A HANDBOOK 
 
 OF THE 
 
 DRAMA 
 
 ITS PHILOSOPHY AND 'TEACHING 
 
 P. J. COOKE 
 
 Lecturer in Elocution ami the Drama to (lie Hatlersea Polytechnic ; tht London 
 College of M'Usic, Science and Art ; Highbury Ittstitutf 
 
 WITH A CHAPTER 
 
 tljr iato of Cappriffbt in its; relation to Dramatic 
 
 BY 
 
 OFTHE <r~ ^ M N D BROWNE 
 
 wnftlrr Middle Temp! 
 OF 
 
 THE ROXBURGHE PRESS 
 
 3, Victoria Street 
 
 Westminster 
 
PAI 
 
 Cfe 
 
 HANDBOOK 
 
 OF THE 
 DRAMA 
 
 2 
 
THIS WORK, AND ALL THE PUBLICATIONS OF THE 
 ROXBURGHE PRESS ARE SUPPLIED TO THE TRADE BY 
 MESSRS. SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., 
 LIMITED, AND MAY BE OBTAINED THROUGH ANY 
 BOOKSELLER. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Preface ... . vii 
 
 Chapter I. Introductory . l 
 
 II. The Science of Dramatic Criticism f . 21 
 
 ,, ///. Authors and Critics 33 
 
 IV. The Drama: its Influence. Does it Edu- 
 cate? ... . -85 
 
 V. Society Plays and their relation to the 
 
 Drama . . . -99 
 
 ,, VI. Play writing . . . 117 
 
 5j Vll. Amateur Theatricals and Amateur Actors 133 
 
 VIII. The Law of Copyright in its relation to 
 
 Dramatic Works . . . 147 
 
 Index . .... 155 
 
TO 
 
 SIR HENRY IRVING, 
 
 The most popular Actor of his time, 
 
 THIS WORK IS 
 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
 BY THE 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 THIS work is an endeavour to put forth certain 
 facts which the author believes will be of advantage 
 and utility to the embryo dramatic author, critic and 
 playgoer. His information has been gained partly 
 from experience, both as a dramatic critic and as 
 a student of the Drama, and partly from works of 
 sufficient authority upon the subject to warrant their 
 views being quoted. 
 
 The author is indebted for much valuable infor- 
 mation contained in " Hennequin's Playwriting " and 
 other works of a similar nature, which he now com- 
 prehensively acknowledges. His best thanks are 
 due to Mr. Edmond Browne, who has been kind 
 enough to contribute the chapter upon the law re- 
 lating to the copyright of plays, which brings to a 
 conclusion what the author has tried to make both 
 
 practical and intelligible. 
 
 P. J. C. 
 
"UNIVERSITY 
 
 A 
 
 HANDBOOK OF THE DRAMA 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 T^HE remarkable progress which has, within the last 
 * half-century, been made in all branches of the 
 drama is a subject which will well repay close and criti- 
 cal examination. There has never existed any depart- 
 ment of art so closely allied to Nature and her varying 
 conditions of existence as that of the drama, in its 
 connection with the actor's art, and with the analysis 
 of the passions and emotions of the human soul. Know- 
 ledge concerning the development of this subject, to be 
 gleaned at all, must be gleaned partly through the pages 
 of dramatic literature, and partly through our personal 
 contact with the theatre. And knowledge of this kind 
 is distinctly valuable, because it embraces much of the 
 hidden mechanism by which the mind is regulated and 
 affected. The extensive metaphysical elaborations which 
 have, from time to time, occupied the genius of specu- 
 lative enquiry, have been the means of placing before 
 the student of psychology the intricate operations of the 
 mind, as its workings have been reduced to a science. 
 
 i 
 
2 THE DRAMA 
 
 But we very much doubt whether, in the whole range 
 of intellectual research, much has been added to the 
 already accumulated store of learning, which places us 
 any nearer a satisfactory understanding of our mental 
 organisation. The exact sciences, which are very few, 
 give us, like mathematics, deductions which, when once 
 established, are perfectly plain, and afterwards invaluable 
 in many other occupations demanding the exactness of 
 definite calculations. But the philosophy of the mind, 
 as it is expounded in our text-books of metaphysics and 
 psychology, often leading us into a labyrinth of endless 
 suppositions, places our conjectures at last upon mere 
 hair-splitting deductions, which in the end lead us to 
 no literal conclusion. The mind is ever altering and 
 changing its course. Like a vessel in all the vicissitudes 
 of the tempest, it is tossed about from one point to 
 another, veering into channels which only augment the 
 confusion. The scientific mind, although beginning 
 upon a basis of established laws, gradually relapses into 
 the unlimited region of speculative enquiry. Each and 
 every successive school discovers faults and fallacies in 
 the doctrines and reasonings of its predecessor. The 
 science of the mind is speculative, contradictory and 
 unsatisfactory. Far different, however, is the analysis 
 of the mind as it gives birth to the passions and the 
 emotions of the soul. Art may here begin where science 
 left off. Where a proposition may have been infinitely 
 beyond the power of the scientist to expound, the artist 
 may take up and develop it into an engaging and refining 
 thesis, embodying in itself the beautifying influence and 
 fascinating charm of our own better nature. The mental 
 
THE DRAMA 3 
 
 exercise occupied in the conception of our own natural 
 state, of our own poor limitations, of our own digressions 
 and spasmodic endeavours, may perhaps be condemned 
 upon the threshold of scientific enquiry as empirical 
 and vacillating; but it is none the less valuable, for 
 all that. 
 
 The drama occupies a foremost place in the long 
 gallery of those semi-scientific studies which reflect 
 upon their surface the secret emotions which the world 
 has ever experienced. It is, perhaps, the only one of 
 all the arts which is confined within narrow limits, and 
 yet seems inexhaustible in the universality of its treat- 
 ment. It has the whole of human nature to study, 
 certainly; but the whole of human nature is a volume 
 of no very great dimensions. Human nature, in all its 
 varying and fluctuating conditions, is hemmed in by the 
 one definite sphere of individual action. It is rather in 
 the contrasting of one individual nature with another, 
 which gives to the drama, and to all the other imagi- 
 native arts, the essence of this universal scope. Hence 
 the dramatist has difficulties to contend against far 
 greater than are to be found in any other mental 
 occupation. He has to give to every successive 
 generation a new phase, or a new complexion to an,,^,^^^* 
 old one. The novelist has not the same fundamental I 
 
 obstacles to contend against. He perceives Nature in 
 detail only; the dramatist has to examine Nature, not 
 only in analysis, but also in synthesis. The mediocre 
 story-teller who enhances the interest of his narrative 
 by a newly-discovered theory of morality, or shadows 
 society by the exposition of its worst elements, may 
 
 i 2 
 
4 THE DRAMA 
 
 succeed in creating a great, perhaps a profound im- 
 pression, with his novel ; but the dramatist requires 
 materials far more engrossing for the foundation of a 
 play which is supposed to be a reflection of the same 
 social state. Give a thoroughly good novelist, and an 
 equally good dramatist, the same materials, and the 
 same opportunities of making the best of them, and 
 the probabilities are that the novelist would succeed 
 where the dramatist would utterly fail. The possi- 
 bilities are quite unequal in both cases. In other 
 words, the human nature of the novelist and that of 
 the dramatist are altogether different. It may be said 
 that this is only ostensible, and not real. That it may 
 seem, because the performance of the one is read, 
 and that of the other is seen and critically examined 
 in its progress. But the same emotions are not in- 
 fluenced in a similar manner during the gradual 
 unfolding of the novelist's plot, and during the same 
 operation attending that of the dramatist. The powers 
 which belong to the one and to the other may be 
 equally distributed in their work, but they may be, and 
 they really are, displayed to different advantage. We 
 believe that the work of the dramatist is greater than 
 that of the novelist. The scenic effects which are 
 often given as an argument in favour of the novelist 
 do not imply a refutation because the effect of scenery 
 is only momentary the effect of words is lasting. The 
 power of description, in a word, which the novelist 
 possesses, is his chief attribute, a power which the 
 dramatist does not use, and, in fact, can never use, 
 except to the detriment of his work. 
 
THE DRAMA 
 
 Notwithstanding this and many another disadvan- 
 tage, the dramatist has a wide area at his disposal if he 
 chooses to open up new phases of individuality. Indeed, 
 we think the dramatist, to succeed, must open up new 
 phases, for the old ones are fast fading away. New 
 epochs have been added to the drama all along the line 
 of its literature, and these epochs have, in their turn, 
 differed widely in the method of their exposition and 
 enunciation. 
 
 The history of the drama is surrounded by no 
 obscurity, and if we give, in a manner necessarily hasty 
 and imperfect, a brief .summary of its career, we think we 
 shall not be doing so without a purpose. There is, to 
 the student of the drama, a delightful library in which to 
 enrich his mind, and in which he' may learn the story of 
 mankind as it is told in our literary annals. To the 
 student so inclined, the following pages may be the 
 means of bringing him a step nearer the examination of 
 a subject which is one of the most fascinating in the 
 whole range of literature. 
 
 All art, in its initial conception, is associated with 
 religion, and, in some cases, with the rites of the early 
 Christian Church. If this has been so with the first 
 beginnings of such arts as music, painting, and literature, 
 in a more restricted sense, it is most emphatically the 
 case with the drama. Some amount of discussion has 
 been indulged in to show precisely in what sense the 
 drama owes its origin to the Church, but we think we 
 shall best meet the wishes of our readers if we give 
 simply the established facts known to all who have 
 attempted to consider the matter upon independent and 
 
6 THE DRAMA 
 
 unbiased grounds. We have abundant evidence to 
 show that, at a very early date in the Christian era, 
 dramatic works, in the shape of comedies and tragedies, 
 were enacted for the purpose of instructing the people in 
 some of the great Christian and Biblical truths. From 
 the sixth to the ninth century there appeared works 
 which clearly prove that the drama was found to be a 
 practical means of exemplifying not only episodes in the 
 Scriptures, but also imaginary views held by their 
 respective authors, upon side issues of Scriptural know- 
 ledge, which lent themselves freely to an open discussion 
 in dialogue. There were imitations, too, of the ancient 
 classics, but these did not in any way foreshadow the 
 dawning of the modern drama, which was to be signal- 
 ised by a far different process. The literary ignorance 
 of the people made it necessary that they should be in- 
 structed by some tabular or pictorial means, and it was 
 evident, from their character, they preferred that which 
 was romantic and spectacular. The priests and monksi 
 found that one of the best means of imparting knowledge! 
 to the people was by speech, and if that were ornamented 
 and assisted by additional accessories, the effect would 
 be proportionately heightened. Consequently, what have 
 now been designated Mysteries or Miracle Plays were ^ 
 introduced to the people. Rising directly out of the 
 rites of the Church, these performances had the absorb- 
 ing fascination of reality. The crowds which gathered 
 to view those performances were filled with the joy or 
 the sorrow of the object depicted. Occasionally, a play 
 was enacted which had as its plot the presentation of 
 the joys and the sorrows of the hereafter. The cele- 
 
THE DRAMA 7 
 
 brated performance entitled " The Harrowing of Hell," 
 although not written till the reign of Edward II., 
 offers an excellent example of the style which then 
 obtained with the populace. The title of this work con- 
 tains its purport. It was a presentation to awe the 
 masses into a better code of morality while here, instead 
 of forfeiting their inheritance in the world to come by 
 persisting to do evil. 
 
 The Church discovered then, and endeavoured to 
 perfect what, indeed, the modern stage has only recently 
 succeeded in perfecting the government of the imagina- 
 tion and the other faculties in scenic display. The Church 
 understood that, by regulating the several influences that 
 co-operate in the final conquest of the senses and lay the 
 heart bare to impressions of good, it would best succeed 
 in making man better acquainted with himself. It saw, 
 too, that what was really present before the visionary 
 gaze was not sufficiently strong to move the intelligence, 
 and that effect, to be great, must be rather suggestive 
 than substantive. Hence the imagination of the people 
 was first heated by friction with outward objects, from 
 which they inferred a development in proportion to the 
 strength of their imaginations. Pictures illustrating 
 epochs in the lives of eminent saints were frescoed upon 
 the walls of churches, in order to bring the worshippers 
 into a more personal and concrete relationship with the 
 attendant thoughts and circumstances of the Divinity. 
 As the preacher dwelt upon the Passion, he exposed to 
 the view of the excited multitude a picture of the Saviour 
 expiring in agony on the Cross. If the eloquence of the 
 preacher failed to influence them, the pictorial illustra- 
 
8 THE DRAMA 
 
 tion caused them to sink upon their knees and implore 
 forgiveness. This was found to be so successful, that it 
 was considered advisable to take a portion of the sacred 
 text and expand it into the form of a dramatic perform- 
 ance. According to Ulrici, on high festivals narrative 
 hymns, such as the so-called sequences and proses (i.e., 
 representations from the lives of the saints), were intro- 
 duced into the liturgy, and accompanied by representa- 
 tions in the form of tableaux vivants. On Good Friday, a 
 crucifix was erected, round which the priests assembled 
 and recited Christ's Passion in alternating chants ; after 
 which, amid funeral lamentations, the crucifix was placed 
 in a kind of grave below the altar. On Easter Sunday, 
 however, it was again brought forth, and the Resurrection 
 was celebrated. This rite, distinguished as the passio, 
 sepultura et resurrectio, was called a mysterium. Soon the 
 three Marys and the angel were added the former to 
 anoint Christ's body, the latter to inform them that He 
 had arisen from the dead. Then the other principal 
 characters Christ, Mary and John were entrusted to 
 certain persons, who had only to say or sing the words 
 belonging to the different characters. Subsequently, the 
 coming and going of the various persons introduced the 
 first beginning of an action; a number of groups were 
 formed, and life and motion were given to the picture. 
 Lastly, the persons representing the different characters 
 received dresses adapted to their parts; mimicking and 
 gestures came of themselves, and the result was a dramatic 
 mysterium a religious play. 
 
 These representations gradually became transformed 
 into the actual drama, and laid the foundation of the 
 
THE DRAMA 9 
 
 succeeding system of dramatic plays, which, at the 
 end of the eleventh and at the beginning of the twelfth 
 century, formed so characteristic a part of the French 
 literature. The French appear to have been as sus- 
 ceptible as any other nation in the eagerness with which 
 they cultivated the drama as it was given them in the 
 ecclesiastico-dramatical studies of the clergy. France 
 was, indeed, influenced more than any other country by 
 the fascination of the representations, which gradually 
 became associated with the national recreations of the 
 people. The importance of the Mysteries as a powerful 
 stimulant to the devotion of the populace was soon 
 felt in Germany, Spain and England. Gradually, as 
 events became dramatised, and as this method of in- 
 struction grew more and more popular, the Laity were 
 allowed to take part in the representations, and the ver- 
 nacular was substituted for any foreign element which 
 may have crept into the performances. The people were 
 first of all allowed musical responses only, but as the 
 institution increased in the estimation of the people, 
 they were given parts to sustain, which they did in their 
 own language. Subsequently the Latin was altogether 
 omitted, and preference given to the vernacular. The 
 musical portion of the play, which had hitherto formed so 
 conspicuous a part of the performance, was omitted for 
 the introduction of the more imposing art of declamation. 
 The plays now began to assume the aspect which the 
 drama, in its proper sense, has since retained it was 
 rhetorical instead of musical. Previously, musical 
 arrangements and responses were the chief attractions 
 since mere eloquence had been abandoned ; now, when 
 
io THE DRAMA 
 
 the drama was formed and systematically represented, 
 music was made an adjunct to the declamatory and 
 rhetorical passages, which constituted the chief portion 
 of the acting drama. 
 
 The time was rapidly arriving when the drama was 
 to become an institution of the people, and when the 
 dergy were to relinquish all claim to its maintenance. 
 In 12 io, Pope Innocent III. prohibited the clergy from 
 taking any part in public performances, and forbade any 
 drama being acted in the churches. And now, when the 
 drama was given freely over to the community as their 
 rightful property, it soon developed into an amusement 
 which, in spite of the want of balance and proportion 
 in the plays, was cherished as a great national boon. 
 Carnival plays, masquerades and spectacular plays were 
 introduced with every attending circumstance of success. 
 As the ecclesiastical influence gave way to that of the 
 laity, the drama assumed its definite aspect, and treated 
 of popular subjects instead of the biblical Mysteries 
 which had hitherto occupied its attention. 
 
 After the Mysteries came the Morals, or Moral Plays. 
 These plays, which arose about the middle of the fifteenth 
 century, mark the second epoch in the history of the 
 English drama. They bear a strong resemblance to the 
 Mysteries, for the very sufficient reason that they were a 
 further development of them, and were in many respects 
 similar to them, with this exception, that the secular 
 element was altogether paramount, and the purely eccle- 
 siastical altogether subservient. The Moral Plays were 
 in great request during the reigns of Henry VI. and 
 Edward IV., and down to the time of Henry VIII. they 
 
THE DRAMA n 
 
 retained their character as popular representations, 
 with very few and unimportant changes in their literary 
 composition and structure. They were dramatic plays, 
 in which allegorical figures personifications of general 
 moral forces appeared as dramatic characters, develop- 
 ing, in a symbolical representation, the ideal contents of 
 the Scriptures as understood from this moral point 
 of view. Gradually, however, the link between the 
 Mysteries and the Moralities became lopsened, until, 
 in the end, it was completely severed, and the Moralities 
 by moving freely and independently in their depart- 
 ment, as upon territory of their own dramatised the 
 whole sphere of morals in> all its relations to the daily 
 realities of life in its symbolico-allegorical forms, and 
 without any regard to a religious basis. 
 
 The mode of representation generally still remained 
 the same as in the case of the Miracle Plays. The 
 stage was, doubtless, still devoid of all scenic decora- 
 tions, and merely draped with tapestry. The dresses, 
 even if occasionally rich, were, nevertheless, freely 
 chosen, the dramatic personages being characterised 
 only by distinct emblems. However, in the fifteenth 
 century, professional players, who, in an impercep- 
 tible, or, at least, an unaccountable transition, had 
 proceeded from the homines vagi, i.e., jugglers, dancers, 
 puppet showmen, &c., appear to have become a very 
 numerous class. And as Moralities were very frequently 
 given as interludes on the festivals of princes and 
 the nobility, we may assume that with these the drama 
 passed more and more from the hands of the clergy, 
 of the confreries (a band of earnest individuals who 
 
12 THE DRAMA 
 
 organised themselves for the purpose of charitable 
 and pious works), and of the leading companies, into 
 those of the itinerant bands of players. As early as 
 the year 1465, on the occasion of the marriage of a 
 relative of Sir John Howard, afterwards Duke of Nor- 
 folk, a company of players gave a dramatic performance 
 which was very likely a species of Moral Play. This 
 is the oldest known example of those theatrical repre- 
 sentations which, at a later period, were performed so 
 frequently in the residences of the English aristocracy. 
 As the drama had been at first influenced by the 
 Church and by the rites of religion; as again, several 
 centuries afterwards, it had been influenced by the 
 people and by their anxiety to take part in the dra- 
 matic performances, which gradually became a national 
 institution, so, too, at the beginning of the sixteenth 
 century, the British drama was operated upon by the 
 prevailing development of the nation, which then as- 
 sumed so striking a factor in the succeeding epochs 
 of dramatic literature. The commencement of the 
 Tudor period was the beginning of memorable changes 
 in the history of the English people. The impending 
 struggle which was overhanging the Church and State; 
 the awakening energy and intelligence of the people ; 
 the introduction of printing and its attending conse- 
 quences; the opening up of new maritime provinces; 
 the conquest and annexation of hitherto unknown 
 lands all these circumstances tended to add new 
 life and vigour to the already progressive and pros- 
 perous state of the people. The profuse liberality of 
 Henry VIII., whose whole life was one round of amuse- 
 
THE DRAMA 13 
 
 ments, sought to give every impetus to an art which 
 was rapidly becoming the popular entertainment of 
 the people. Henry VIII. raised, considerably, the 
 dignity of the actor by employing his services at Court 
 for the purpose of assisting at all great functions by 
 means of his art. He engaged several companies, 
 and treated them with characteristic liberality. It 
 now became the fashion to employ companies of 
 actors whenever a noble gave an unusual display of 
 his opulence ; and, accordingly, the drama was fostered 
 and upheld not only as a great national recreation, 
 but as one of the polite refinements of society. 
 The actor, naturally desirous of grandeur, wished to 
 see his dramatic presentations clothed in a becoming 
 garb of magnificence, and, accordingly, scenic effects 
 were introduced which to us would now seem childish 
 and absurd, but then appeared to be exquisite illusions, 
 rivalling, in their splendour, fairyland itself. 
 
 Yet another notable feature was introduced about 
 the same time. Until the sixteenth century the comic 
 element had been omitted, doubtless because it had 
 not been associated with the instincts of religious 
 solemnity. Now, however, when the religious com- 
 plexion was disappearing, and the more conventional 
 scenes of domestic life were quickly gaining notoriety 
 in dramatic representations, the people recognised the 
 absence of anything which contributed to their amuse- 
 ment. The want was soon met by the free introduction 
 of humorous dialogue. The comic phase, in the initial 
 stages of its development, in all cases, naturally moves 
 principally within the lower strata of human society ; it 
 
 
14 THE DRAMA 
 
 appears at first rough and outspoken, even to rudeness, 
 and the grotesque is its favourite garb. Hence, coarse 
 comic scenes from common popular life form the 
 subject in which it most delights to express itself. In 
 addition to this, it must be remembered that, as already 
 remarked, the life of the people at this time was ac- 
 quiring a greater importance, an inner restlessness and 
 animation, and demanded consideration on the part of 
 princes and the nobility. Lastly, it lay in the general 
 character of the more recent times, not only to oppose 
 a more practical, worldly, and realistic tendency to the 
 idealism of the Middle Ages, but also to question the 
 prevailing ideas, the ruling powers, and the transmitted 
 institutions, as to their justification and validity a 
 tendency which at first always appears in the form of 
 the comic, in the garb of parody and satire, because 
 they and the comic, in their nature, are one and the 
 same thing. For the comic, of course, is the very 
 natural opposite of every exaggerated sublimation of 
 the mind, the sworn enemy of fantastic ideals, as of 
 all thoughts and opinions that are opposed to actual 
 life ; it is the contemplation of actual conditions and 
 relations in the light of this contrast. But the character 
 of the more recent times possessed the principle of in- 
 dividuality the right of asserting the living personality 
 against the decaying insfetutions of the Middle Ages, 
 against the feudal state of hierarchy, as, indeed, against 
 the tyrannical system of corporations, which had become 
 mechanical, and in which the individual living man 
 was only employed as the lifeless part of a machine. 
 Henry VIII. was a monarch who stood, as a man and 
 
THE DRAMA 15 
 
 king, at the extreme point of this contrast ; following 
 entirely his own caprices and personal desires, he 
 spared neither the traditional claims of the Church, 
 nor the rightful and political institutions of the State 
 neither arbitrary assumptions nor well-founded rights. 
 This opposition to the spirit of the Middle Ages appears 
 at first under the protecting veil of the humorous. 
 
 All these endeavours, desires, and requirements could 
 not be satisfied either by the ancient Miracle Plays with 
 their limited and ever-repeated subjects, nor by the 
 Moralities with their stiff seriousness, their cold allegory, 
 and their diffuse and abstract generalities. It required a 
 new form, a new kind of conception and treatment of the 
 dramatic material. A new species of dramatic perform- 
 ances was, accordingly, introduced, known as Interludes. 
 Although these plays were decidedly childish and panto- 
 mimic, they yet presented the comic element in the 
 character most admired by the audiences who witnessed 
 them. The characters introduced were generally of a 
 limited number, sometimes only two or three. The plot 
 consisted for the most part of a quarrel, in which blows 
 were frequently exchanged, much to the delight of the 
 spectators. The most notable feature in these plays 
 was, of course, the comic relief, which did much to make 
 them popular ; but their literary merit cannot be said to 
 have been great. 
 
 The Reformation in England did much to promote 
 the growth of the drama, and we find the subject treated 
 to some extent in nearly all the dramatic works of the 
 period. Whole plays are often devoted to an examina- 
 tion of the causes of the contention between the two 
 
16 THE DRAMA 
 
 parties, and there are few plays which do not make some 
 kind of allusion to the contest with the papacy. In this 
 way the drama partook largely of the historical genus, 
 whilst the allegorical and religious were altogether elimi- 
 nated. This period may be regarded as the point of 
 transition to the regular drama. The succeeding epoch 
 immediately preceding the reign of Elizabeth and the 
 age of Shakespeare deserves consideration only as it 
 affects the dramatic style adopted by the Elizabethan 
 writers. That age was prolific and valuable because of 
 the impetus it gave to every kind of writing. 
 
 It was most valuable from a literary standpoint, 
 because of the impetus it gave to dramatic writing. The 
 most remarkable contrast which exists between the 
 drama of this and the preceding age is the systematic 
 clearness with which the action was sustained. There is 
 a distinct individuality in all the dramatic works which 
 then began to flow from the writers of that period, which 
 exhibit a strength and depth of vitality which had not 
 hitherto been recognisable. Action is the very soul and 
 sustenance of the drama, and it is by The onward current 
 of the action that the body and blood of the drama are 
 nourished. From the very commencement the English 
 drama possessed this great characteristic, but up to this 
 time it had been in its embryo state, undeveloped and 
 hardly existent. Now, however, it grew rapidly, and 
 became the one mark by which dramatic literature was 
 then distinguished. In the English drama, nowadays, 
 there is, perhaps, a disposition to regard action as the 
 chief element in the composition of the play, and the 
 other ingredients are, in many instances, left untouched, 
 
THE DRAMA 17 
 
 or else made a means of furthering " the main action," 
 as it is commonly called. This may be, and frequently 
 is, carried too far, at the expense of the primary object 
 of the dramatist's function to give power and energy 
 to his conceptions. ! Dramatic characterisation is often 
 rendered cold and unsympathetic 'by an abnormal de- 
 velopment of the progress of the play, without an 
 accompanying allowance of that individuality which, 
 when skilfully introduced and blended with the action of 
 the play, produces and engrosses the attention, the 
 sympathy, the co-operation of an audience. : Unquestion- 
 ably, action and individuality are two of the most 
 important objects of dramatic construction ; at all events, 
 if these are omitted, or treated in a slipshod manner, the 
 result cannot be otherwise than crude and unreal. The 
 care of the author should be, we think, not to make the 
 most of one of these elements, but to blend them with 
 perfect assimilation, to give his characters an equal foot- 
 ing, the one with the other, to preserve in them the 
 pervading form and colour which lives and moves around 
 and about us in our own natural sphere.; Realism, 
 indeed, is to the drama what imagination is to poetry, 
 what colour is to painting, what perspective is to draw- 
 ing, what life is to existence. It is the abiding emotion, 
 if we may use the expression, of genuine feeling. Too 
 many writers give us, from time to time, not only in the 
 ancient drama, but in the drama as it is to-day, sketches 
 of an unreal world, a somewhere to which they have 
 never been and to which we can never go. Is it that all 
 the old emotions of our hearts and souls are worn out by 
 constant usage ? Is it that we have become weary of 
 
 2 
 
i8 THE DRAMA 
 
 hearing and seeing ourselves as we are, and yearn for 
 something outside and beyond us ? We think otherwise. 
 The fascination of life (if it possess any) is, we think, to 
 see ourselves reflected, sometimes in others', sometimes 
 our own children. And art succeeds only too well if it 
 executes the reflection in a faithful representation. A just 
 proportion must exist in the artistic conception of realism, 
 and when it exists upon the stage its power is indeed 
 great. Tell the father how faithfully he is reflected in his 
 child ; although he may be conscious of many faults, of 
 many follies, yet he is pleased. Point out to him the 
 resemblance of a feature, the colour of an eye, the 
 characteristic of a walk, and you will cause an emotion, 
 the purest, perhaps, of the human soul. Flatter the 
 child, and you flatter the parent ; praise the one, and you 
 praise the other ; insult the one, and you insult the other. 
 It is thus that the broader arena of social life should be 
 viewed, if it is to be viewed correctly. ]/ Let us see our- 
 selves represented in our drama not the hobgoblins of 
 the author's distorted and disarranged "genius," im- 
 properly so called, but natural and rational creatures, 
 working out our mission in a consistent sequence of 
 events. The drama will present to the earnest and 
 thinking student many problems for solution. These 
 are nearly always capable of almost infinite develop- 
 ment, and in their working the dramatist and the 
 dramatic disciple will find much to interest and much 
 to inspire. The journey through life is made up of a 
 series of endless exercises, which, if conscientiously 
 worked out and applied to our own sphere of thought 
 and to our own individual conduct, should bring us 
 
THE DRAMA ig 
 
 into contact more closely and more directly with many 
 of the fluctuating phenomena which continually agitate 
 and enlarge the mind. The purely speculative circle 
 within which most mental operations move cannot fail 
 to be greatly benefited by contact with the prescribed 
 teachings of our national drama. Then the impetus 
 which has of late years been given to the study of our 
 drama is a movement of considerable value to our 
 literature, and the more the literature of our drama 
 is fostered, the more deeply rooted must necessarily be 
 the affection which exists between the various depart- 
 ments of science and art, because all science and all 
 art are component parts of our literature, and our 
 drama is an important element in our literature. It is, 
 therefore, a step forward in the right direction when our 
 drama has been recognised as an educational subject. 
 At the Battersea Polytechnic Institute (if, perhaps, at 
 no other institution of the same nature) the drama 
 has been incorporated along with elocution as a sub- 
 ject for study by the members of the dramatic classes ; 
 and the zest with which students apply themselves to 
 the pursuit of this kind of literature is a marked signifi- 
 cation of the progress of our age in the cultivation of 
 our literature. 
 
 The reception with which the last series of brilliant 
 revivals of Shakespearean and standard plays at the 
 Lyceum by our favourite actor, Sir Henry Irving, was 
 most gratifying to all who take an interest in the litera- 
 ture of our classical drama. Sir Henry must have felt 
 deeply gratified to feel that his old studies were as 
 fresh and popular with his friends as ever. We owe 
 
 2 2 
 
20 THE DRAMA 
 
 him a great debt of gratitude for all he has done for 
 our national drama; but no one understands better 
 than he does how high a value we place upon all the 
 work he has done for the cause of our stage and for 
 the future of our drama. 
 
 We have now arrived at that period in the history 
 of the English drama which is the least known and 
 the least understood. The age which produced Shake- 
 speare produced a new world in letters, art and 
 science. Every schoolboy knows the influences which 
 worked this great change in our social and intellectual 
 system ; few educated people understand the causes 
 which preceded those influences. We would gladly 
 pursue this brief sketch down to the present day; 
 but we think the history of the drama from the time 
 of Shakespeare is already expounded by those who 
 have better claims to its discussion than we. We 
 shall feel content if anything we may have said will 
 interest others to dip deeper into the chest of dra- 
 matic literature, from its initial conception by the 
 Church to its final occupation among the fine arts 
 and sciences, which are the mainstays of our civilisa- 
 tion, our comfort, and our prosperity. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 THE SCIENCE OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM 
 
 THAT there should be some standard of dramatic 
 criticism is a question upon which there need be no 
 further discussion. The science of criticism is engaged 
 equally with the examination of the drama and its 
 surroundings as it is with the expositions of poetical 
 effusions which ornament language and give value to 
 its ingredients. There is a standard of criticism for 
 music, painting, sculpture, and, in short, for all the 
 fine arts ; and that there should also be a basis upon 
 which the drama may be examined requires no " argu- 
 ment or expostulation" to show. But the difficulty 
 arises when the limits and aims of criticism come to 
 be enumerated. It has been observed by an Ameri- 
 can author of some distinction that " we have in 
 English no standard and, consequently, no scientific 
 criticism." The remark is most just and appropriate, 
 for English critics have certainly no particular basis 
 or standard upon which to found or formulate their 
 ideas. There is no reason, however, to suppose that 
 the science of dramatic criticism should be arbitrary. 
 On the contrary, it should be arbitrary only in so far 
 as it should be consistent and relevant. The subject- 
 matter of criticism may change, but the science itself 
 should be unchangeable although progressive. It seems 
 
22 THE DRAMA 
 
 difficult to expect that a science which is eminently 
 progressive should be unchangeable; but when the 
 word unchangeable is employed in this connection, it 
 means not what is commonly regarded as unchange- 
 able and arbitrary in a logical and strictly scientific 
 sense, but what is unchangeable in the broad sense of 
 the term. Criticism of all kinds will undoubtedly 
 change and fluctuate according to the peculiar charac- 
 ter of the critic, and the period in which he writes. 
 But the essential matter, although not, the form, will 
 remain the same. Criticism will be empirical, founded 
 on prejudice, fashion and taste, as long as the indi- 
 viduality of people varies. 
 
 The essential elements which compose good criti- 
 cism, and, therefore, scientific criticism, are generally 
 accepted to be fairness, precision, simplicity, and a 
 conspicuous knowledge of the subject criticised. To 
 expect an absolutely impassioned critique upon any 
 work of art, whether it is the composition of a musician 
 or the three-act comedy of the playwright, is a point upon 
 which many opinions, doubtless, would materially differ. 
 For our part, we are inclined to believe that nearly all 
 dramatic and other critics are prejudiced in one par- 
 ticular or another. This is casting no discreditable 
 imputation upon their individual personalities. The 
 criticism, in its particular reference to the criticised, is 
 simply the expression of the critic's own ideas. Those 
 ideas are, or should be, expressly his own, and embodied 
 in his own particular phraseology. They should be, if 
 regarded in the light of originality, the honest endeavour 
 of their author to place upon paper his impressions of 
 
THE DRAMA 23 
 
 the thing observed, in a straightforward and conscien- 
 tious manner, with as little divergency as possible. 
 Many excellent and estimable critics are frequently 
 influenced, not by the real object of the criticism, but 
 by the author's own personality. Hence, in their 
 criticisms, we often find personal allusions to an author 
 of a play, which are as much out of place as they are 
 impertinent. Any licence of this kind must always be 
 looked upon as an index of the critic's mental infirmity 
 and want of critical observation. 
 
 The German School of criticism is conceived as 
 belonging to and being directly influenced by the 
 imagination. This theory, in many respects highly 
 valuable and artistic, is, at the most, impracticable and 
 useless as a means of education, and as the educational 
 influence and bearing of criticism is its fundamental 
 office and employment, it therefore lacks a distinctive 
 merit, without which it cannot be regarded as a science 
 or based upon scientific principle. It has been re- 
 peatedly argued whether logic which, in itself, forms 
 the true foundation upon which the superstructure of all 
 definite sciences is built is itself a science or -an art. 
 The conclusion of the most eminent logicians is that it 
 partakes equally of the nature of both a science and 
 an art, and, therefore, exercises the influence allotted 
 to each. But criticism cannot be regarded in the same 
 light, for the simple reason that there are no principles 
 upon which the critic can construct' the matter of his 
 critiques. The purely imaginative method of criticism, 
 which, belonging to the Germanic theory, has been called 
 Esthetic, offers ' no scope to the critic by which he 
 
24 THE DRAMA 
 
 may gain a knowledge of the ultimate art of critical 
 conception. We know by what odd associations, both 
 of cause and effect, the human mind is influenced. We 
 know by what peculiar methods it arrives at conclusions 
 sufficient to turn Locke and Mill round in their coffinsl 
 And as these vagaries are associated with the mind 
 as a whole, and with the reasoning faculty especially, 
 what can be ^aid of their application to the imaginative 
 faculty, by far the most uncontrollable of the mental 
 phenor jna ? The imaginative method of criticism is 
 valuable in so far as it is the means of placing criticism 
 in a fanciful form ; but we think it is specially injurious 
 to the general reader, who may be ignorant of the first 
 principles of the science. The perusal of imaginative 
 critiques is as hurtful to the mind of the embryo critic 
 as is the study of actors of mannerism to the young 
 actor who has yet to learn the elementary rules of his 
 craft. The Germans, who follow this theory of criticism, 
 " make the sublime and beautiful either sensations and 
 emotions, or simply objects of the sensibility; or, if 
 they rise higher, they base their science of art on a 
 defective ?nd false conception of being, and give us 
 nothing but scientLlc ignorance, hardly superior, if 
 indeed equal, to the practical good sense of English 
 and American critics." 
 
 The imagination and the critical faculty should be 
 carefully cultivated and adopted by the critic who is 
 desirous of giving his impressions in an intelligible 
 manner. The most imaginative writers have frequently 
 proved the worst kind of critics, because their judgment 
 was influenced too forcibly by the imaginative faculty. 
 

 THE DRAMA 
 
 Matthew Arnold was a critical author of the first class. 
 Carlyle was another of the same high order, and 
 Macaulay may be instanced also. The critical faculty 
 was so largely developed in those men that their imagina- 
 tion was made subservient to it. The generality of critics, 
 however, evince a strong partiality for imaginative 
 writing, and often clothe their descriptions and critiques 
 in language abounding in metaphors and similes. The 
 florid style of writing, so eminently distinctive of a 
 juvenile writer or inexperienced author, is lavishly 
 employed where a simple enunciation of facts ' would 
 be far preferable. The foolish habit which critics 
 have of making their critiques of secondary importance 
 to their literary style, is too plainly seen in many critical 
 essays and newspaper articles which periodically come 
 under our notice. 
 
 The schoolboy generally first cultivates a wild, florid 
 style of composition, using the biggest words he can find 
 to express the simplest ideas. He chooses to substitute 
 words and high-sounding phrases for ideas which have 
 yet to come, and instead of plain facts and arguments 
 set forth in proper sequence, he writes inflated eloquence 
 "in vague, bombastic declamation, made up of those fine 
 things which boys of fifteen admire, and which everybody 
 who is not destined to be a boy all his life, weeds rigor- 
 ously out of his compositions after five and twenty." 
 There surely requires no elaborate system of reasoning 
 to show that criticism, and especially dramatic criticism, 
 should be simple and unaffected, perspicuous and epi- 
 grammatic. 
 
 The criticism of the ordinary newspaper reporter, 
 
26 THE DRAMA 
 
 who is regarded in theatrical parlance as a " dramatic* 
 critic," does not pretend to any extensive knowledge o& 
 the British Drama. He goes to the theatre upon the\ 
 receipt of the usual Press invitation, and is present! 
 upon the first night. His " copy " must be in the \ 
 printer's hands as soon as possible, and his criticism } 
 generally occupies something like a column. Now, it 
 has always appeared a puzzle to us how any critic 
 can do either himself or his subject justice during the * 
 interval which elapses between his leaving the theatre 
 and when the compositor receives his " copy." There 
 certainly can be no time for dwelling upon the structure 
 of the play in its relative value as a piece of literature. 
 We do not think, indeed, that editors or newspaper pro- 
 prietors have any partiality for lengthy or minute 
 criticism ; ,they simply value the notice which they 
 pay so-called critics to write as a quid pro quo for the 
 advertisements received, and for which they are well 
 paid. No newspaper could well afford to dispense with 
 the theatrical advertisements, which form so important 
 a source of their revenue. The theatrical advertisement 
 is regarded very much in the same light as the quack 
 medicine it pays well. It would never do to proscribe 
 a big firm of patent medicine vendors, neither would it be 
 journalistic enterprise to place upon the literary index 
 the theatrical and music-hall advertisement. There is 
 in the two parallel cases this difference, that the critic 
 can crack up the play, where it would be regarded as 
 provincial to refer at all to the quack medicine. We 
 have invariably noticed, moreover, in papers not 
 theatrical, that the theatre which gives out the most 
 
THE DRAMA 27 
 
 advertisements, and pays the best price for them, gets 
 the best and longest notice) We say this without the 
 slightest fear of contradiction. Anybody who takes 
 the trouble to peruse the critical columns of our daily 
 and evening papers, will easily understand the force of 
 ;! our remarks. We do not say, and we do not mean to 
 I insinuate, that there are not conscientious critics, because 
 \ we believe there are; but we certainly do say, and do 
 firmly believe, that they are largely influenced by cir- 
 cumstances which have nothing, and should have 
 nothing, to do with their criticisms. The influence of 
 the Press is considerable, but only in a prescribed 
 degree; and, until the critics and the editors come to 
 a proper and conscientious understanding concerning 
 the critical examination of plays, simply as specimens 
 of a creative art, and not as mere hardware articles 
 and objects of commerce, we shall continue to have 
 an unhealthy system of dramatic criticism. 
 
 The critic should know and understand that criticism 
 is a science and not a hobby a thing to give him amuse- 
 ment, and act as an excuse for letting his hair grow 
 abnormally long, and for his cultivation of effeminate 
 manners and tastes. It is a definite and systematic 
 department of progressive knowledge, which cannot be 
 properly understood and appreciated unless rightly 
 studied and applied. In music we have a far greater 
 share of regular scientific knowledge than is displayed in 
 connection with the drama ; not because music is more 
 scientific than the drama, but because the subject has 
 been reduced by consistent study and application to a 
 scientific basis, and examined from scientific principles. 
 
28 THE DRAMA 
 
 The best critics of music are certainly musicians, 
 and undoubtedly the best critics of painting are painters. 
 It would be obviously impossible, not to say absurd, 
 for anyone not acquainted practically with music to 
 criticise the compositions of Mozart, Palestrina, Haydn, 
 or Rubinstein. It would be impossible and absurd for 
 anybody to criticise the portraits of Sassoferrato and 
 the landscapes of Turner unless he thoroughly under- 
 stood the blending of colours, the due effect of light 
 and shade, the essentials of proportion and perspective. 
 It must also be impossible and absurd for anyone to 
 criticise a play, whether it be a comedy, a tragedy, or 
 a farce, unless he rightly understand the principles of 
 acting and elocution, and has a thorough knowledge 
 of stage effect and the history of the drama} But 
 should the critic who writes about the drama not 
 understand these particular and fundamental principles 
 of his craft, his criticism is nothing but what he 
 thinks; his thought not being regulated by positive 
 knowledge. Now, if it be granted that a dramatic 
 critic should rightly understand his vocation in those 
 respects which have been enumerated, it must be con- 
 cluded that not many dramatic critics in London pos- 
 sess this indispensable knowledge. We, therefore, think 
 that there can be no valuable criticism unless it be 
 accompanied with the knowledge requisite to give it 
 value. The mere summary of the plot and of the 
 chief actors in a piece constitutes the criticism of the 
 Press to-day ; but such criticism, most emphatically, 
 is unimportant and valueless. 
 
 The question may now be decided, whether or not 
 
THE DRAMA 29 
 
 the dramatic criticism of to-day is valuable. If we use 
 the word "valuable" in its literal and, therefore, its 
 truly scientific sense, we should say that such criti- 
 cism has no real value beyond the mere commercial 
 value of advertising the play, and inducing people to 
 go and see it. As a contribution to our literature, or 
 as a means of instruction, it is not, and cannot be, of 
 any value either to us or to posterity. 
 
 If it be allowed that dramatic criticism is a science 
 or an art, it can be useful only when exact. No science 
 or art has ever been useful when not based upon exact- 
 ness and precision. The real value of a science rests 
 mainly upon this quality. There can be no precision 
 in a science if there be no accurate standard of that 
 science. The gradual development of scientific inquiry 
 has been successful only where research has accom- 
 panied the primary and governing law of natural truth. 
 And the elements of accurate knowledge are the elements 
 of natural truth. Dramatic criticism, to be valuable as a 
 portion of our literature, must then exist upon properly 
 understood laws, which, although not arbitrary, are 
 sufficient to guarantee accurate judgment?! A science 
 certainly must exist, and proceed, upon carefully 
 balanced principles, under whose guidance and in- 
 fluence it may exercise its discipline upon personal 
 investigation. These laws, although in a certain sense 
 limited to the particular science or art, may be applied 
 to the co-operation of individual judgment and opinion, 
 but both the judgment and the opinion should be under 
 their control ; these unwritten laws should not be under 
 the personal control and jurisdiction of the judgment 
 
30 THE DRAMA 
 
 and opinion of one man. The active and creative 
 sphere of criticism exists upon the imaginative faculty 
 as much as upon the purely critical faculty. They 
 both operate in unison, and beat time to each other's 
 judgment. Active criticism, apart from its charac- 
 teristic as being a mental attribute not possessed by 
 all, cannot be really taught by any hard and fast 
 method. A youth may be educated for the medical 
 profession, but he cannot upon a similar system be 
 equipped for a critical functionary. The science of 
 critical analysis and synthesis is a mental accomplish- 
 ment innate. It may, and indeed should, be embellished 
 and furnished by study, practice and observation. But 
 all the study, practice, and observation in the world 
 would not create the faculty if it were not naturally 
 present in the mind of the critic. Therefore, to make 
 a critic of an individual who is not mentally fit for the 
 occupation, is an injustice to the public and to the 
 critic. He will never excel, and the public can never 
 be impressed. We are now considering criticism in its 
 highest state of scientific perfection, not as a means 
 of expressing one's ideas haphazard, and without fully 
 understanding the actual subject criticised. The artistic 
 and scientific basis of dramatic criticism is falsified and 
 debased by the systematic prostitution of its office. We 
 do not in the least intend, or attempt to set up, a critical 
 apotheosis in an examination of the real nature of 
 scientific criticism ; our endeavour is simply to classify 
 the plain signification of our initial proposition, that 
 criticism of all kinds, and especially dramatic criticism, 
 should be constructed upon scientific principles. 
 
THE DRAMA 31 
 
 Apart from the mere personal application of journalism 
 there is the immediate necessity of applying criticism in 
 its scientific classification to the development and ex- 
 pansion of dramatic authorship. The future of the 
 drama is, to a great extent, nurtured years before its 
 maturity, and it is partly in the soil of judicious criticism 
 that it obtains the sap necessary for its sustenance. The 
 drama, in its dependence upon any separate epoch for 
 its peculiar and distinguishing characteristics, loses in 
 proportion as the critical faculty of an age is ill-used, or, 
 what is the same, not used at all. The employment, 
 and, indeed, the only legitimate employment, of scientific 
 criticism, for none other is useful to the furtherance of 
 literary excellence, is to assist, as much as possible, in 
 the genuine advancement of the drama, as it forms an 
 important portion of literature. Literature itself loses 
 according as scientific criticism is withheld. The de- 
 basing influence exercised upon any department of 
 literature by a mere semblance of genuine criticism must 
 weaken rather than fortify the natural power of literary 
 development. The equivocal or ambiguous employment 
 of irrelevant comparisons, such as those which are too 
 frequently made in fourth-rate evening newspapers and 
 magazines, must tend to confuse not only the ideas of 
 the unfortunate reader, but also the equally unfortunate 
 author. Criticism cannot, in its scientific bearing, be 
 reduced to a matter of pounds, shillings and pence. It 
 cannot be manufactured at so much a yard. [The ordi- 
 nary reviewer of books and the ordinary critic of plays 
 do not really appreciate the value of criticism.! They 
 value it just at the same price as the authors whose 
 
32 THE DRAMA 
 
 works they examine, and that value is probably nil. 
 Where the critic does not regard his vocation seriously, 
 and where he does not show an intimate knowledge 
 of his subject, the author cannot possibly entertain any 
 serious regard for his critiques. 
 
 The simple praise or blame of any work, on account of 
 the critic's own prejudice to any point in the dialogue, 
 the narrative, or the style, counts for nothing unless that 
 praise or blame is accompanied by adequate and sufficient 
 explanation. The explanation, in its turn, must be clear 
 and precise ; otherwise the critic will commit one of the 
 worst faults in literary style the want of a close and 
 accurate system of analysis. Frequent perusal of literary 
 and dramatic critiques often displays the utter insincerity 
 and technical ignorance of writers. They go gaily on 
 committing fallacies and making absurd comparisons, 
 for the purpose, it would seem, of filling up space and 
 making columns out of nothing. Their excuse for tlfis is 
 often that it reads lighter, but surely this is but a lame 
 excuse for bad criticism. If it is to be done at all, it 
 should be done well, and with due regard to the syste- 
 matic arrangement of the writer's ideas upon the author's 
 work. As long as this remains undone, criticism will be, 
 what, for the most part, it certainly is to-day, " stale, flat 
 and unprofitable." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 I. AUTHORS AND CRITICS 
 
 THE successful playwright must necessarily possess 
 so many intellectual and, perhaps, individual character- 
 istics bearing directly upon his professional occupation, 
 and these qualities must exist in such prominence and 
 distinction that to classify them were simply to reca- 
 pitulate the elements of those dramatic works which 
 have so often placed men like Mr. A. W. Pinero, Mr. 
 Sidney Grundy, Mr. W. S. Gilbert, and other successful 
 dramatists, in the position in which they are to-day. 
 These authors of plays have not attained success and 
 could not have attained success by following any set 
 programme, or adhering to any plan by which they have 
 written their plays. An author, to be a success or a 
 failure, must allow the slow process of Nature to de- 
 velop his ability, if he possesses any ; and should he 
 have none of Nature's dramatic gifts, he had better 
 leave the writing of plays alone, and devote his time 
 and attention to more congenial and, therefore, profit- 
 able occupation. 
 
 There comes a time to most people when they feel, 
 almost to suffocation, that they have been sent into this 
 world for the express purpose of giving the fruits of 
 their imagination to their fellows, and they usually 
 follow out this inclination by perpetrating a novel or 
 
 3 
 
34 THE DRAMA 
 
 a five-act drama. Now, this desire to obtain fame and 
 fortune simultaneously may be productive of both good 
 and bad results. The composition may be dreadfully 
 bad, or it may be, happily, exceedingly good. It re- 
 mains, therefore, a matter of conjecture whether an 
 author's projected work will be a success or a failure, 
 and to those who are thirsting to try their luck at 
 dramatic authorship, the best course, perhaps, to per- 
 sue with entire satisfaction to themselves, is to apply 
 themselves to the business and await results. If they 
 fail, they will be all the wiser; if they succeed, they and 
 their work or works will be gladly hailed by all who 
 court the smiles of Thalia and Thespis. 
 
 We should, therefore, encourage all who have, or 
 think they have, this desire, to go in and win if they 
 can. There is plenty of scope for good dramatic author- 
 ship. We have waited too long and have been too 
 often disappointed in our expectations. We have be- 
 come tired and wearied out beyond endurance by 
 adaptations from the French, and all kinds of other 
 adaptations. Novels cut down and " arranged for the 
 stage" by actors and authors, because there was nothing 
 better to be had, have, from time to time, stopped the 
 gap ; and now, when actors and managers are crying 
 out about there being nothing better at hand, it must 
 mean, if it means anything, that good plays are scarce ; 
 that, in other words, the supply is not equal to the 
 demand. Then, such being the case, sit down forth- 
 with, and at once, if you have the inclination, my 
 gentle reader, do what you can for managers and 
 actors, who are going about, eating each other's heads 
 
THE DRAMA 35 
 
 off, for a good comedy or a good melodrama, "like 
 this or like that." 
 
 The dramatic author should, however, be particularly 
 careful not to follow slavishly any definite play as a 
 copy ; nor should he allow his originality to be hampered 
 by adhering to any method adopted in a successful play ; 
 and, when managers tell young authors to go and write a 
 play like Charley's Aunt or The New Boy, they forget for 
 the moment the guiding principle which governs public 
 taste. A time will undoubtedly come when the public 
 will be tired of such plays as these. Farce will always, 
 of course, obtain a recognised position in our drama, 
 but farce, like most other things, changes as time goes 
 on. The comedy and the farce which Moore and 
 Whitehead wrote differ from that which is written to- 
 day as much as the sonnets of Shakespeare differ from 
 Tennyson's " Maud." The Gamester and Creusa were 
 received with just the same amount of success and 
 approbation in their day as The New Boy has in 
 ours, and a time will come when Mr. Arthur Law's 
 clever play will be shelved for something quite different. 
 Hence, the dramatic author who would rise to some- 
 thing beyond the mere scribble of farce should consult 
 his artistic temperament, as well as the manager's 
 anxiety for what he thinks will pay. 
 
 Dramatic writing of to-day has, in many cases, been 
 reduced to a sorry and mechanical plight, and, were it 
 not for one or two names which stand out in bold relief, 
 one would be compelled to conclude that playwriting 
 had been really played out. 
 
 It would be idle to argue, or even attempt to argue, 
 
 32 
 
 
36 THE DRAMA 
 
 that the play that pays is the most welcome. We shall 
 all readily admit that Mr. Penley and Mr. Weedon 
 Grossmith would rather have Charley's Aunt and The 
 New Boy " than anything," and this, just because these 
 two plays have been the means of making these genial 
 players' fortunes and adding considerably to their repu- 
 tations. We are equally sure, however, that neither of 
 these clever gentlemen would attempt to hold that 
 these plays are " artistic productions " we mean, of 
 course, in the real acceptation of the term. They are 
 much too sensible to think anything of the kind, and yet 
 they would gladly risk other ventures such as these. 
 But this risking " ventures like the last " has been proved 
 again and again an unprofitable speculation, and many 
 an actor and manager has turned the key in his theatre 
 and walked home heartily sorry " he had ever touched 
 it." 
 
 Then do not, if you are at all inclined to write 
 plays, take any particular play or work as your stan- 
 dard and model. The critics are, sometimes, sharp 
 fellows; and they are always on the look-out for any- 
 thing in a play which will give them an opportunity 
 for making good "copy." A critic, we have always 
 noticed, is more ready to pick out the worst, or, at 
 all events, the inferior portions of a play ; the redeem- 
 ing features being left for the audience to discover. 
 They (the critics) are there ostensibly to analyse the 
 play ; but instead of bringing the cream to the surface, 
 they usually, by a peculiar process of their own, pre- 
 sent only the skim. This is bad criticism; and shows 
 at once that the critic is either young at his business 
 
THE DRAMA 37 
 
 or that he is unable to write a respectable amount of 
 matter in a sufficiently interesting manner. We have 
 noticed, too, that critics who have been at the busi- 
 ness for a number of years, and who have become 
 accustomed to the work, generally have prejudices of 
 their own. They occasionally take a particular dislike, 
 personally or otherwise, to an author ; and no matter 
 what he does, it is sure to be inferior. We have 
 followed the critiques in one or two leading papers, 
 just for the sake of satisfying ourselves upon this one 
 point alone ; and the result is a remarkably strong 
 proof of our observation. 
 
 An author and a critic meet at an " At Home " 
 or other festive (?) gathering, and they happen to 
 talk about politics, science, religion, art. They differ ; 
 and thenceforth they are sworn enemies. The critic 
 takes his revenge by ridiculing the author's next 
 play. This is childish and, were it not an abso- 
 lute fact, incredible. A critic may ridicule the way 
 an author does his hair ; he may smile at his 
 fopperies and his weaknesses ; but, because he does 
 so, he has not the right to make fun of his play, 
 and, moreover, to do so upon every possible occasion. 
 The public easily see through this, and they derive no 
 pleasure from it. Give every author his meed of praise 
 if he deserves it ; if he does not, but rather calls for 
 censure, why then be a man, and let him down gently. 
 Do_noLif you are a newsjfaper^c^tfcj^^a^snoD.! For 
 goodness' sake do not go about with Times or Tel&graph 
 written upon your back ! Keep the fact to yourself, and 
 do your work modestly, and like a gentleman. Remember 
 
38 THE DRAMA 
 
 (we conclude by this time you are a critic) that ten 
 chances to one the author of the piece is a far more 
 clever fellow than you are, and that probably, if you 
 could do the same as he has done, you would be one 
 of the first to attempt it. Critics, for the most part, 
 are too apt to keep all their plums for the Pineros 
 and the Gilberts; they forget that these will die out, 
 and others will have to fill their places, and others 
 will certainly not come if they are to be browbeaten 
 and laughed at. There have been examples sufficiently 
 numerous of plays which have outlived first - night 
 criticisms, despite the scathing criticisms of first-night 
 notices. This is at once significant, and would seem 
 to imply that first - night notices are not absolutely 
 trustworthy. In many cases they are far from being 
 so, and we believe one prolific cause of this arises 
 from the fact that critics rely too much upon the 
 applause or censure which, at the outset, greets the 
 piece. They are often influenced too largely by the 
 vulgar verdict of the " gods," whose opinion cannot 
 always be regarded seriously. The "gods" may have 
 come to hear a screaming farce, and, instead, they get 
 an insufficient and dull comedy. They are at once 
 ' riled,' hurt, vexed. They are then demons of revenge, 
 and forget, for the time being, all courtesy and all 
 respect. 
 
 The critic, if he is desirous of accomplishing his 
 duty well and faithfully, should treat the matter more 
 scientifically, and discuss with himself the redeeming 
 features of the play, and give his honest opinion of 
 the work. He should not allow any falling-out between 
 
THE DRAMA 39 
 
 his wife and that of the author, or one of the actors, 
 to weigh too heavily in the balance of criticism ; nor, 
 again, should any friendship be a medium for extrava- 
 gant idolatry and irrelevant eulogy. Critics are, not 
 infrequently, very fond of hobnobbing together, and 
 discussing the piece as it proceeds, and the result 
 may be a general slaughter the next morning. The 
 unfortunate author eagerly reads the papers, and 
 finds himself and his play torn " to tatters, to very 
 rags," and yet such a play may be a success. 
 
 Now-a-days, when so much confidence is being placed 
 in young men on the Press, it would be advisable that 
 candidates for the post of dramatic critic should possess 
 a more or less thorough knowledge of the English drama. 
 The study of the drama has always been to us one of the 
 most delightful intellectual luxuries. The perusal of the 
 ancients gives body and substance to one's literary 
 tastes. A good critic should understand and be able 
 to appreciate the gradual development of the English 
 drama from the period of the Passion Plays downwards ; 
 and he should, moreover, have a sufficiently close ac- 
 quaintance with them to make analogies and draw com- 
 parisons. Yet, how is it ? It is very doubtful if there 
 are more than three or four critics upon the London 
 Press who have any scholastic or literary knowledge of 
 plays, in the comprehensive sense of the word. Mr. 
 Clement Scott, Mr. Joseph Knight and Mr. William 
 Archer we have always admired, because, as writers, we 
 recognise in them accomplished students, not only of the 
 British drama, but also of the Continental Schools. 
 
 The younger generation of critics, however, seem to 
 
40 THE DRAMA 
 
 be, for the most part, in the clouds. They are hazy and 
 equivocal, not to say apophasistic, in what they write, 
 and, after dragging the reader through a mire of conjec- 
 tures and idle comparisons, they leave him to fathom a 
 mystery of ill-chosen metaphor and extravagant simile. 
 Writing literary critiques upon any art or science is no 
 child's play, and the person who attempts to do so 
 should have all his wits and knowledge about him. Pre- 
 tence will not avail. He must either be master of the 
 situation, or at once manifest his ignorance and incom- 
 petency. The critic usually prefers to adopt a middle 
 course, and conceals his futility and want of knowledge 
 under a misty fog of inflated jargon, which he dishes up 
 at so much a line or paragraph. This is not criticism. 
 It is simply matter, and matter frequently of a very in- 
 ferior quality. The generality of newspaper critics do 
 not, we are quite convinced, regard the profession in so 
 serious a light as they might reasonably be expected to. 
 We are not now going to indulge in any Utopian flights 
 of what art is or is not. We prefer to be brief and plain, 
 and it seems strange that where so much is said about 
 the importance of upholding " art for art's sake," critics 
 do not take a more serious view of the subject, and deal 
 with the work of the profession more thoroughly. A 
 physician has to understand the difference between 
 paralysis and epilepsy ; a surgeon is taught to distinguish 
 the bones of the feet from those of the hand ; and a 
 lawyer learns the elements of his profession in the 
 experience he gains in the Inns of Court. The dramatic 
 critic, however, is allowed to vault over comedies and 
 tragedies, and introduce his own personality into what- 
 
THE DRAMA 41 
 
 ever haunt may be most agreeable to him, with an utter 
 disregard of all modesty and all consequences. Cer- 
 tainly, things have changed somewhat since articles have 
 been initialled or signatured, and the critic has to mind 
 his p's and q's more anxiously than formerly. But, even 
 so, he still makes fraudulent efforts at hoodwinking the 
 public by an ostentatious display of literary tinsel, 
 which is but a poor substitute for the solid metal of 
 competent criticism. 
 
 The dramatic critic should acquire, if he acquires 
 anything, an intimate acquaintance with the past and 
 present history of the modern drama. He most cer- 
 tainly should have read all the notable plays, and he 
 should naturally possess the critical faculty. Now, it is 
 not a great deal to require a knowledge of the subject- 
 matter which one chooses to discuss, and when one dis- 
 cusses that subject for the benefit and information of 
 others, that subject should be thoroughly understood. 
 The chief plays in the British drama are not many com- 
 pared with the notable works of fiction of other depart- 
 ments. .The old English school of comedy, introduced 
 by Ben Jonson, Messenger and Ford, and other con- 
 temporaries, to the dramatists of the Restoration and 
 the succeeding school, should be carefully studied. Yet, 
 among all the critics of the London Press, to say nothing 
 of the provinces, how many know the subject in this 
 manner ? An art critic should certainly understand the 
 principles of the art about which he speaks and writes, 
 and so should a dramatic critic acquire the learning 
 sufficient to give him a marketable value as a member o 
 a profession of critics. Without this preliminary know- 
 
42 THE DRAMA 
 
 ledge and experience of the drama, any ordinary intel- 
 ligent person could do what is done by the so-called dra- 
 matic critics. They simply give the impressions of what 
 they see and hear, and keep as much as possible within 
 the limits prescribed by their editors. Under these 
 circumstances the author can receive very little help 
 from his brethren, the critics. He will have to depend 
 solely upon his own judgment and the advice of his best 
 friends, who give him their candid opinions, and who 
 may, indeed, have a more profound knowledge of the 
 drama than the "dramatic critics," so called. 
 
 Newspaper editors, managers and proprietors, if they 
 acted judiciously, when engaging the services of a 
 dramatic critic, would do well to make a few enquiries 
 into the personal accomplishments of the would-be 
 censor, and obtain from him satisfactory evidence of his 
 knowledge of the subject upon which he is expected to 
 expatiate, because now, when so much value is placed 
 upon good dramatic criticism, newspaper editors will 
 best consult their own interests by giving prominence to 
 writing which must be read by a large section of the 
 public. That writing should, therefore, be done well and 
 conscientiously. 
 
 II. COMEDY 
 
 THE most essential element in the composition of 
 comedy is, of course, to be comic. There are various 
 degrees of fun and comicality, and these change and 
 fluctuate according to circumstances. The exhibition of 
 real humour is usually associated with laughter, expressed 
 either inwardly or outwardly. The laughter which is 
 I 
 
THE DRAMA 43 
 
 outward, the laughter which is broad, and loud, and 
 noisy, is usually only provoked by a spontaneous incident, 
 and not generally by a succession of preliminary sallies 
 which terminate in a complete climax. Both these kinds 
 of risual exaggeration are produced by a variety of 
 causes, and the effect may, or may not, be instantaneous. 
 To a French audience, and, sometimes, to a British 
 audience too, a man falling over another on the stage, 
 because they were both looking in opposite directions, 
 generally appears irresistibly comic, and meets with roars 
 of laughter. The English are, however, a little more 
 stolid, and prefer the "business" to be led up to, as in 
 the case of Charley's Aunt, or The New Boy, which 
 are by far the best comedies of the kind. An Irish or 
 Celtic audience do not like tomfoolery. They prefer 
 smart repartee and hidden subtleties and passages of wit, 
 which an English audience do not always seem to relish 
 or appreciate with the same amount of gusto. The 
 American likes his comedy in good bold lines, with plenty 
 of personalities and instantaneous triumphs of banter. 
 This all means that people of different countries vary 
 greatly in their appreciation of humour. And this differ- 
 ence, and this distinction, have given rise to the formation 
 of various schools of wit and humour, which are so 
 entirely different, the one from the other, that they 
 require no minute classification to be recognised. 
 
 Wit and humour differ, again, at various epochs, and 
 we readily perceive this distinction, not only in the study 
 of Shakespeare, but also in that of authors of more 
 recent date. The humour of Touchstone and Pistol is 
 even different, the one from the other, but how much 
 
44 THE DRAMA 
 
 more different is the wit of the Restoration drama from 
 anything that had preceded or followed it. Society in- 
 fluences the drama in this respect more than in any other. 
 The lewd, coarse humour which distinguishes the Eliza- 
 bethan comedy from that of the succeeding generation 
 bore the same resemblance as the generation which 
 followed bore to the comedy of Wycherley and Farquhar. 
 The bluntness had certainly disappeared, but something 
 even more fatal had taken its place. The coarseness of 
 the Elizabethan period had given place to the more 
 hidden meanings of the Restoration, which, by com- 
 petition and comparison, had been made quite shameless 
 in their rendering. Farquhar vied with Wycherley in 
 making The Constant Couple more suggestive than 
 The Plain Dealer, and Vanbrugh wanted to outdo 
 them both with The Provoked Wife, and they each 
 succeeded admirably, after their respective desires. 
 They studied their audiences, and found that, to please 
 them, they had to be extravagant, and to be extravagant 
 then was to be licentious, and licentious and immoral 
 they forthwith became. The history of the morality of 
 England during the next hundred years after the Restora- 
 tion of Charles II. is told in the history of our drama, 
 and the history of the British drama during that one 
 hundred years is the best criterion we have of the state 
 of society as it then existed. 
 
 In treating of the drama under the Restoration that 
 is to say, from the accession of Charles II. in 1660 it is 
 well to understand the condition of society in England at 
 this particular time. From 1534, the date of the Re- 
 formation in this country, to the death of the Protector, 
 
THE DRAMA 45 
 
 the drama underwent many important and characteristic 
 changes in its structure and development. These changes 
 were, however, those which were brought about by the 
 varying conditions of the people. The dramatic pro- 
 ductions intended for performance had to be written 
 to suit the public taste, and whoever was most successful 
 in pleasing the people was surest of success. During the 
 period of the Tudors the drama flourished, during that of 
 the Stuarts it underwent many vicissitudes and changes. 
 Under the Stuarts restored, it again flourished from the 
 pens of Wycherley, Congreve, Farquhar and Vanbrugh. 
 Now, it is somewhat important, if not essential, to briefly 
 examine the causes which tended to produce the effect 
 which we are about to discuss. The state of England 
 at the time of the Restoration is only fully understood 
 after examining the state of its literature. Recollect that 
 the drama was first of all associated with the beginning 
 of Christianity ; it, therefore, played an emotional part. 
 It continued to be employed as a useful medium for 
 instructing the people for many centuries ; it, therefore, 
 played a valuable part in the education of the people. 
 
 At an eventful time in the progress of the world's 
 history, it became disunited from the Church at the com- 
 mand of the Roman Pontiff. When a social and religious 
 revolution was beginning to unloosen the chains which 
 fettered the minds of men, the drama had the fostering 
 and devoted care of the intelligent, the opulent and the 
 great. But it was destined to lie dormant and inactive 
 during a period of suspense, agitation and revolt, during 
 a period when plans of campaign, arsenals and political 
 intrigues were found to be far more absorbing than 
 
46 THE DRAMA 
 
 three-act comedies or five-act tragedies. But this epoch, 
 too, had to give place to another, not so abundantly 
 eventful, perhaps, in the intricacies and subtleties of con- 
 stitutional law and legal history, but which was prolific 
 of those minor oscillations in the inner life and workings 
 of little societies, that mark an era in our literary annals, 
 which constitutes a delightful relaxation from the endless 
 negotiations for peace, the counter conflicts of rival 
 partisans, the bitter anguish of dethroned and murdered 
 princes, the hazardous game of individual despotism, and 
 the nervous disquietude which is the result of political 
 factions and follies. Thus England had passed through 
 a great intellectual, religious and social ordeal; an 
 ordeal, indeed, which, although fearful in its attendant 
 circumstances, was, nevertheless, the only means which 
 great politicians could suggest to reform and regenerate 
 the nation. After this ordeal was passed, and a new 
 generation was blossoming into maturity, Charles II. 
 returned from exile and ascended the throne to be a 
 witness of, and take an active part in, the effect which 
 we shall now hasten to discuss. 
 
 The primary and initial matter in connection with 
 this period, which requires careful consideration and 
 studious investigation, was the personal manners of 
 the people, and the influence they collectively exercised 
 upon the dramatic literature of that epoch. This has 
 been a vexed question, and has given rise to much inter- 
 esting discussion by critics who have been both well and 
 ill qualified to write upon the subject. The discussion 
 has been, in great measure, occupied in balancing the 
 effect produced by the immoral tendency of the stage as 
 
THE DRAMA 47 
 
 it then existed. That the dramatic literature of the 
 Restoration period was immoral, in the broadest sense 
 of the word, is unquestionable ; but that was only a re- 
 flection of the people of that time. The Puritanism of 
 the Commonwealth had now found its reaction. People 
 who, under Cromwell, walked about with hands clasped 
 before them, who wore broad hats, long faces, and kept 
 their eyes fixed upon the ground, who were heard to 
 mutter fervent ejaculations and God-fearing expressions 
 of piety and remorse for the crimes of their fore- 
 fathers, now accompanied the king from Whitehall 
 to the Haymarket, and laughed at Congreve's very 
 questionable jokes and dialogues, and applauded the 
 very improper impersonations of Wycherley's creation, 
 till they could laugh and applaud no more. It was a 
 reaction certainly, and one which must surely attend 
 the enforcing of any dogmatic speculations upon a 
 people. They knew that as long as they spoke through 
 their noses, wore black clothes and unstarched linen, culti- 
 vated lank hair, showed the whites of their eyes, and, at 
 all times and under all conditions, put in a word or two 
 about seeking the Lord, they would be doing just what 
 was wanted of them by those who had their prosperity at 
 their disposal. But these symptoms have always been but 
 a poor and hollow guarantee of real piety. Religion does 
 notjvearjtself upon men's sleeves for daws~to~peck at," 
 a.n57jeast of all, does it wear itself in peoples' looks, 
 grimaces and gestures. And so it was with the people of 
 this period. Most people are actors to some extent, and 
 most people know how and when to pull long faces and 
 turn their eyes to heaven when they know it will be 
 
48 THE DRAMA 
 
 rewarded by pecuniary profit. But the time had arrived 
 when acting was no longer necessary, when the people 
 could appear as they really felt. And now the outburst 
 commenced. Those feelings which had been so long 
 restrained now received full vent in the fury which accom- 
 panied the reaction. As Macaulay very justly puts it: 
 " A period of wild and desperate dissoluteness followed. 
 Even in remote manor houses and hamlets the change 
 was felt ; but in London the outburst of debauchery was 
 appalling, and in London the places most deeply infected 
 were the palace, the quarters inhabited by the aristo- 
 cracy, and the Inns of Court. It was on the support of 
 these parts of the town that the playhouses depended. 
 I The character of the drama became conformed to the 
 character of its patrons. The comic poet was the 
 mouthpiece of the most deeply corrupted part of a 
 corrupted society, and in the plays of this period we 
 find, distilled and condensed, the essential spirit of the 
 fashionable world during the anti- Puritan reaction." 
 
 The reaction which had so violently set in was 
 rampant in the Court to such a degree that it was 
 regarded as the most loose and licentious in Europe. 
 There is a close analogy between the anti -Puritan 
 reaction in England, the effects which followed, and 
 the distinguishing characteristics which have marked 
 the reign of Louis XIV. The conduct of the Regency 
 was enacted on the public stage before audiences who 
 crowded to see plays at which a few years before they 
 would have shuddered. But the old Latin truism was 
 never more applicable than then : Tempora mutantur, 
 nos et mutamur in illis. The actor and the actress were 
 
THE DRAMA 49 
 
 then fondled and caressed with an abnormal encourage- 
 ment which has never been equalled, except, perhaps, 
 in our own time; but even now it is only the fashion 
 then it was a natural craze. An actor who could make 
 the theatre shake with laughter was thought more of 
 than a Privy Councillor or a Prime Minister. The 
 theatre was now occupied by men and women whose 
 noses were once made crimson with weeping about the 
 state of their souls, but which were now made purple 
 with champagne and claret. An *actor was thought a 
 brave fellow if he made love on the stage in a fit of 
 intoxication ; and if the curtain had to be rung down 
 on account of the inability of a star actress to appear 
 owing to " indisposition," it only caused a momentary 
 flutter about the state of her health. As it was behind 
 the footlights, so it was in front. A bandmaster who 
 produced appalling sounds from the orchestra, and 
 made hideous noises with an untuned fiddle, caused 
 no other effect than a roar of laughter, followed by 
 one of applause as the trombone fell off his seat in 
 his attempt to reach the mouthpiece of his instrument. 
 The times were, to say the least of them, lively, and 
 the perusal of the dramatic and light literature of that 
 time affords us the best means of appreciating the 
 change which had taken place. 
 
 The author who was most conspicuously successful 
 in his efforts at giving to the drama of the Restoration 
 its complexion of grossness was, unquestionably, William 
 Wycherley. Not only in immorality, however, is he the 
 superior of his contemporaries, but he is also above 
 them in the brilliancy and copiousness of his wit. His 
 
 4 
 
50 THE DRAMA 
 
 dramatic works abound with smooth repartee, dash, 
 and vigour; and he displays in his writings an agree- 
 able vein of humour, which, if it were not for the 
 prurient nature of his dialogue, would be interesting 
 and welcome. As it is, however, his plays are so 
 saturated with the prevailing tendency to gross in- 
 decency, that the mere mention of them is sufficient to 
 cause a blush of deepest crimson. Wycherley was born 
 in 1640 just two years before the Civil War broke 
 out. His early years were spent sometimes in France 
 and sometimes in England at Queen's College, Oxford. 
 Without taking a degree, he left his college with just 
 sufficient knowledge of mathematics to understand the 
 difference between mensuration and quadratic equations, 
 and an acquaintance with the ancient classics which 
 enabled him, ten years later, to quote Horace to the 
 Duke of York, and a few lines of Ovid, when he had 
 taken too much to drink. He began life as a barrister, 
 as, indeed, many like him have done since ; but, finding 
 that he received more writs than briefs, he forsook the 
 Inns of Court and the Petty Sessions for the more re- 
 munerative occupation of writing comedies, at which 
 he completely succeeded. His mind appears to have 
 been of the romantic type ; and he early began to 
 scribble verses, which are too bad for anybody but 
 the bellman, and which no bellman with any sense 
 of propriety would utter, much less place upon paper. 
 But, as might easily have been expected, writing son- 
 nets did not keep the duns from calling at his door, 
 and enquiring eagerly after their money. Wycherley 
 now perceived, like others less fortunate, that writing 
 
_/''' 
 THE DRAMA 51 
 
 
 indecent comedy would, at all events, procure him a 
 competence. His education and his talents exactly 
 equipped him for the task which he was about to 
 undertake. Daily intercourse with the people about 
 town had formed, not only his manners, but his mind 
 to the groove which was essential to the playwright. 
 A ready wit and an agreeable flow of light, garrulous 
 conversation, coupled with sparkling wit and bright 
 repartee, gave him at once a place beside the fashion- 
 ables of the Court, who were not slow to recognise 
 in him a pleasant man of the town, who was admirably 
 qualified to make time hang lightly. He soon became 
 an ornament in a select circle of the King's drawing- 
 room; and his fascinating conversation and handsome 
 presence soon made him a favourite with the ladies of 
 Whitehall. He rose gradually to a position of friend- 
 ship in the estimation of Charles, who recognised in 
 the young author one who looked well beside himself 
 whenever he walked out or held a levee in his palace. 
 Wycherley possessed the invaluable trick of being able 
 to put a smart thing into the mouth of another and 
 replying to the equal advantage of both. In the tamest 
 society he would have been an acquisition for killing 
 time, and making ladies pleased with themselves be- 
 cause another had given them both the cause and the 
 opportunity. It is hardly necessary to say that these 
 successes, which Wycherley valued more than a baro- 
 netcy, at length turned his head. He became so 
 utterly vain and self-conscious that even his reason 
 was affected. He declared, in his old age, that he 
 wrote Love in a Wood when he was only nineteen; 
 
 42 
 
52 THE DRAMA 
 
 The Gentleman Dancing-Master at twenty-one; The Plain 
 Dealer at twenty-five, and The Country Wife at two-and- 
 thirty. Now, this boast has been proved, upon the 
 most substantial grounds, to have been only another 
 of those exaggerations of which everyone is more or 
 less guilty, and which one does for the sake of 
 momentary effect, but which most people heartily re- 
 gret five minutes afterwards. 
 
 The fame of Wycherley exists wholly upon his 
 comedies. As a writer of comedies he has been cen- 
 sured for the looseness of his narrative and the general 
 bad tone of his morals. His writings certainly possess a 
 charm, partly because of the excellence of the wit ; but 
 they are works which only boys read till they become 
 men, when they are carefully selected from their libraries 
 and judiciously committed to the flames. 
 
 The whole school of the Restoration dramatists 
 gave itself up to the prevailing tendency of the age. 
 Macaulay, in his essay on "The Comic Dramatists of 
 the Restoration," writes excellently upon this subject, 
 and shows, at the outset, why these dramas may be 
 studied by all who are desirous of completing their 
 literary education and studying the changes which 
 take place and have taken place in the morals of 
 society. His essay should, indeed, be studied by all 
 who wish to become intimate with some of the early 
 English dramatists and their respective styles of com- 
 position. 
 
 Comedy, to be appreciated, must be plain and 
 straightforward. Abstract problems of humour should 
 not be introduced on the stage if the author is desirous 
 
THE DRAMA 53 
 
 of his play succeeding financially. Life is too short 
 to work out philosophical problems on the stage, and 
 the authors will be wise to refrain from indulging in 
 anything of this kind. 
 
 Humour should be made as spontaneous as possible* 
 And with the word spontaneous may be included ready, \ 
 sparkling, and effervescent. A capital illustration of this 
 is found in Irish comedy, in which the characters are / 
 made to say the most witty things almost instan- 
 taneously and without apparent premeditation. The 
 author who carefully studies the Hibernian element in 
 his work will have laid a good foundation upon which 
 to work. 
 
 By reading and studying the Irish drama, the author 
 will, at least, appreciate the excellence of the wit, and 
 the manner in which it is manipulated ; and, although 
 he may not utilise it in the same way as the original 
 author, he will, nevertheless, understand its application. 
 The plays of Dion Boucicault are models of Hibernian 
 composition ; so are the novels of Lever and Lover, and 
 they are all worthy the perusal of a dramatic author. 
 
 The English people are very partial to the humour of 
 Jthe Irish, and the business of melodrama nearly always 
 contains an Irish exponent. This distinctly proves that 
 the Hibernian element is appreciated, and the young 
 author, if he intends to devote his energy to melodrama, 
 will do well to give the Irish authors a proportionate 
 amount of his study. 
 
 The humour of the Society play, as it has been de- 
 veloped and refined by recent authors, seems to be 
 founded upon the belief that the most accomplished wit 
 
54 THE DRAMA 
 
 is that which partakes of the repartee kind. The School 
 for Scandal is bubbling over with this particular class of 
 humour, and dramatists have done well to renew it. 
 There is always a refreshing sense of gentility and quick 
 mental appreciation in this kind of wit, and as it is 
 most frequently a play upon words, customs and manners, 
 an author should endeavour, as much as possible, to be 
 up to date and sparkling in his assimilation of phrase 
 and his bandying of words. 
 
 Scotch wit is not so subtle as the Irish. It has not 
 the same force or the same body. It lacks spontaneity. 
 It is premeditated, and this is never so effective as when 
 it is instantaneous. The wit of the Highlander consists 
 " not in what he says, but in the way he says it." The 
 drollery of a situation may be enhanced and developed 
 by the particular emphasis upon a certain syllable, or it 
 may be rendered most effective by a peculiar inflection. 
 This, the author who proposes to write comedy should 
 be able to understand and appreciate. A word or 
 syllable introduced in a certain place may cause a 
 general round of laughter and make a whole scene, and 
 a few such touches may be the making of an entire 
 comedy. 
 
 / The author of comedy^should have, above all things, 
 
 a clear and precise method of working out his scenes. 
 
 1 Many excellent plays, we are told, have been written by 
 
 men who had not any previous knowledge of what they 
 
 were about to write till they actually came to the scenes 
 
 which ultimately proved the best in the play. This is 
 
 i either pure chance or genius of the first order. Some- 
 
 / times a writer may choose a title for a play, and write 
 
THE DRAMA 55 
 
 away from that title, having to choose another with 
 no relation whatever to the one he had before fixed on. 
 This we can quite believe, but the practice is not a good 
 one for a beginner to adopt. He may spend months in 
 writing and staining paper, and then arrive at nothing in 
 the end. 
 
 If a happy thought should strike him he should jot it 
 down at once, and endeavour to weave a plot of some 
 kind around it. This he can easily manipulate, but he 
 will experience greater difficulty in condensing several 
 hundred pages of manuscript, which will, in all proba- 
 bility, lead to nothing but the waste-paper basket. 
 
 In playwriting, a great deal necessarily depends 
 upon the author's own individuality and means of 
 resource. Some authors, at a comparatively early 
 stage in their profession, have given examples of their 
 genius in a remarkable manner. Mr. Pinero produced 
 some of his best work when he was still a young man, 
 and Mr. Haddon Chambers is another instance. It is 
 a mistake to suppose that the older a dramatist, or 
 any other literary character, becomes, the better, 
 therefore, will be his literary achievements. The work 
 of young men is not infrequently their best perform- 
 ances, and journalists have often observed that their 
 best writings were done while they were still in their 
 novitiate. The art of writing in any department, we are 
 convinced, soon becomes a mere mechanical process, 
 and those who have had any experience in writing, 
 whether it be as critics, as descriptive writers, or as 
 novelists, will readily admit that, as they become 
 practised and experienced in their craft, the novelty of 
 
56 THE DRAMA 
 
 what is generally talked of as inspiration, &c., soon 
 wears off. An experienced writer develops a particular 
 style of diction and composition, and he adheres to it 
 almost as a personal characteristic. We remember being 
 present at a dinner at which were assembled some of 
 the leading writers and critics of London journalism. 
 As soon as the cloth had been removed, somebody, in 
 the course of the conversation, declared that every 
 writer of experience had a peculiar style inseparably 
 associated with himself. This was both questioned 
 and agreed to ; some were of his opinion, and others 
 challenged it. The matter was finally put to a prac- 
 tical test by the originator of the discussion. All 
 those present, it must be understood, were men of 
 considerable literary reputation, and their individual 
 style of composition was mutually understood. They 
 had all repeatedly read each other's articles and 
 critiques, and it was decided that each should write 
 about a dozen lines on a piece of paper upon any 
 topic he chose, and then place it in a small basket 
 in the centre of the table. The idea was eagerly 
 adopted, and after all had agreed to write in their accus- 
 tomed and usual style, they set to work. The basket 
 was handed round, and when the manuscripts were 
 shuffled, our host (who is to-day a leader-writer of 
 distinction) took from among the rest the first scrap 
 of paper. The handwriting was disguised as much as 
 possible, but the handwriting was not a clue to the 
 host. We each placed upon a separate piece of paper 
 the name of the person who was supposed to be the 
 writer of the composition as it was read out. After 
 
THE DRAMA 57 
 
 each had been read we read out our names. The 
 result was a complete demonstration of the fact that 
 all those literary gentlemen had an individual and 
 particular style of composition, which was easily 
 perceptible in a dozen lines. This led to a further 
 inquiry, and it was discovered why the resemblance 
 existed. One journalist, in particular, had a trick of 
 concluding a sentence nearly always with a word of 
 three syllables. Another was extremely fond of using 
 parenthetical clauses, although he himself never before 
 noticed the partiality. Another, again, was inclined to 
 use a syllogism in the announcement of his facts, 
 and would hardly ever open up a statement without 
 first of all coming to his facts by a logical sequence 
 of argumentation. And so on. They all, with few 
 exceptions, gave their consent to the theory which 
 had started the discussion, and were finally persuaded 
 of its soundness. 
 
 As it is in ordinary writing, so it is in dramatic 
 authorship. An author, as he becomes acquainted with 
 his subject, will gradually cultivate a distinct manner 
 or style of writing, and he should endeavour, when once 
 he has acquired a particular and definite style, to adhere 
 to it and to develop it. 
 
 The author who would aim at staking his reputation 
 upon the writing of comedy, should first of all satisfy 
 himself that he is fitted for such composition. As far as 
 our own observations are concerned, the writing of good 
 genuine comedy is by far the most difficult school of 
 dramatic authorship. The author, to succeed in this 
 department, must understand aiLd~appreciate the likes 
 
 SELn5R^>- 
 .. 
 VERSITY 
 UFORI 
 
58 THE DRAMA 
 
 and dislikes of the public taste. His mind should be- 
 come saturated with the predominating characteristics 
 of the society for which he intends to cater. His comedy 
 should be as instantaneous as possible, and it should be 
 timely, that is to say, he should study the prevailing 
 tendency of the times in which he lives, and in which 
 he writes. Comedy and tragedy do not go hand in hand, 
 and the writer who wishes to succeed at the one would 
 do well not to meddle or dabble in the other. I do not 
 mean it to be inferred that, because comedy and tragedy 
 do not go together, therefore, all seriousness is to be 
 eschewed. Dramatic writing under this condition would 
 simply be reduced to mere farce. 
 
 Comedy does not simply mean laughter. It may 
 often mean tears, and genuine salt tears, too tears 
 of sorrow and tears of joy. Mere comedy and nothing 
 else is very little distinguishable from mere farce. 
 Scenes should be properly balanced ; that is to say, 
 due regard must be had for the relative weight of 
 characterisation and the proportionate value of dra- 
 matic personages. The distribution of characteristic 
 effects has great influence in the making and the 
 marring of a piece. The author who, above all others, 
 succeeded to the greatest extent in this respect was, 
 unquestionably, Shakespeare. He appears to have 
 understood in a remarkable manner the most useful 
 means of placing a personage upon the stage. From 
 the time a character is on the stage before the public 
 he should be occupying the attention of that public. 
 A character should not be introduced for no perceptible 
 purpose. Time is wasted and the action hampered by 
 
THE DRAMA 59 
 
 the presence of a character who does nothing for the 
 progress of the piece. The uninterrupted progress of 
 the play is the first consideration; and, unless it be 
 arranged that the characters appear and do something 
 for the furtherance of the plot and general scheme of 
 the play, one of the greatest faults in dramatic com- 
 position is committed. 
 
 The author who is, to-day, singularly fortunate in 
 this very essential particular is Mr. A. W. Pinero. 
 We know of no play of his where he introduces any 
 character that does not render good service to the 
 purport of the play. A capital instance of this is 
 found in the development of the plot in The Profligate. 
 The scene in which the wife of the profligate and his 
 victim overhear the conversation between the two men 
 as they pass across the stage is quite natural and dra- 
 matic; and it is scenes of this kind especially which 
 distinguish the experienced dramatic writer. We are 
 as sure that this scene, and scenes like it, were men- 
 tally worked out by Mr. Pinero, and not the result of 
 any kind of inspiration, as we are that it is this 
 particular kind of workmanship which has placed him 
 in that position of eminence which he now occupies. 
 
 The student of dramatic history who has any in- 
 tention of devoting himself to the perusal of the drama, 
 with the ultimate object of writing plays, should culti- 
 vate a taste for the discovery and appreciation of such 
 scenes as these. They are models upon which the 
 young dramatist may work and, if possible, develop. 
 The manner of writing plays has always differed, and 
 will continue to differ. Hence there can be no rules 
 
60 THE DRAMA 
 
 laid down by which an author, or would-be author, 
 may succeed in writing plays. Nevertheless, there are 
 plenty of hints which may be given to the author con- 
 cerning, not so much what he ought to do as, rather, 
 what he should avoid doing; and it will not, therefore, 
 be improper if we give, in a necessarily brief manner, 
 what are usually regarded as imperfections or, at all 
 events, blemishes in dramatic writing. 
 
 III. THE GRAMMAR OF PLAYWRITING 
 
 A playwriter should understand something of the 
 technique of his art, and should know the principal 
 rudiments of his business. The following random re- 
 marks may serve to give him an inclination to acquire 
 more. It is considered injudicious to "discover" 3'oui 
 characters on the stage, that is to say. characters whc 
 are found upon the stage when the curtain ascends 
 This fault is rendered more conspicuous if the charactei 
 is an important one. Many actors decline to be " dis 
 covered," especially if they are creating the part ir 
 which they are to appear. There are occasions, o 
 course, where it would be almost impossible to avoic 
 discovering a character; but, if such is the case, th( 
 author should thoroughly understand the reason wty 
 he places his character there, and that reason shoulc 
 be a good one. Actors like their entrances " led up to' 
 by previous mention of their names by the other peopl< 
 of the cast, in order that the audience may expect then 
 when they appear. Mr. Sidney Grundy is frequent!] 
 very happy in this respect, and he seems to have sparec 
 no pains in the working out of his exits and entrances 
 
THE DRAMA 61 
 
 As it is important that the entrance be properly regu- 
 lated, so also is it essential that the exit is equally 
 well arranged. A character should not be upon the 
 stage unless he or she is doing or saying something for 
 the furtherance and action of the play. Unless the 
 character is thus advantageously occupied, his or her 
 presence is detrimental to the other characters upon 
 the stage. The attention of the audience should be 
 directed immediately to the chief personages engaged 
 in the action of the play, and the fewer the characters 
 the more intense will be the interest. When the attention 
 of an audience is distributed it becomes lost and often 
 exhausted. The aim and purpose of the author should 
 be to concentrate the attention of the spectators in the 
 most intense manner possible, and the success of the 
 piece will greatly depend upon the structure of the 
 play in respect to this detail. 
 
 An author often experiences a difficulty, not only in 
 knowing when and where to introduce a character, but 
 also when and where to dispense with his or her services. 
 No rule or example can be laid down for this. The 
 author has here to learn a most important lesson, which 
 can only be fully understood by his frequenting the 
 theatre and following the numerous plays which are 
 annually produced, and noticing how the author has 
 arranged his situations. The author must endeavour to 
 analyse the plays he sees, and follow the course of their 
 success or failure, and then reason out with himself why 
 they were successes or failures. He should take the 
 play scene by scene and act by act, and dissect the parts 
 which constitute the whole, and examine in every detail 
 
62 THE DRