 
 the physician and the minister hold within 
 their influence the physical and moral health 
 of communities ; the statesman sways the life 
 and destiny of a nation. Therefore society 
 has safeguarded those vocations themselves 
 by establishing certain tests and standards 
 of fitness for their incumbents. At the same 
 time, society has provided opportunity for 
 
 124 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 aspirants to those vocations to fit themselves 
 for meeting those tests and standards. 
 
 Thus, for example, as the diploma and 
 state license safeguard the practice of medicine, 
 so do medical schools give opportunity for 
 meeting the tests and standards set by the 
 diploma and license. 
 
 Now the specific standards set for the 
 practice of medicine result from the general 
 attitude of public opinion toward the pro 
 fession of the physician. And so it is with all 
 professions. In the last analysis, professional 
 standards originate in public opinion. 
 
 Considering, therefore, the extraordinary 
 public influence, for good or for evil, inherent 
 in the dramatist s profession, is it not pertinent 
 is it not timely to inquire into the atti 
 tude of public opinion toward the drama, 
 with a view to ascertaining what standards 
 of responsibility and efficiency, if any, de 
 termine the dramatist s practice of his pro 
 fession ? 
 
 First, then, how far does public opinion 
 realize the extraordinary public influence, for 
 
 125 
 
f 
 THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 good or for evil, of the dramatist s profession 
 Secondly, how far is public opinion ready 
 to accord to the dramatist s profession equal 
 opportunities with other professions of leader 
 ship ? 
 
 Thoroughgoing answers to these questions 
 would account, I think, for the status and 
 standards of the dramatist s profession in our 
 country to-day. In the present paper, I can 
 but suggest a few paths of thought which I 
 hope may lead others far better qualified than 
 I to detect and marshal the significances of a 
 subject among the most neglected and impor 
 tant of our time. 
 
 "Neglected" a neglected subject? Have 
 I not made a questionable assertion ? Is there 
 a single other subject which consumes as 
 much wood-pulp per annum in the columns of 
 our newspapers as the subject of the theatre ? 
 Is there a single other denizen of the side- 
 fences not excepting Sapolio as ubiqui 
 tous as the play-poster? Into the Pullman 
 windows of the Sunset Limited, it cries aloud 
 from the wilderness. Even the indigent ash- 
 
 126 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 barrel shares its fame. Wherever two and 
 two are gathered together, the topic of the 
 theatre is the very ointment and Omega Oil 
 of conversation. Is, then, the subject of the 
 drama neglected? 
 
 In one sense, no; decidedly, no. The 
 drama, as a social and commercial fact, is 
 everywhere superficially discussed. But the 
 meaning of the drama as a contemporaneous 
 civic force is rarely imagined or considered. 
 Plays and players, as wares of the theatre, 
 are wonderfully advertised; but the theatre 
 itself, as perhaps the mightiest potentiality for 
 civic enlightenment and education in America, 
 is almost nowhere studied and criticised with 
 a view to its higher status as an institution. 
 Its actual status is simply accepted as in 
 evitable, and all discussions of the problems 
 and progress of the drama are directed toward 
 what the drama can do under the circum 
 stances. There is no concerted rational plan 
 to change the circumstances themselves for the 
 better. 
 
 Consequently, from decade to decade, this 
 127 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 or that player, or dramatist, or theatrical 
 producer, according to his special efforts, 
 is the object of praise or blame from public 
 opinion, while the basic commercial conditions 
 of the institution, which has brought player 
 and dramatist and theatrical producer into 
 being, are simply ignored. Under these cir 
 cumstances, of course, progress in the drama 
 is limited to the basic conditions of the theatre 
 as an institution of private speculative business. 
 Now an institution of speculative business 
 is not the same thing as an institution of 
 civic enlightenment. That platitude has been 
 rammed home for American citizens to their 
 cost, in cases of more than one great business 
 enterprise gone awry ; as witness the insurance 
 investigations. That same platitude is being 
 ignored by American citizens in the case of 
 the theatre, but with this important difference : 
 intelligent investigation of the insurance com 
 panies revealed pernicious conditions which 
 touched only the vest pockets of the people. 
 Intelligent investigation of the theatres will 
 reveal pernicious conditions which strike deeper 
 
 128 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 into the very hearts and minds and souls 
 of the people. 
 
 Again, have I made a questionable assertion ? 
 Or am I, contrary to your probable opinion 
 of me, about to wield the proverbial muck 
 rake in a new barnyard ? Neither, I assure 
 you. Do I, then, mean that the controllers 
 of the theatres in America are shamefully 
 abusing a public trust? Not at all. They 
 have received no public trust. They have 
 no such thing to abuse. Do I allude, then, 
 to militant business combinations in the 
 theatre ? to syndicates and anti-syndicates ? 
 No, still less, for these are of very little impor 
 tance to our subject. Still, I have alluded to 
 "pernicious conditions" in the theatre: to 
 what conditions, then, do I refer? 
 
 In Lewis Carroll s "Through the Looking 
 Glass," Alice desires to reach a particular 
 viewpoint on a distant hill. But every time 
 she attempts to make toward it, she walks 
 instead into her own doorway. Therefore, 
 explains the author, "she thought she would 
 try the plan of walking in the opposite direc- 
 K 129 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 tion. It succeeded beautifully. She had not 
 been walking a minute before she found her 
 self full in sight of the hill she had been so long 
 aiming at." To reach my particular view 
 point, I also will resort to this Looking-glass 
 method, in hopes of reaching by a process 
 of reversal the desirable hilltop, with a 
 bird s-eye view of my meaning. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, friends and citizens, 
 it gives me deep concern but it is needful 
 in the interest of truth and the subject in hand 
 to read to you the following extracts, all of 
 which I have sedulously copied from To-mor 
 row Evening s Comet : 
 
 SUDDEN CATACLYSM IN THE WORLDS OF 
 SCHOLARSHIP AND ART 
 
 Latest News from the Colleges 
 
 The Universities of Harvard, Yale, Columbia, and 
 Princeton [and it is also rumored, all other American 
 Universities besides] have simultaneously undergone 
 an internal revolution. They have suddenly become 
 deprived of all endowment. In each case, the over 
 seers have resigned- The Corporation has deposed the 
 
 130 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 President, reorganized as a joint stock company, and 
 appointed the College Bursar, who owns the majority 
 of the stock, as General Manager of the newly formed 
 " University Variety and Amusement Company," by 
 which livelier title the students now hail their ancient 
 Alma Mater. Owing to the revolution in the treasury, 
 most of the professors and their assistants have been 
 dismissed. The more progressive individualists, how 
 ever, have been retained, to collaborate with the Glee 
 Club and the Varsity Eleven in devising a general 
 elective course of such needful popularity and diversion 
 as shall assure to the students their "money s worth," 
 prevent the ancestral halls from being deserted, and 
 keep the Company s stock above par. It is reported 
 that the combined efforts of the Varsity quarter-back, 
 the Glee Club tenor, and the Professor of Hellenic 
 Gymnastics have already been rewarded with unex 
 ampled ovations. 
 
 News from the Public Schools 
 
 It was to-day decided, by vote of the Municipal 
 Boards of Education in all American cities, and ratified 
 by the Mayors thereof, to withdraw all municipal funds 
 for the maintenance of the Public School System. This 
 progressive decision was reached after five minutes 
 
 131 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 conference with a notable body of philosophers, who 
 conclusively proved that Competition is a law of nature, 
 and therefore all institutions which tend artificially to 
 check its natural course in human communities should 
 be abolished. Since municipal endowment undoubtedly 
 constitutes such an artificial check, henceforth the 
 Public Schools of America will be conducted on pure 
 business principles, embodying the natural law of com 
 mercial competition. Since, moreover, statistics show 
 that school children in America number several millions 
 of souls, the School Boards are promised a pretty rake- 
 off by the philosophers. 
 
 Latest News from the Art Museums 
 
 The Metropolitan Museum of New York, the Boston 
 Museum of Fine Arts, the Chicago Art Museum [and 
 likewise, it is rumored, all other endowed institutions 
 of art in America], having unanimously decided that 
 art and artists should be dealt with "democratically," 
 have henceforth determined to refuse all patronage from 
 wealthy citizens and so-called "lovers of art," and to 
 make their only appeal direct to the taste and standards 
 of the people. This decision was reached after con 
 ferring with the same ubiquitous body of philosophers, 
 who succeeded in inculcating their following favorite 
 
 132 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 maxims: "Let art stand on its own legs," and "The 
 people know what they want anyway." 
 
 The latest paintings hung, under the new unen 
 dowed regime, are said to present a noteworthy con 
 trast to the works of Da Vinci, Velasquez, Turner, 
 Corot, Innes, Fuller, Winslow Homer, and their ilk. 
 
 Latest Items : Miscellaneous 
 
 1. A box-office was installed to-day in the Astor 
 Library, New York. 
 
 2. The parishioners of Trinity Church, Boston, have 
 voted to pay no more money for the support of regu 
 lar services. Instead, the parish has reorganized as a 
 corporate enterprise, admission will be charged at the 
 church doors, and laymen will compete in the pulpit 
 for a share in the gross receipts. 
 
 3. Mr. Andrew Carnegie, realizing that the Carnegie 
 Institute at Washington conduces only to the ad 
 vancement of pure science and human happiness, but 
 not to dividends, has withdrawn his support perma 
 nently from that institution. 
 
 Such are some of the more significant tidings 
 derived from that inspired source, To-morrow s 
 Comet. From still another column of that 
 same newspaper I have copied one longer 
 
 133 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 excerpt, which is perhaps even as revolutionary 
 in character as the preceding items. It reads 
 as follows : 
 
 THEATRICAL PROSPECT AND RETROSPECT 
 
 Reviewing the present theatrical situation, it seems 
 but yesterday that we in America were walking in 
 mediaeval darkness and superstition. Let us, for a 
 moment, briefly set forth the status of the theatre in our 
 country to-day, that we may compare it, in recollection, 
 with its status of yesterday. 
 
 In the first place, to-day, in every important city of 
 the land, there is erected, at a convenient central point 
 in the community, an ample and beautiful building, 
 capable of seating an appropriate proportion of the 
 population. This building, by the simple grandeur of 
 its architecture, is seen at first glance to be the perma 
 nent home of a vital civic institution : an institution vital 
 not merely to changing seasons of a cult of play-goers, 
 but to the continuous generations of citizens. This is 
 immediately evident to the casual observer by the fact 
 that the only other public buildings comparable to it, 
 in solemnity and permanence of design, are the Court 
 House and the City Hall [or Capitol], with which it is 
 architecturally grouped. 
 
 134 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 This municipal building is the Theatre : not Jones s 
 theatre, nor Rosenbaum s, nor Robinson s, but the 
 Theatre: the house of the conscious life of a free 
 community. Here, foremost, are focussed the highest 
 efforts of all artists. Here, in visible symbol for the 
 thronging people, the sculptor has recorded in stone 
 and bronze the noblest traditions of the people s life : 
 their civic leaders, among whom are seen, harmonious, 
 their statesmen, their artists, their soldiers, their scientific 
 inventors and philosophers the liberators of men, 
 gazing on whose perennial forms the meanest of the 
 crowd at their pedestals may hope one day so to be 
 beautifully recorded. Here the artist painter, collabo 
 rating with the dramatist in a new technique, devotes 
 his craftsmanship to the creation of new stage-settings, 
 upbuilding fresh traditions in his art by permanent 
 masterpieces, beside which the bric-a-brac wings and 
 drops of yesterday show like the ephemeral makeshifts 
 of children; here, too, he competes with his fellow- 
 artists for the honor of executing the permanent frescos 
 which add a lighter loveliness to the solemn spans of 
 the auditorium. Here the musical composer correlates 
 his special art with that of the painter, and subordinates 
 it to the objects of dramaturgy. Here the dramatist, 
 the focal artist of this focal art of the community, com- 
 
 135 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 petes with his fellow-dramatists in executing, for the 
 selective approval of his peers, dramas which shall most 
 splendidly express, by passion, imagination, beauty, 
 and delight, the vital significances of the people s 
 history, past, present, and prophetic. 
 
 Here the actor, disciplined in the old and new tradi 
 tions of the play, chosen by competition with his fellow- 
 actors, by standards of native insight, experience, adapt 
 ability, excellence in movement, pantomime, gesture, 
 eloquence, speech, embodies the passion, imagination, 
 beauty, and delight of the dramatist s conceptions. 
 
 Here other technicians, in arts which yesterday were 
 latent or unconceived, the masker, the tapicer, the 
 leader of pantomime and dance, the master of lights 
 and disappearances, ply their expert crafts, like prac 
 tised members of an orchestra, under the viewless baton 
 of the theatrical director. 
 
 Here, most of all, the object and the instigator of 
 these combined efforts of artists, the audience holds 
 its civic ritual. 
 
 Is it not strange that, for more than two thousand 
 years, the communal desire of occidental peoples should 
 have dispersed itself in factions, and found no single 
 harmonizing instrument to express itself, until in 
 the evolution of the American democracy the theatre 
 
 136 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 once more, as in ancient Greece, expressed the oneness 
 in will and character of a nation ? 
 
 Yet it is not strange, for, during at least a thousand 
 of those years, one vital half of human nature and of 
 national life, the religious instinct, expressed itself 
 through the great organ of the church, while the civic 
 half split and raged in many factions. But at last in 
 America, in the twentieth century, when the church 
 itself had become moribund, split by many sects 
 and schisms, and essentially unadapted to express the 
 unity and variety of national consciousness, and while 
 the national consciousness of the democracy itself was 
 becoming enlarged and uplifted by an unprecedented 
 impulse of civic pride and regeneration, the true 
 potentialities of the theatre, long dormant, were realized 
 by the leaders of public opinion. 
 
 These leaders then perceived that in the nature of 
 the drama itself there lay ready to their hands a form 
 and type of expression adapted to harmonize religious 
 impulse with civic growth ; to give to national progress 
 vital and visible symbols. But these leaders also 
 perceived that this potentiality of the drama could never 
 be realized until the theatre the drama s communal 
 instrument should be dedicated to public, not private, 
 ends. This light was slow to break upon the minds 
 
 137 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 of those leaders. When, at last, however, its full 
 meaning dawned, then almost as with the passing 
 of night there was commenced, quietly, unostenta 
 tiously, inevitably, that reformation in the status of the 
 playhouse which has converted our theatres into ca 
 thedrals of communal delight, and our dramas into 
 rituals of civic aspiration. 
 
 Now in reality the theatres belong to the people. 
 
 In some instances, wealthy citizens of the common 
 wealth have presented to the city the building, with a 
 maintenance fund in perpetuity, and so perpetuated 
 their own fame, like that Rufus Holconius of Pompeii, 
 whose gift of a theatre to his city has conserved his 
 name in the ashes of two thousand years. In other 
 instances, the churches have cooperated with civic 
 organizations to put the institution of the theatre upon 
 a basis more nearly corresponding to that of the 
 Athenian theatre of Pericles than that of any other 
 prototype. In still other instances, the municipality 
 itself, through channels analogous to those of the pub 
 lic school system, has authorized the expenditure of 
 public funds for the building and perpetual endow 
 ment of its theatre. In other cases, the State has 
 cooperated with the universities toward this end. 
 In still other cases, significant organizations of leading 
 
 138 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 citiz ns, such as the National Institute of Arts and 
 Letters, have stood sponsors for raising and establishing 
 the needful foundation fund. In a single instance, 
 the Federal Government itself has established a thea 
 tre of national primacy at Washington. In all cases, 
 the public theatres being established for the civic 
 welfare of their communities have been safe 
 guarded by reliable and perennial trusteeships. 
 
 Therefore the theatre buildings are as much the home 
 of the people as the public libraries, and their rules and 
 privileges are as consistently respected. 
 
 For occasions of dramatic performances (which 
 usually occur four or five nights in the week), seats 
 are provided, sometimes gratis, sometimes for a 
 nominal sum, through a special office, whose function 
 is the equitable distribution of seats. 
 
 On all other occasions the building is available for 
 public purposes. It is a public institution not merely 
 by night, but by day. For here, also, the once perfunc 
 tory and commonplace incidents of civic routine take 
 on their appropriate significance and solemnity. 
 
 Here the newly arrived immigrants from over seas, 
 with minds and hearts alert for the message and mean 
 ing of the republic, are officially convened from the 
 gang-planks and given, through interpreters, a specific 
 
 139 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 vista of hope and sympathy in their new land, before 
 being submerged in its millions. Here the special 
 ordination of citizenship is performed, with fit and 
 moving ceremony. Here the foreign guest of state 
 is received and greeted. Here the outgoing regiments 
 assemble to pray before marching to the wars; here 
 they reassemble to commemorate their dead. Here 
 the modern guilds and unions, touched once more by 
 the spirit of public art as in the Middle Age, devise 
 symbolic pageantries and processions, whose festive 
 influences interpenetrate the life of the streets and the 
 market-places, giving appropriate form and voice to that 
 American passion for festival which formerly found its 
 chief vent in the marching cohorts of Saint Patrick 
 and the tooting horns of election night. Being the 
 house of life in its fulness, here also in the playhouse 
 the nation s dead heroes lie in state, for without the 
 meaning of death, life has no fulness. 
 
 Strange again that these potentialities of the theatre 
 once brought smiles of scepticism to the lips of experts 
 experts who were accustomed to read in their news 
 papers of a thousand buried cities unearthed from the 
 dust of Roman and Greek dominions; and always, 
 in the centre of each ancient city, like the pupil within 
 the iris of a Cyclops eye, the civic theatre of a vanished 
 
 140 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 people. Yet those experts took from that fact no fore 
 thought, unless to recommend the excavation of more 
 ruined cities. * Besides (they would say), even though 
 we may grant the artistic preeminence of Athens, a 
 single commonwealth, yet that preeminence was 
 based in class-servitude ; whereas our nation a vast 
 union of commonwealths is based in a nobler ideal 
 of human freedom. Moreover, Rome was an empire, 
 and we are a democracy. Her ancient theatres 
 were monuments to imperial or tyrannical pride. 
 What analogy can they bear for us ? So they would 
 reason. And still it never occurred to them that we in 
 America might emulate the wisdom of the ancients 
 without imitating their follies. 
 
 Nevertheless, we made the experiment, and it is 
 open to all to compare the American theatre of to-day 
 with that of yesterday. 
 
 How, then, has the experiment affected the pro 
 fessions of the actor and the dramatist? 
 
 The actor, rising now in his profession by native 
 genius and technical proficiency, not by mere per 
 sonality and business acumen, is no longer the victim 
 of exaggerated advertisement, with no margin of leisure, 
 corresponding to that of other citizens, in which 
 to measure himself with his fellow-artists and 
 
 141 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 with general society. He is no longer obliged, by the 
 conditions of his profession, to live the homeless life 
 of a travelling Bohemian. Instead, acting only for a 
 few nights in each week in a permanent company of 
 artists, associated as a peer with the leaders of his 
 community, he may both study his own art and engage 
 in normal human relations, perfecting himself at once 
 as an artist and as a member of the community. 
 
 The dramatist, too, now rises according to native 
 and technical efficiency. Being secure of an appro 
 priate salary, according to his gifts as a craftsman, he 
 needs no longer seek vainly to reconcile the objects 
 of his profession with those of a speculative business. 
 When he seeks to interpret nature and human society, 
 it is with a view to truth, not expediency. When he 
 seeks to embody a dramatic theme, it is to achieve 
 dramatic excellence, not theatrical average; otherwise 
 his work will not meet the standards of the professional 
 masters, who choose it for production. With the new 
 status of the playhouse, the incentives of the gambler 
 have been taken from the dramatist; but the incentives 
 of the artist have been added unto him a hundred fold. 
 A thousand avenues of imagination are now open to 
 him, which were not open before to the mind, which 
 must of necessity calculate beforehand the risk of 
 
 142 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 fortunes to middlemen involved in exploring untrodden 
 paths. Now the people, and his message to the people, 
 are his only concern. A new freedom and a new re 
 sponsibility have transformed his profession. Hence 
 forth, and for the first time, he is in the larger mean 
 ing of citizenship a citizen. 
 
 Thus endeth the tale clipped from to 
 morrow evening s Comet. (The tails of comets 
 are proverbially nebulous.) I wonder whether 
 to-morrow s newspaper, like to-morrow, never 
 comes ! 
 
 But now, having by these meteoric methods 
 alighted on our Looking-glass hill, we may 
 sit down and look back upon the two questions 
 which sent us forth. 
 
 First: How far does public opinion realize 
 the extraordinary public influence, for good 
 or for evil, of the dramatist s profession? 
 
 I think the answer has been suggested. 
 Either public opinion realizes little or nothing 
 of that vast influence, or public opinion is 
 inexcusably remiss in failing to direct that 
 influence into the channels of civic welfare. 
 
 143 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 Of this alternative, we must certainly assume 
 the former to be true. Public opinion does 
 not realize the vast scope and significance of 
 the dramatist s profession as a civic influence. 
 Therefore, it has become one of the important 
 responsibilities of the dramatist as citizen to 
 help enlighten public opinion with regard to 
 the fitting status of his profession. And this 
 leads to our second question : 
 
 How far is public opinion ready to accord 
 to the dramatist s profession equal opportuni 
 ties with other professions of leadership? 
 
 The answer to this, citizens, lies with 
 you. You, and other intelligent bodies 
 like you, are the crucibles of public 
 opinion, in which maleficent elements may 
 be recombined for beneficent ends. The 
 commercial experts of the theatre are right 
 when they say that the theatre, as an insti 
 tution, is what you make it. They are not 
 concerned by self-interest, however, to inform 
 you that, if you will take the trouble, you can 
 make it a very different and a better institution. 
 For obvious and sensible reasons, the com- 
 
 144 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 mercial experts themselves will not take the 
 trouble. If you expect that, you will wait 
 forever and deserve to wait. In fact, you have 
 been waiting, and doing little else. That is 
 the deadlock in the drama s progress. But 
 if you will take the trouble to analyze theatrical 
 conditions dispassionately, you will see that 
 the first step necessary to permanently estab 
 lish the dramatic profession on a basis of 
 civic dignity and usefulness is to change the 
 logical incentives of the profession: to change 
 its prime incentive from one of private specu 
 lation for personal profit to one of public 
 service for the highest reward of citizenship 
 the honor of wise men. 
 
 Public opinion has accorded this w^iser in 
 centive to other professions, to the pro 
 fession of the doctor, the minister, the college 
 president, and professor. Why does public 
 opinion withhold it from the profession of the 
 dramatist ? 
 
 Perhaps because the dramatist s profession 
 is itself a factor in creating public opinion 
 opposed to its own higher interests. For 
 * 145 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 its own survival, it must needs exemplify 
 attributes which conduce to a low opinion of 
 its nature. If this is the whole reason, then 
 public opinion regarding the drama may be 
 described as in a state analogous to that of 
 forlorn communities, where malpractice in 
 medicine is condoned, because the practi 
 tioners find in that their largest means of 
 livelihood. This, however, is not a sufficient 
 reason. Public opinion is lethargic, not cor 
 rupt. It may be drugged by the doses it 
 frequently receives from the profession; but 
 it is not permanently perverted. To believe 
 so would be to impugn the wholesome spirit 
 of our nation itself, and this is supported by 
 no sane evidence. 
 
 A more fundamental reason for the lethargy 
 of public opinion toward the drama is that this 
 is an inherited tendency of Anglo-Saxon com 
 munities. In England itself there seems little 
 hope of the people s ever taking an enlightened 
 view of the theatre s civic functions. In 
 America, however, where fortunately Anglo- 
 Saxon tradition toward public art is being 
 
 146 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 constantly leavened for the better by instincts 
 and traditions inherited from other peoples 
 and lands in America, the flood tide of a 
 noble renascence is already stirring in the deeps 
 of the democracy, and it is this assurance which 
 gives hope and pertinence to an appeal for 
 public opinion to revolutionize its traditional 
 view of the playhouse as a place ordained for 
 the wise to seek foolish gratification, and the 
 foolish to remain as they are. 
 
 There is yet a third potent reason which is 
 embodied in the old adage, "What is every 
 body s business, is nobody s business." 
 
 Everywhere, it is everybody s business to 
 seek enjoyment; in the theatre, it appears 
 to be nobody s business to show them how to 
 do so, to their own best advantage. Yet it is 
 precisely this "nobody s business" which is 
 undertaken, with organized system, by our 
 universities, art schools, medical colleges, 
 churches, clinics, public schools; and for this 
 "nobody s business" hundreds of millions 
 of dollars are donated in our country, by com 
 munities and individuals, as a free gift for the 
 
 147 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 cause of education: the cause of how to be 
 happy wisely. Is not this equally the legiti 
 mate cause of the theatre ? If so, then where 
 is a single million, as a free gift, for the cause 
 of the theatre? 
 
 Sixteen years after our forefathers landed 
 on the barren shores of Massachusetts Bay 
 they brought their bushels of wheat, by assess 
 ment, to Cambridge, for the endowment of 
 Harvard College. They realized that Learn 
 ing could not stand on its own legs without 
 a full stomach. They did not require their 
 ministers to compete in the market of com 
 merce. There they were wise ; and we inherit 
 that wisdom. Yet they were not sufficiently 
 wise. They brought no wheat for the sus 
 tenance of art, as once the people of France 
 brought their all, and dragged their very 
 hearthstones, to upbuild the groins and sculp 
 tures of their cathedrals. The Puritans still 
 thought it well for one-half of man s nature 
 to starve. There they were foolish; and we, in 
 large measure, inherit that folly. How much 
 longer must the sins of the fathers be upon us ? 
 
 148 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 The drama is splendidly capable of recon 
 ciling the best ideals of the Puritan, the Greek, 
 and the Cathedral Builder; of blending in 
 one lay religion the service of the state 
 and the service of God. The drama, I say, 
 is capable of doing this, in a theatre free to 
 do so; but the drama is not able to do this 
 in a theatre compelled to do otherwise. Let 
 us then seek to reverse the old adage, and 
 henceforth let the "nobody s business" of 
 freeing the theatre from commercial bondage 
 be "everybody s business" who loves the 
 drama and his country. 
 
 Those who will gainsay such a purpose 
 and they will be many and sincere are 
 chiefly those who do not believe that the drama, 
 the dramatist s profession, holds any such 
 lofty possibilities in its nature. To those I 
 reply: The possibilities of the drama are 
 limited only by the possibilities of man. 
 Search history, search the heart of man, and 
 you will find both precedent and prophecy 
 for the ideal of the drama as the ritual of a lay 
 religion ; for the ideal of the theatre as a civic 
 
 149 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 temple of the people. And if the precedents 
 of history fail to convince, let it be remembered 
 that the heart of man is itself the maker of 
 precedents. 
 
 I am aware for reasons which I have 
 given that this ideal of the drama must at 
 first expect the ridicule and scepticism even 
 of the intelligent. I am aware that the neces 
 sary emancipation of the theatre, its institution, 
 may lie far in the future, and meet still with gen 
 erations of strong opponents. Those oppo 
 nents, like the opponents of another national 
 emancipation, which had its modest beginnings 
 in our country seventy-five years ago, will ask 
 that the institution of bondage be let alone, 
 and allowed still further to spread down the 
 generations. 
 
 Nevertheless, since the fundamental issue 
 of Slavery versus Emancipation is as clearly 
 drawn in this case of our nation s art as for 
 merly it was drawn in the case of our nation s 
 life, the same reply may fitly be made to 
 the sincere champions of commercialism in 
 the theatre, as that which Lincoln made to 
 
 150 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 the champions of serfdom in the republic, 
 "All they ask we could as readily grant, if we 
 thought slavery right; all we ask they could 
 as readily grant, if they thought it wrong." 
 The issue is clear: Is commercial bondage of 
 a nation s art to be considered right or wrong ? 
 
 Yes, without drawing our analogy to the 
 mythical point of bloodshed, we may yet as 
 well begin to realize now, as later it shall 
 be universally realized, that this question of 
 freedom for the theatre is an issue far larger 
 than concerns the theatre alone. It is an 
 issue as comprehensive as the relation of art 
 itself to citizenship. 
 
 Is art useful to the state? If so, shall op 
 portunity be accorded for art to perform its 
 highest public service? Shall our artists, 
 as artists, be responsible citizens, or time- 
 servers and hangers-on in the democracy? 
 Shall the stigma of dilettantism be removed 
 from the vocation of the artist, and the stigma 
 of showman s wares from the work of the 
 dramatist? Shall art merely survive by 
 chance and individual emolument, or shall it 
 
 151 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 be fostered, sustained, and cherished by the 
 organized will of public opinion? On the 
 other hand, shall our average American citizen 
 continue to be stigmatized as a Goth and a 
 Vandal in imagination and taste? Or shall 
 our leading citizens take forethought and 
 action to raise the aesthetic average of citizen 
 ship, as they have already taken steps to raise 
 its average in narrower fields of education? 
 Shall America herself, so long taunted by the 
 Old World for her lack of artists, begin to 
 realize why she lacks artists, and begin to 
 remove natural competition from her fields of 
 culture as assiduously as she removes it from 
 her fields of agriculture? Or shall our crop 
 of artists remain meagre and sporadic from 
 ignorant neglect, while our crops of corn and 
 wheat are ploughed and sown and protected 
 by masterly intelligence? 
 
 These are questions, the rational answers 
 to which are planks in the platform of that 
 sane and progressive revolution, which is 
 to-day deeply at work to extirpate all eco 
 nomic servitude from our body politic. 
 
 152 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 For the one foremost problem of art to 
 day is economic, not aesthetic. Since Art is a 
 handing onward through all ages of the 
 Spirit s torches, the study of Old Masters 
 dwindles in importance beside the more vital 
 study of how to enable New Masters to suc 
 ceed the Old, and sustain that continuity of 
 leadership which is civilization. 
 
 Some day there may arise amongst us a 
 supreme critic of American potentialities 
 a George Brandes and James Bryce in one 
 who shall detect and marshal the coessentials 
 of art and citizenship with such lucid sim 
 plicity that we shall pause aghast to behold 
 ourselves for the blundering barbarians we 
 are. 
 
 Such a critic, having for his subject the 
 Dramatist as Citizen, will illumine its myriad 
 sides far more adroitly than I have been able 
 to lift obscurity from even one or two of its 
 aspects. In characterizing the dramatist s 
 particular vocation, he will simultaneously re 
 veal the larger issues of his subject. . With r 
 wisdom and humor and quiet truth, he will 
 
 153 
 
THE DRAMATIST AS CITIZEN 
 
 remorselessly convince us that public opinion 
 is devoid of common sense or of conscience 
 if it shall continue to ignore the responsibili 
 ties and the rights of the artist as citizen. 
 
 154 
 
SELF-EXPRESSION AND THE AMER 
 ICAN DRAMA 
 
SELF-EXPRESSION AND THE AMER 
 ICAN DRAMA 
 
 FROM age to age, and in every peopled 
 land, a vital instinct, imperishable as 
 fire, appears to be reborn; a bodiless prin 
 ciple, peremptory as some vast genius of the 
 elements, seeks embodiment. Under that 
 yearning Spirit s touch, the institutions of 
 men are as clay, the stubborn neck of custom 
 is docile. Stung by his voice, the nations 
 and the communities awaken, grow articu 
 late, freshly comprehend one another and 
 themselves; moved by his imperious smile, 
 they do his bidding wonderingly. That un- 
 withstandable spirit is the Will-to-express. 
 
 In our own land to-day that instinct is 
 seeking an old instrument for freshly vital 
 ends; it is seeking the drama to render ar 
 ticulate the American people. In so doing, 
 however, it is only revealing its perennial 
 nature. More than once on our soil that 
 
 157 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 instinct has asserted itself. Especially about 
 the middle of the last century, in New Eng 
 land, the American genius became eloquent 
 in the forms of literature through the self- 
 expression of men like Hawthorne, Emerson, 
 Whittier, Thoreau, Poe, Whitman, Lowell, 
 Longfellow, Holmes, and the seed of that 
 self-expression has borne hereditary fruit in 
 the works of our American literary artists 
 during the generations since then. 
 
 Not until very lately, however, has that 
 same seed the incentive to self-expression 
 lodged itself in the heart and mind of the 
 American dramatist. Indeed, so little is such 
 a motive associated by the general public with 
 their conception of the drama s function, so 
 seldom is the dramatist himself considered in 
 the light of an integral artist, that it becomes 
 the somewhat anomalous task of one who 
 would seek self-expression through the drama 
 as a fine art to elucidate and justify his 
 alleged right to so unprecedented a vocation. 
 That a writer of plays should assume the 
 same independent position in art as that 
 
 158 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 which has long since been yielded by public 
 approbation to the writer of novels or essays 
 or poems, is considered by an astonishing 
 majority of intelligent persons as an unten 
 able assumption. 
 
 Why, we may ask, is this so? Why are 
 intelligent persons thus strongly convinced 
 that the dramatist is fundamentally differen 
 tiated as an artist from the novelist, the poet, 
 the essayist? 
 
 An interesting light, historical and con 
 temporary, is thrown upon this question by 
 a recent interview in the New York Times 
 with Mr. Bronson Howard, 1 justly respected 
 as the dean of American dramatists. Re 
 ferring to the contemporary drama in English, 
 which he classes as "the work of English and 
 American players and authors collectively," 
 Mr. Howard is reported as saying: "All 
 English dramatists are groping in a blind 
 alley. They have stepped aside from the 
 
 1 The present article, though it was published in the Sep 
 tember number of the North American Review, was written 
 some months before the death of Mr. Howard, in August, 1908. 
 
 159 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 avenue, which I shall designate as the natural 
 growth of the English drama. The drama 
 tists are ignoring their public. They are 
 writing to please themselves. They are pro 
 mulgating work which the people do not 
 want. The proof thereof is the colossal per 
 centage of failures both in New York and 
 London. There are no logical reasons to 
 account for the present poverty of the stage. 
 With an increasing population and a growing 
 interest in the stage, the playwrights should be 
 plentiful and their brains should be fertile. I 
 attribute the present degeneration of the Eng 
 lish drama to the alluring influence of the 
 Continental playwrights who are providing 
 their own stage lavishly with successful plays." 
 This opinion, expressed by an American 
 dramatist of honorable achievement, repre 
 sents a very extensive public opinion in 
 America; and because it is representative I 
 will take the liberty of trying to analyze Mr. 
 Howard s utterance with a view to answering 
 the question put above : Why is the drama, 
 as a mode of expression, differentiated funda- 
 
 160 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 mentally in the public mind from other forms 
 of literature? 
 
 " The dramatists are ignoring their public. 
 They are writing to phase themselves" 
 
 This statement, which, for our purposes, I 
 will take as applying simply to this side of 
 the Atlantic, made by one who has been 
 intimately familiar for many years with our 
 native drama and its conditions, corroborates 
 my statement that not until lately has the 
 incentive to self-expression lodged itself in the 
 American dramatist. 
 
 From the stated tendency, however, I 
 would draw a different inference from Mr. 
 Howard s not the "degeneration" of the 
 present drama, but its regeneration. And in 
 support of this inference, I would cite a com 
 parison an American comparison be 
 tween the present period of our native drama 
 and the New England period of our native 
 literature in its beginnings. And in this con 
 nection I would suggest the following queries : 
 
 If Nathaniel Hawthorne, in his own day, 
 had not sufficiently ignored his contemporary 
 
 M 161 
 
SELF-EXPRESSION AMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 public to write to please himself, how much 
 would the public of to-day, how much 
 would the public of to-morrow, desire to 
 read his works? 
 
 And again what is, perhaps, even more 
 to the point: If he had not written to 
 please himself, would Hawthorne have written 
 at all? Would his genius have expressed 
 itself? 
 
 If Emerson, Whittier, Whitman, Lowell, 
 in their noblest and most successful utterances, 
 had not been moved to expression by an inner 
 necessity, but, instead, had been moved by 
 the outward necessity of ascertaining what 
 their public wanted them to say, would the 
 public of their day, of this day, and of to 
 morrow be the richer or the poorer? 
 
 And again: If by some miraculous dis 
 pensation those same poets, reborn with the 
 instinct and knowledge of stagecraft, were 
 to-day writing for our stage to please them 
 selves, would their writings be therefore 
 degenerative to our drama? 
 
 Such queries, and the deductions they sug- 
 162 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 gest, may ring strange in minds unaccus 
 tomed to correlate the drama with literature. 
 
 In any event, it may be objected, the times 
 of those American poets were different times 
 from these. In those days the American 
 public was attentive, far more than to-day, 
 to the voice of literature for leadership and 
 counsel and inspiration, and therefore it be 
 hooved those literary leaders to remember 
 their responsibility and maintain their highest 
 personal standards of expression accordingly., 
 To-day things are different; to-day "with an 
 increasing population and a growing interest 
 in the stage" the public is turning yearly 
 more and more away from literature proper 
 toward the theatre as> the seat of a great and 
 vital public influence. Times are changing. 
 The vehicle of national expression is different. 
 
 To be sure, it is different; but how dif 
 ferent ? Doubtless the drama is an other ve 
 hicle than the lyric, the poem, or the novel; 
 but is it, of its nature, so different from those 
 forms of literature that it is functionally un 
 fitted to become an instrument for leadership, 
 
 163 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 and counsel, and inspiration? And if it is 
 not unfitted, what, then, of its leaders ? Does 
 it not behoove them all the more to remember 
 their responsibility to their own time and to 
 maintain their highest personal standards 
 accordingly? In other words, does it not 
 to-day behoove our dramatists, for the pub 
 lic s sake, "to please themselves"; "to ignore 
 their public" to the extent of wisely serving it ? 
 For in this phrase, "to ignore the public," 
 what precisely do we mean by "the public"? 
 The demands of the public, of course. Yes, 
 but do we mean the reasonable demands of 
 the public, or the foolish demands of the 
 public ? One or the other of these, of course, 
 we must ignore; but can there be any hesi 
 tancy as to which? Or if the public, by the 
 nature of its theatrical education, persists in 
 making foolish demands, shall we therefore be 
 sceptical of human nature, or of the nature of 
 present theatrical education ? No, our dram 
 atists cannot believe too stanchly in the 
 inherent human worth of the public ; but it 
 is precisely because they have so long ignored 
 
 164 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 in the public the grand and beautiful in 
 stincts which are potential in it, and, catered 
 instead to the petty and ignoble instincts 
 which are actual in it, that our dramatists 
 have expressed so little of lasting service to 
 the public. Yet if w r e are to uphold in 
 American drama standards of American 
 achievement in literature, this custom of ig 
 noring potential fineness in the public must 
 be rejected. 
 
 Times change is, indeed, a potent proverb, 
 which is, however, modified perennially by 
 another, History repeats itself. As the stimu 
 lus to self-expression, w r hich at the beginning 
 of our New England literary period bodied 
 itself forth in the works of Hawthorne, 
 Emerson, and "the Transcendentalists," had 
 its origin in the influence of independent Con 
 tinental thinkers, so in the present decade the 
 initial impulse to self-expression in the awaken 
 ing art of the drama is doubtless traceable (to 
 quote Mr. Howard conversely) "to the allur 
 ing influence of the Continental playwrights," 
 who are not only "providing their own stage 
 
 165 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 lavishly with successful plays," but are doing 
 this because they are independent thinkers 
 writing to please themselves. 
 
 The chief contrast of their Continental 
 conditions to ours, of course, is this: That 
 their Continental public has long since been 
 educated, by the endowed nature of its 
 theatres, to demand of its dramatists that 
 they shall please themselves, in other words, 
 to demand of their dramatists leadership in 
 taste and art and ideas; and their most 
 potent and convincing leaders are followed 
 most loyally by the public. In brief, the 
 Continental public has gone dramatically to 
 school for several centuries; it is artistically 
 "grown up," reasonable, mature. Ours has 
 been left to shift aimlessly for its schooling, 
 practically unprovided by our theatres with 
 formative discipline in art, good taste, or 
 ideas, while it has spent its time crying 
 for meaningless diversion, with which, for a 
 consideration, it has been provided ad nau 
 seam, to the result that, like a spoiled child, 
 it has lost all idea of what it is crying for. 
 
 166 
 
SELF-EXPRESSION AMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 Yet this principle of humoring the spoiled 
 child, frankly admitted as such, is the basic 
 principle on which our dramatists are asked 
 nay, required, like it or lump it, if they 
 are able to upbuild a modern national drama 
 commensurate with that of Europe. Obvi 
 ously, in such an international contest, there 
 is involved a handicap. In fine art or foot 
 ball, a fair start is part of the real game. 
 How, then, before our game begins, to achieve 
 the fair start? 
 
 Mr. Howard says we must not "ignore" 
 the aimless cry of the public; otherwise our 
 work will "degenerate." We must not adopt 
 the Continental principle of pleasing our 
 selves as artists; otherwise our plays, unlike 
 the Continental plays, will fail. But Mr. 
 Howard probably means something different; 
 namely, that we must not imitate the technique 
 nor appropriate the message of Continental 
 art; but that we must express ourselves in 
 our own way. And with this I beg leave 
 heartily to agree. But if he means this, he, 
 and with him a large public opinion, has 
 
 167 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 strangely confused in utterance the real issue 
 of our dramatic problem, which is, the 
 necessity for self-expression by our drama 
 tists, as leaders, not as followers, of the 
 public. 
 
 Leadership: Here is the heart of our dis 
 cussion, and the answer to its question: 
 Why is the drama fundamentally differentiated 
 in the public mind from other forms of litera 
 ture? Here is the answer. 
 
 Literature in all ages has been the voice of 
 leadership. Whether in art, or scholarship, 
 or religion, or aesthetics, or statecraft, self- 
 expression, the voice of independent con 
 templation, the utterances of leadership, and 
 alone of leadership, have raised themselves to 
 the rank of literature. As such they have 
 gained the reverence of time for large public 
 service. The speech of Lincoln at Gettys 
 burg, the "Elegy in a Country Churchyard," 
 the comedy of "The Tempest," each is 
 an utterance of self-expression without which 
 none of them would be literature. 
 
 Literature, then, by charm, and exhorta- 
 168 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 tion, and delight, has uplifted, has led the 
 public. The drama is filled with potential 
 charm, exhortation, and delight; but in our 
 country, which is our present concern, the 
 drama has failed to enlist those, its puissant 
 capacities, in the cause of leadership. By its 
 own refusal, or by prohibitive circumstance, 
 it has failed to lead the public. Rightly, 
 therefore, public opinion has cast the drama 
 forth from literature; naturally, the public 
 mind has dissociated the theatre from all 
 relationship to institutions for the public weal. 
 
 Nevertheless, the public mind has not done 
 this consciously, by thoughtful analysis of the 
 drama and the theatre in their real nature. 
 Instead, the public mind, from habit con 
 sidering the theatre a concern merely of its 
 leisure moments, has simply not considered 
 the nature of the drama at all, except in its 
 transmogrified aspect as a kind of varicolored 
 cordial wherewith the public is recommended 
 to aid its after-dinner digestion, or dyspepsia. 
 
 In this capacity it receives notorious atten 
 tion in the daily newspapers, where it is 
 
 169 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 diligently exploited and advertised, being, 
 according to its various brands and samples, 
 vouched for or condemned by expert tasters 
 and epicures. 
 
 We have referred, however, to the drama 
 in its true nature and function. Doubtless 
 to the interests of that a submerged minority 
 of the public is already devoted. But like 
 wise that minority tends to differentiate the 
 functions of drama and literature. Why? 
 Have we wholly accounted in our discussion 
 for this fact? I believe not. The reason, I 
 think, lies in a certain real distinction between 
 the nature of drama and that of other literary 
 forms. It is this an obvious distinction, 
 yet frequently ignored in critical estimates of 
 plays : 
 
 The completed work of the dramatist is 
 not the completed work of the theatrical 
 producer. Unlike the finished manuscript 
 of the writer of novels, lyrics, or essays, which 
 has only to be mechanically copied and printed 
 in order to serve its public purpose, the finished 
 manuscript of the playwright must be bodied 
 
 170 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 forth and interpreted, physically and psychi 
 cally, by a considerable number of living person 
 alities, actors, scene painters, stage managers, 
 etc. Indeed, we must seek an allied art, not 
 of words but of music, in order to cite an 
 adequate analogy. 
 
 The composer of a symphony completes 
 his task when he completes his score. The 
 public purpose of his score, however, is con 
 summated by the director of a symphony or 
 chestra, by means of his musicians and their 
 instruments. Thus the printed manuscript 
 of Shakspere is functionally more closely 
 related to the printed score of Beethoven 
 than it is to the printed manuscript of Milton. 
 
 Yet the mere outward likeness of the printed 
 texts of dramatists to those of other writers 
 has been a perennial occasion for unsound 
 literary comparisons. So far, however, has 
 the standard of just musical appreciation 
 already exceeded the standards of dramatic 
 and literary criticism that the musical critic 
 who should confuse the accomplishment of 
 a First Violin with that of Beethoven would 
 
 171 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 probably attract public remark; whereas, 
 in dramatic criticism, the unfathomable iden 
 tification of Garrick, Sir Henry Irving, or 
 Mr. Sothern with Shakspere continues to 
 pleasurably confound the unconscious readers 
 and play-goers of the generations. 
 
 It is in this regard that the growing custom 
 of publishing the texts of modern plays is 
 serving a useful purpose of public enlighten 
 ment. By this, of course, I do not refer to 
 the more widespread custom of publishing, in 
 connection with the production of a play, 
 a novelization of its plot, usually designated 
 as the "Book of the Play"; for this custom, 
 by a confusion of ideas, only obscures more 
 darkly than before the ends and means of 
 dramaturgy. But the actual naked text of 
 the play itself serves to inform the reader, who 
 is also a play-goer, in the first principles, so 
 to speak, of the anatomy of the dramatic idea, 
 to train him, as a reader, to forecast in 
 his own mind the play s production, and as 
 a play -goer, to criticise the play as the naked 
 image which production is truthfully to clothe. 
 
 172 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 It is this unusual demand upon the imagina 
 tion and understanding of the reader which 
 makes the reading of plays, as yet, somewhat 
 unpopular; but it is this same reaction of 
 mind upon text which causes play-reading as 
 a pleasure almost never to pall, but increas 
 ing the appetite by custom, to dissatisfy one 
 thenceforward with all less imaginative kinds 
 of reading. Consulting the play s text as the 
 score, so to speak, of the dramatist s symphony, 
 the reader becomes familiar at once with 
 the creative idea and with the essential requi 
 sites of its interpretation. 
 
 The beneficial results of this more intimate 
 understanding of the ends and means of 
 dramaturgy are, with time, likely to be far- 
 reaching. For with the resulting enlighten 
 ment of his public, the dramatist himself will 
 be held inevitably to higher and higher stand 
 ards of execution ; for there in his text he may 
 not hide a poverty of ideas behind the riches of 
 theatrical production, nor sterility of imagina 
 tion behind the stage carpenter, nor defective 
 characterization behind the resourceful genius 
 
 173 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 of an actor; but instead any false slip in his 
 human construction, any distortion in tech 
 nique, any shamming of ideal, will become the 
 more glaring to his vigilant critic, the reader 
 of his text. 
 
 So, too, a skilled reader of plays becomes an 
 informed play-goer ; he will judge a theatrical 
 performance as the interpretation of a dra 
 matic idea ; he will judge acting as a mode of 
 objectifying the creative art of the dramatist. 
 So, from having been merely a layman, he 
 will by clarification of his standards 
 become an artist, and his art will be criticism. 
 And thus, by a strong spiral of mutual en 
 lightenment, the actor, too, will mount to ever 
 higher standards of his special art, inter 
 pretation. No longer receiving applause for 
 the substitution of personality for imper 
 sonation, and prevented by informed public 
 opinion from assuming an irrelevant dic 
 tatorship for subordinating the dramatic idea 
 to his own caprice, the actor in his proper 
 function will fall newly in love with his 
 vocation as the subtlest and noblest of sym- 
 
 174 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 phonic players the artist of the human 
 instrument. 
 
 In such a rational harmony of functions 
 there should at last be basis for the existence 
 of a vocation now practically non-existent, 
 save as it is temporarily assumed, with de 
 ficient powers or training, by dramatist, 
 actor, stage-manager, theatrical producer, or 
 by these in succession, or by all at once, to 
 the consequent confusion of the dramatic 
 idea: I mean the vocation of Theatrical 
 Director, into whose hands as into the 
 hands of the orchestra director, the com 
 poser submits his score the dramatist 
 should be able to submit his text, with secure 
 confidence of its being properly rendered to 
 the public. Over all the multitudinous factors 
 and instruments of theatrical performance 
 this director, trained thereto as his special 
 life-work, should be absolute master, and his 
 function and responsibility should be to effect 
 by those instruments the harmonious inter 
 pretation of the dramatic idea the play. 
 
 So much for a glimpse toward rational con- 
 175 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 ditions which do not exist. The contrasted ex 
 isting conditions of maladjustment between the 
 play and its theatrical production constitute a 
 second powerful reason why the drama is 
 divorced from literature in the minds of in 
 telligent persons. For these persons, from 
 constantly viewing the production of plays 
 by a theatre unqualified to produce plays 
 without distortion, become accustomed to view 
 the distorted result as the dramatic idea, 
 mistake the production for the play itself, 
 the actors for the dramatis personse. The 
 manner of acting or producing a play becomes 
 for them no longer a means but an end in 
 itself. Thus they come to misconceive the 
 end and object of dramaturgy, conceiving that 
 object to be interpretation instead of expres 
 sion. Because a play, unlike a novel or essay, 
 must, by its nature, be interpreted in order 
 to fulfil its function, they conceive its 
 function to be interpretation. But inter 
 pretation of what? Why, of the actors, 
 scenery, etc. And so a great number of 
 our plays themselves have actually come to 
 
 176 
 
SELF-EXPRESSION AMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 coincide with this distorted conception. Thus 
 the art of the drama is turned wrong side out, 
 the functions of play and actor are reversed, 
 and the play itself becomes a mere vehicle 
 for interpreting to its audience the personality 
 of an actor, or the ingenuity of a stage-manager. 
 
 Obviously, intelligent persons will not view 
 such an interpretative vehicle as a form of 
 literature, since literature primarily is ex 
 pression. How, then, shall these persons be 
 persuaded that such vehicles are not true 
 plays? How shall they be enlightened as to 
 the true function of dramatic art? 
 
 As a means to this end, I have referred to 
 the publication of the texts of plays; but I 
 would not, of course, be construed as meaning 
 that printing and reading plays can alone 
 produce the desired effect. Many other 
 factors of knowledge and emancipation must 
 contribute to that. I mean only that the 
 custom of publishing plays will become at 
 least a real drop in the great empty bucket of 
 public enlightenment concerning these things. 
 For the printed play will gradually accustom 
 ir 177 
 
SELF-EXPRESSIONAMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 the American public to realize, as the public 
 in France and Germany has long since realized, 
 that the dramatic form is a legitimate form 
 of self-expression, so that the universal pub 
 lishing of plays will become as normal a 
 custom as the universal publishing of novels. 
 At the same time the public will become ex 
 pert in the special art of reading plays, and 
 thereby it will learn to judge them by standards 
 not of the so-called "closet drama," whose 
 hybrid standards are corruptive of sound 
 dramaturgy, but by those of the theatre. 
 
 But I hope it will be retorted by 
 standards of what theatre? By standards 
 of the theatre, discordant, uncorrelated, mis 
 directed, as we know it to exist, or by stand 
 ards of the theatre as we have glimpsed it 
 above, harmonious, symphonic, directed by 
 a rational unity? 
 
 The answer to this question is all-important 
 
 to the subject we are discussing. 
 
 -\ To one who seeks authentically to express 
 
 himself in the forms of drama, it becomes 
 
 sooner or later a temptation to ask himself: 
 
 178 
 
SELF-EXPRESSION AMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 Shall I express the dramatic ideas which 
 are demanding utterance within me, because 
 I consider them beautiful, or critical of life, 
 or otherwise worthy of communication, and 
 adapted to stage craft, albeit they are better 
 adapted for interpretation by unrealized ra 
 tional conditions of the theatre than by 
 irrational existing ones? Or shall I, rather, 
 choose to express only those dramatic ideas 
 within me, or seek elsewhere at second hand 
 for those without, which are readily adapt 
 able to existing conditions and the open 
 market? In the words of our analogy, shall 
 I try to write a symphony, because I like to, 
 albeit if produced there is only a leaderless, 
 disorganized orchestra to perform it? Or 
 shall I write a popular march, albeit I do not 
 like to, because it is likely to be performed by 
 the said orchestra? 
 
 However the dramatist may answer these 
 questions for himself, it is certain that only 
 one answer can result in literature and in 
 real contribution to art. For the work which 
 is not the utterance of an inward creative 
 
 179 
 
SELF-EXPRESSION AMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 joy is not a work of leadership, nor of large 
 public service. No; it is far better that our 
 playwrights should remain sterile than that 
 they should supply a meaningless demand 
 of the public. There is far less need of so- 
 called "practical" plays, that may be easily 
 produced by a theatre misqualified in the art 
 of production, than there is need of a really 
 practical theatre which shall stimulate and 
 fulfil the demands put upon it by plays com 
 prehending the entire dramatic scope of self- 
 expression. 
 
 For such a theatre there is precedent the 
 much cited Theatre Franpais, for example; 
 yet what need is there of precedent when the 
 issue is plain? 
 
 Either there can be no adequate self- 
 expression in our drama, or there must be a 
 theatrical institution adapted to interpret and 
 stimulate such expression. 
 
 In America, the unprecedented promise of 
 our people, the nature of our human re 
 sources comprising the world s inheritance, 
 give sound conviction for believing in the 
 
 180 
 
SELF-EXPRESSION AMERICAN DRAMA 
 
 practical establishment of such an institution 
 unprecedented in efficacy of high public 
 service. To this end it is incumbent upon 
 all citizens and artists to whom the theatre 
 is a living influence to consider the above 
 issue and help to solve it rationally. 
 
 But as the seat of the initial creative power 
 of the theatre, it is perhaps most incumbent 
 upon the mind of the dramatist to emancipate 
 its powers. That it will do so there is no 
 reasonable doubt. The continuity of Ameri 
 can literature will not cease at the theatre s 
 doors. A new century, beautiful and terrible 
 in portent, latent with unexampled passion 
 and delight, waits to be expressed. Already 
 the tide of ordained expression sets toward 
 the art of the drama : the result is inexorable. 
 An institution which is unwilling, or unable, 
 to become the responsive instrument of such 
 an art will cease to be, and another shall rise 
 in its place, and subserve the Will-to-express. 
 
 181 
 
ART AND DEMOCRACY 
 
ART AND DEMOCRACY 1 
 
 T~\EMOCRACY and art are matters of such 
 ^~^^ vitality and magnitude that you will 
 not, I take it, expect me to attempt any 
 exhaustive definition or comparison of their 
 vast influences. I will only describe to you a 
 certain concrete memory w T hich may perhaps 
 serve to suggest, for this occasion, a personal 
 impression and conviction. 
 
 I remember standing, a year or two ago, 
 in the studio of Saint- Gaudens, watching 
 some of his assistants at work. A seated 
 figure of colossal size was being pointed up 
 in plastilene from a small completed statue. 
 The process, of course, was simply a me 
 chanical one, yet it seemed strangely to repeat 
 in tangible form the nebulous creation of that 
 work in the mind of the sculptor. Still half 
 grotesquely obscured in a mass of clay-like 
 
 1 Delivered before the Society for Ethical Culture, New 
 York, on Lincoln s Birthday, 1908. 
 
 185 
 
ART AND DEMOCRACY 
 
 substance, slowly, very slowly, but with pre 
 ternatural sureness, the shape and features of 
 a human form were visibly evolving into the 
 sunlight, projecting upon the floor at my feet 
 a still undecipherable shadow, the image 
 of the image of a dream. What that seated 
 figure was, might as yet only be guessed. 
 Power was there, and pensiveness, and in the 
 half-bowed head, already discernible, the large 
 lineaments of pathos. Identity, however, was 
 still lacking. 
 
 A few days afterward, I went to the studio 
 again. This time there, was no doubt what 
 presence I was in. It was not the colossal 
 proportions of the seated image that filled the 
 place with awe. It was the mighty sense 
 that there sat Lincoln, thinking. Very simply 
 he sat there, a lank figure in modern coat 
 and trousers, uncompromisingly homely, yet 
 beautiful by personality. One hand rested 
 on the arm of his chair, the other on his 
 knee; his head was slightly bowed; he was 
 thinking. 
 
 It was perhaps easy to persuade oneself 
 186 
 
ART AND DEMOCRACY 
 
 that there was simply a statue an image in 
 plastilene. "A work of art" we name it, 
 and so it is appraised by connoisseurs for the 
 craft of its execution. But to look upon that 
 image, and to feel the combined compulsion 
 of the subject and its rendering, is to experi 
 ence more than a sense of aesthetic achieve 
 ment : it is to experience a sense of history. 
 
 That statue, now cast in bronze, will be 
 exhibited for the first time next month here 
 in New York, at the Metropolitan Museum. 
 Of the many who will then look upon it, a 
 few, who are themselves artists in some field, 
 will doubtless admire the masterly adroitness 
 with which the sculptor has treated his sub 
 ject technically; the unflinching candor with 
 which he has handled the commonplaces of 
 his modern material, yet selected those plastic 
 elements only which have served to express 
 the life and total reality of his subject. Here 
 is no dead wood of workmanship; all is 
 vital. These artists may perhaps feel also 
 the compelling personality of our great Presi 
 dent as interpreted by our great sculptor, yet 
 
 187 
 
ART AND DEMOCRACY 
 
 each will probably be inspired with a longing 
 to become in his own sphere not a Lincoln, 
 but a Saint-Gaudens. 
 
 A far greater number there will be who 
 will feel little of the means by which the 
 sculptor has accomplished his end. They 
 will feel simply the end. They will feel an 
 impression, more or less vague and inex 
 pressible, of the greater reality of that 
 seated image as compared with themselves 
 who gaze upon it. Whether they are con 
 scious of it or not, the mutable clay in them 
 selves will lay its homage upon the knees of 
 the immutable bronze and cry out with 
 ephemeral prayer. And they shall not go 
 unanswered. For they shall bear away with 
 them a sense that they, too, are a part of that 
 higher pageantry which passes before the 
 thinking eyes of the image ; that they, too, as 
 well as the generation of the Civil War and 
 the American generations to come, are the 
 objects of that deep and solicitous thought. 
 
 And even if that image should be melted 
 before their eyes, they who had looked upon 
 
 188 
 
ART AND DEMOCRACY 
 
 it could never look upon history as before. 
 For they would have experienced, not merely 
 deduced, the causes of Lincoln s immor 
 tality. Thus each of those many will have 
 vaguely aspired to be a Lincoln, but hardly 
 a Saint-Gaudens. 
 
 A remaining few there may be who, look 
 ing upon the statue, shall be equally moved 
 by the genius of the sculptor and of the states 
 man. They will realize that here undoubtedly 
 is a great work of art; and here also un 
 doubtedly is a great work of democracy. 
 They will detect the kinship that exists be 
 tween the mind which controls the plastic 
 motives of art and that which controls the 
 plastic motives of men, and in both cases 
 they will appraise the value of that control 
 by a single criterion: its effectiveness for 
 human happiness. 
 
 Thus they will recognize how, in no un 
 certain sense, Lincoln was, as statesman, a 
 Saint-Gaudens; Saint-Gaudens, as artist, a 
 Lincoln. The equal caliber of their great 
 ness may, of course, be disputed, but not 
 
 189 
 
ART AND DEMOCRACY 
 
 the nature of that greatness. Each was a 
 master, because each was a master-servant 
 of humanity. The great common basis of 
 their fame is public service. 
 
 I am aware that to a large majority of 
 persons the work and careers of these two 
 men will appear as sundered as the antipo 
 des; nevertheless, the basis of my compari 
 son I believe is sound. 
 
 On the one hand, there exists to-day a 
 world of pure art, so called, which concerns 
 itself little, or not at all, with the interests 
 of politics, sociology, statesmanship. On the 
 other hand, is a world of democracy, which 
 concerns itself little, or not at all, with the 
 interests of aesthetics, artistry, craftsmanship. 
 The world of art complains that democracy 
 ignores the concerns of beauty. Democracy 
 complains that the world of art ignores the con 
 cerns of citizenship. Both frequently deduce, 
 therefore, that they have nothing in common. 
 
 Now the complaint of both is valid, but not 
 their deduction. For true democracy is vitally 
 concerned with beauty, and true art is vitally 
 
 190 
 
ART AND DEMOCRACY 
 
 concerned with citizenship. When each is true 
 to itself, there is no disruption of interests. 
 Phidias and Pericles had no quarrel. Rec 
 onciliation of their aims depends only upon 
 the recognition by each of its proper function. 
 The issue, "art for art s sake," is as mean 
 ingless as "statesmanship for the sake of 
 statesmanship." For if the former have any 
 meaning, it can only mean, art for the sake 
 of excellence. But art itself is expression. 
 "Art for art s sake" must, therefore, mean, 
 art for the sake of expressing that which is 
 most excellent. But what is that which is 
 most excellent to express ? That surely which 
 conduces to the greatest human happiness. 
 
 Has statesmanship properly any other aim 
 than this? 
 
 In every nation, then, art and statesman 
 ship are vital concerns of the people, for whose 
 greatest happiness they properly exist. The 
 important thing is for the people to realize 
 this truth, and to impress upon both that, 
 in neither one case nor the other can there 
 be too high an excellence for the public good. 
 
 191 
 
ART AND DEMOCRACY 
 
 Our own nation is no exception to the 
 validity of this truth. In America, the kin 
 ship of the true artist and the true statesman 
 is clear and legitimate: both are children of 
 the Commonweal. And the noblest function 
 of democracy is to bear sons who shall ex 
 cellently express for their countless brothers 
 that are dumb and incapable the excellent 
 beauty of their common mother. 
 
 192 
 
SOME COMMENTS, BY WAY OF 
 EPILOGUE 
 
SOME COMMENTS, BY WAY OF 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 THE author has preferred to let the text 
 of the foregoing addresses remain practi 
 cally as written for their original purposes, 
 and to add, instead of to incorporate, the 
 following comments, which have seemed to 
 him pertinent: 
 
 COMMENT FOR PAGE 106 
 
 The analysis of Vaudeville here given has 
 been somewhat misinterpreted by a portion 
 of the press. When this address, "The 
 Drama of Democracy," was delivered by 
 me at Columbia University, the paragraphs 
 concerning Vaudeville were singled out for 
 report in the daily newspapers, and were 
 afterwards quoted by some of the weekly 
 journals. The emphasis of these reports 
 seemed to convey the impression that I had 
 singled out the Vaudeville profession as an 
 
 195 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 object of "attack" an idea which is far 
 removed from my intention or approval. As 
 I have had frequent occasion to repeat, 
 reform in the theatre to-day is properly 
 concerned with renovating certain large con 
 ditions in the community; it is not properly 
 concerned with picking faults in individuals 
 or vocations which exist because of those con 
 ditions. 
 
 The reference to Vaudeville in my essay 
 is for the purpose of illustrating specifically 
 the operation of a general tendency of theat 
 rical business the tendency which I have 
 called the law of increasing emotional and 
 decreasing intellectual demand. 
 
 The effects of that tendency are observable 
 almost as much in the "legitimate" business 
 as in Vaudeville, though perhaps not as con 
 cretely and clearly, and those effects are open 
 to interpretation as facts by all interested per 
 sons, in and out of the theatrical profession, 
 without thereby casting aspersion on the 
 many talented, idealistic, and hard-working 
 members of that profession. 
 
 196 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 FOR PAGE 108 
 
 "Financial risk" is the elemental evil at 
 the root of all theatrical problems discussed 
 in this book. It is involved, of course, in all 
 theatrical business, "legitimate" as well as 
 Vaudeville. It is an universal proposition of 
 existing conditions, yet its direct corollaries, 
 as they are involved in the art, the culture, 
 and the ethics of our communities, are al 
 most universally ignored. 
 
 Everywhere it is known and admitted that, 
 under these present conditions, the drama 
 is " a gamble," and almost everywhere this is 
 admitted w r ith complacence or indifference. 
 Yet when the spirit which delights in "a 
 gamble" raises its obnoxious head in our 
 legislatures, our insurance companies, our 
 public school boards, and even our race 
 tracks, public revolt instantly asserts itself, 
 and the extirpation of the "gamble" becomes 
 frequently the object of a civic campaign. 
 
 It would seem superfluous to add that until 
 the object of theatrical productions ceases 
 
 197 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 to be "a gamble," the drama cannot become, 
 what its capacities fit it to be, a vital and 
 constructive force of civilization. 
 
 FOR PAGE 118 
 
 "A new and nobler art of impersonation" 
 is, of course, desirable and necessary for the 
 development of our native drama. Here I 
 have done no more than refer to it, as the 
 subject involves an essay in itself. 
 
 As plays may be made or marred by their 
 interpretation, it follows that all rational 
 steps in developing a new dramaturgy must 
 be accompanied by rational steps in develop 
 ing a school of actors trained to the needs of 
 the dramatist. 
 
 At present, actors (when they receive any 
 schooling at all) are, of necessity, trained to 
 the needs not primarily of the dramatist, but 
 of the theatrical business, chiefly classifiable 
 under the needs of the manager for a partic 
 ular personality and salary, or of the "star" 
 for a particular stature, voice, etc. 
 
 These needs are practical considerations 
 198 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 at all times, and have bearing upon the actor s 
 vocation under any conditions; but these 
 needs now are necessarily circumscribed by 
 the limited scope in art of the plays which 
 the theatrical business can risk producing, 
 and by the consequent low standards of criti 
 cism in acting, which are inculcated thereby 
 in the public. 
 
 For a wider scope in art, and for a greater 
 comprehensiveness in training, actors are, as 
 a class, keenly desirous themselves. 
 
 FOR PAGES 52, 53, 54 
 
 By "the Law of Dramatic Deterioration" 
 I do not, of course, intend anything analogous 
 to an absolute law, such as a law of nature. 
 By "law," in that phrase, I mean no more than 
 an observable tendency, based in the psycho 
 logical laws of human nature. 
 
 But it may be questioned: In looking 
 back over the history of our theatre, especially 
 over its history during the last five or ten 
 years, is such a tendency observable? On 
 the contrary, is not our theatre better, in plays, 
 
 199 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 acting, and efficient organization than ever 
 before ? 
 
 This is a valid question to put, and because 
 we must certainly answer it in the affirmative, 
 the conclusion may seem to follow that no 
 such tendency as the Law of Dramatic Dete 
 rioration exists. 
 
 A little further Analysis, however, leads, I 
 think, to the opposite conclusion. 
 
 The requirements of theatrical business 
 being what they are, it will hardly be denied 
 that the law of increasing emotional and 
 decreasing intellectual demand is a law which 
 presumably, in the long run, will best fulfil 
 those requirements. 
 
 Why, then, is our theatrical situation un 
 deniably better than ten years ago, than 
 five years ago ? undeniably full of fine 
 promise, accomplishment increasingly fine? 
 undeniably not deteriorated ? 
 
 In a word, I reply, because the theatrical 
 situation is becoming part of a national situa 
 tion. In spite of itself, the theatre is feeling 
 the compulsive stress of an awakened conscious- 
 
 200 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 ness in the democracy. In that national 
 awakening which also is world-wide, lies the 
 exhilarating promise of the theatre to-day. In 
 that awakening, I may add, lies the relevancy 
 of the sharper criticism which to-day is being 
 brought to bear upon the theatre, better 
 though it be a criticism which, while it 
 acknowledges that betterment, analyzes it, 
 and understands the real causes of its being. 
 
 In brief, the Law of Dramatic Deterioration 
 is at work now in the theatre w^ith greater po 
 tency than ever before ; but likewise it is being 
 combated, and in part checked, by other forces, 
 greater than have ever opposed it before 
 forces arising not from within the theatre, but 
 from outside it; the forces of national regen 
 eration, the forces of renascent democracy. 
 
 Therefore, if our theatrical situation is 
 better than ever before, it is not due to the 
 tendency which underlies theatrical business, 
 but to the tendencies which underlie intelli 
 gent democracy. 
 
 In those renascent forces of democracy we 
 do well to put hope and faith. Yet ilw very 
 
 201 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 idea of renascence implies a possible waning of 
 forces. And therefore it is wise that, during 
 their eras of Jlner ideals involving the common 
 interest, men should take action of foresight, 
 and embody those ideals in strong institutions, 
 permanently safeguarded against the forces 
 alike of ignorance and of individualism. 
 
 To that end men have endowed universities; 
 to that end they will yet endow theatres. 
 
 FOB PAGE 52 
 
 To the majority of our play-goers, even 
 to-day, the words drama and acting are practi 
 cally synonymous. To them dramaturgy is a 
 term of vague or no import; for them, the 
 actors are "the show." This confusion in the 
 public mind between the arts of actor and 
 dramatist of interpretation and creation 
 has been nurtured by theatrical tradition from 
 the earliest advent of the strolling player in 
 America to the present acme of the star system. 
 
 On September 5, 1905, The New York Com 
 mercial published a compilation of American 
 theatrical anecdote and history, entitled : "The 
 
 202 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 First Dramatic Annual." It consisted of arti 
 cles, signed by well-known members of the 
 profession, reminiscent of the American stage 
 for many years past. The writers recalled a 
 host of actors and actresses, more or less dis 
 tinguished, all dear to the people: Edwin 
 Booth, Lester Wallack, John McCulloch, 
 Maurice Barry more, Mrs. John Drew, Law 
 rence Barrett, and so on. Throughout the 
 entire compilation, however, there is hardly an 
 allusion to an American dramatist. Obviously, 
 in those reminiscences, the players, not the 
 plays, represent the vital past of the American 
 theatre. Some of the old plays, to be sure, are 
 recalled in memories of "The Banker s Daugh 
 ter," "The Still Alarm," "The Henrietta," 
 "Hazel Kirke," "The Two Orphans," and 
 others, but always as vehicles for some favorite 
 "star." 
 
 Again, in a critical digest * of our New York 
 stage, written by Mr. Norman Hapgood as 
 late as 1901, and treating of the years 1897- 
 
 1 " The Stage in America," The Macmillan Co., Ne\v 
 York. 
 
 203 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 1 900, the chapter headings are significant. Out 
 of seventeen chapters, eight headings, dealing 
 with New York productions, read as follows : 
 
 1. Recent Shakspere : Tragedy. 
 
 2. Ibsen. 
 
 3. Foreign Tragedy. 
 
 4. Goethe, Schiller, Lessing. 
 
 5. Rostand. 
 
 6. Pinero, Shaw, Jones. 
 
 7. Other British Importations. 
 
 8. From the French. 
 
 Of the remaining nine headings, only one 
 treating of the late James Herne and Mr. 
 William Gillette deals with work by Ameri 
 can dramatists. Throughout the volume, how 
 ever, are discussed the histrionic technique and 
 personal gifts of many accomplished actors and 
 actresses, such as: Margaret Anglin, Julia 
 Arthur, John Drew, Mrs. Fiske, Nat Good 
 win, Julia Marlowe, Richard Mansfield, Henry 
 Miller, Ada Rehan, Eleanor Robson, E. H. 
 Sothern, Otis Skinner. 
 
 Since the date of Mr. Hapgood s book, only 
 one critical digest of our stage during the in- 
 
 204 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 terval since 1900 has appeared as a volume. 
 In Mr. Walter P. Eaton s stimulating book, 1 
 published in the autumn of 1908, an important 
 increase of emphasis upon dramaturgy is evi 
 denced. Nevertheless, it still remains true that 
 no American dramatist has yet attained such 
 rank in the art of play- writing as Edwin Booth 
 attained in the art of acting. The obvious 
 reason for this fact also remains in force : the 
 American dramatist has existed chiefly for the 
 sake of the actor; the creative art has been 
 subservient to the interpretative. 
 
 FOR PAGES 82 AND 86 
 
 The conditions of Endowment are not the 
 conditions of Subsidy by Subscription. 
 
 This truth would seem to be obvious, yet 
 there is much popular misconception on the 
 subject. Some theatrical enterprises supported 
 by subscription have been frequently alluded 
 to in the press as "endowed" theatres. 
 Likewise the principle of subscription is often 
 
 1 "The American Stage of To-day:" Small, Maynard 
 & Co., Boston. 
 
 205 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 vaguely referred to as being the same as that 
 of endowment, or practically equivalent to it. 
 
 As a matter of fact, the principle of endow 
 ment has never been tried in America, nor, 
 so far as the writer knows, has it ever been 
 uncompromisingly adopted in the case of any 
 theatre proposed or already projected in this 
 country. 
 
 Between subscription and endowment there 
 is an impassable chasm of principle. The 
 former is a makeshift, the latter a solution. 
 Subsidy of art by subscription does not recog 
 nize the right of art to perpetual freedom from 
 commercial competition; endowment does 
 recognize that right. Subscription releases art 
 from subjection on a temporary parole; en 
 dowment signs its emancipation proclama 
 tion. 
 
 Being compelled, for its own survival, to 
 appeal to existing public standards of taste 
 within a given few weeks, or months, or sea 
 sons, a theatre supported only by subscrip 
 tion is thereby prevented from leading public 
 taste; yet to enable it to lead public taste is 
 
 206 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 presumably the very object of the subscription ; 
 therefore, the enterprise is infected from the 
 start with an innate compromise which tends 
 to undermine the ideal at stake. 
 
 Thus, at best, the principle of subscription 
 may only check or defer the operation of the 
 Law of Dramatic Deterioration; whereas the 
 principle of endowment may annul it. 
 
 At worst, the principle of subscription may 
 by its failure to check that law at the outset, 
 and by the consequent failure of its special 
 enterprise shake public faith in the cause 
 of endowment with which it is so frequently 
 confused in principle. 
 
 In any event, by seeking to subsidize a 
 business instead of an art, subscription serves 
 to obscure the real issue of dramatic emanci 
 pation the issue whether the theatre s 
 function in the community shall be that of 
 art or business. 
 
 For an effectual business needs no subsidy; 
 but an effectual art cannot live without it. 
 
 Men of wealth, who endow museums, 
 libraries, universities, do so, presumably, be- 
 
 207 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 cause they believe in the special causes of 
 those institutions, and wish to serve them. 
 Yet men of wealth, who believe in the cause 
 of the theatre and wish to serve it, have so far 
 hesitated to endow the theatre, as museums, 
 libraries, and universities are endowed. In 
 stead, when they have contributed money in 
 its cause, they have subsidized it as a business, 
 in the vague apprehension that thus they were 
 subsidizing it as an art. And always they 
 have proposed to get at least a percentage of 
 their money back. 
 
 It would sound strange to one of our uni 
 versity presidents to receive the offer of a great 
 sum for endowment by a philanthropist, upon 
 the stipulation that the university should show 
 good security for returning to the philanthro 
 pist a certain per cent on the amount of his 
 endowment. Founded upon such a financial 
 basis, a medical school, a museum, an insti 
 tute of scientific research, would have a hard 
 scramble for existence, its special cause could 
 hardly be expected to thrive in the community, 
 its staff and equipment could hardly be ex- 
 
 208 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 pected to fulfil effectually the objects for which 
 it was founded. 
 
 The outright endowment of theatres the 
 idea of which, in this country, is usually con 
 sidered as an impracticable dream is to-day 
 a proved actuality in several of the countries 
 of Europe. In Germany especially, theatrical 
 endowment, so far from being chimerical, is a 
 commonplace; and, in consequence, there is 
 probably no other modern nation in which the 
 theatre, as an institution, is so effectual an 
 instrument of social and civic ideas. 
 
 In the light of these facts and comparisons, 
 are not the following propositions reason 
 able? 
 
 The permanent emancipation of dramatic 
 art from theatrical business is a special 
 cause. 
 
 The success of that special cause would 
 permanently benefit the nation. 
 
 A cause whose success would permanently 
 benefit the nation is a cause which deserves 
 the support of all citizens able to promote 
 the efficient means to its success, 
 p 209 
 
SOME COMMENTS 
 
 The efficient means to the success of the 
 drama s special cause is endowment. 
 
 Therefore, 
 
 The drama s special cause should be en 
 dowed by citizens able to endow it. 
 
 210 
 
A LIST OF PLAYS 
 
 BY WINSTON CHURCHILL 
 
 The Title-Mart 75 cents net 
 
 A comedy of American Society, wherein love and the 
 young folks go their way in spite of their elders and 
 ambition. 
 
 BY CLYDE FITCH 
 
 The Climbers 75 cents net 
 
 The Girl with the Green Eyes 75 cents net 
 
 Her Own Way 75 cents net 
 
 The Stubbornness of Geraldine 75 cents net 
 
 The Truth 75 cents net 
 
 Ingenious satires on modern society, unhackneyed in 
 incident, piquant in humor, showing minute observation 
 happily used. Each is bound in cloth, with white paper 
 label. 
 
 BY THOMAS HARDY 
 
 The Dynasts : a Drama of the 
 
 Napoleonic Wars fa Three Parts Each $1.50 net 
 BY LAURENCE HOUSMAN 
 
 Bethlehem : A Musical Nativity 
 
 Play $1^25 net 
 
 BY HENRY ARTHUR JONES 
 
 Mrs. Dane s Defence 75 cents net 
 
 Michael and His Lost Angel 75 cents net 
 
 Rebellious Susan 75 cents net 
 
 Saints and Sinners 75 cents net 
 
BY HENRY ARTHUR JONES (Continued) 
 
 The Crusaders 75 cents net 
 
 The Infidel 75 cents net 
 
 The Tempter 75 cents net 
 
 The Whitewashing of Julia 75 cents net 
 
 Each of these well-known plays is bound in cloth, with 
 white paper label. 
 
 BY JACK LONDON 
 
 Scorn of Women Cloth, $1.25 net 
 
 The scenes are laid in the far north, Mr. London s special 
 province. 
 
 BY PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 The Canterbury Pilgrims $1.25 net 
 Fenris the Wolf. A Tragedy $1.25 net 
 
 Jeanne d Arc $1.25 net 
 
 The Scarecrow $1.25 net 
 
 Mater $1.25 net 
 
 Sappho and Phaon $1.25 net 
 
 BY STEPHEN PHILLIPS 
 
 Nero $1.25 net 
 
 Ulysses $1.25 net 
 
 The Sin of David $1.25 net 
 
 Poignant dramas which, according to the best critics, 
 mark their author as the greatest writer of dramatic 
 verse in England since Elizabethan times. 
 
 BY STEPHEN PHILLIPS and J. COMYNS CARR 
 Faust $1.25 net 
 
BY ARTHUR UPSON 
 
 The City (a drama) and Other 
 
 Poems $1.25 net 
 
 BY SARAH KING WILEY 
 
 Alcestis (a play) and Other Poems 75 cents net 
 The Coming of Philibert $1.25 net 
 
 Mr. WILLIAM WINTER S Version of 
 
 Mary of Magdala #1.25 net 
 
 An adaptation from the original of Paul Heyse ; used by 
 Mrs. Fiske. 
 
 BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 
 
 Where there is Nothing Cloth, $1.25 net 
 
 Limited large paper edition, $5.00 net 
 
 The Hour Glass and Other Plays $1.25 net 
 In the Seven Woods $1.00 net 
 
 NOTE. Volume II. of the Collected Edition of Mr. 
 Yeats s Poetical Works includes five of his dramas in 
 verse : " The Countess Cathleen," " The Land of Heart s 
 Desire," " The King s Threshold," " On Baile s Strand," 
 and "The Shadowy Waters." Cloth, $1.75 net 
 
 BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS and Lady GREGORY 
 
 The Unicorn from the Stars, and 
 
 Other Plays $1.50 net 
 
 Attractively bound in decorated cloth. 
 
 BY ISRAEL ZANGWILL 
 
 Author of " Children of the Ghetto," etc. 
 
 The Melting-Pot Ready in September, 1909 
 
 3 
 
The English Religious Drama 
 
 By KATHARINE LEE BATES, Wellesley College 
 
 Cloth, i2mo, $1.50 net 
 
 History of English Dramatic Literature to 
 the Death of Queen Anne 
 
 By A. W. WARD, author of " Chaucer " (English Men 
 of Letters Series) In three 8vo vols., $9.00 net 
 
 The Stage in America 
 
 By NORMAN HAPGOOD Cloth, $1*75 net 
 
 The Life and Art of Edwin Booth 
 
 By WILLIAM WINTER 
 
 With portrait, Miniature Series, $1.00 net 
 
 The Life and Art of Joseph Jefferson 
 
 By WILLIAM WINTER With illustrations, $2.25 net 
 
 Types of Tragic Drama 
 
 By C. E. VAUGHAN Cloth, I2mo, $1.60 net 
 
 Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature 
 
 By A. W. SCHLEGEL . Cloth, I2mo, $1.00 net 
 
 The English Chronicle Play 
 
 By F. E. SCHELLING Cloth, I2mo, $2.00 net 
 
 The English Heroic Play 
 
 By L. N. CHASE Cloth, I2mo, $2.00 net 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
 
 4 
 
m 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 RETURN TO the circulation desk of any 
 University of California Library 
 
 or to the 
 
 NORTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 Bldg. 400, Richmond Field Station 
 University of California 
 Richmond, CA 94804-4698 
 
 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS 
 
 2-month loans may be renewed by calling 
 (510)642-6753 
 
 1-year loans may be recharged by bringing 
 books to NRLF 
 
 Renewals and recharges may be made 
 4 days prior to due date 
 
 DUE AS STAMPED BELOW 
 DEC 1 2006 
 
 DD20 12M 1-05 
 
nu. 
 
 VB 14835 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY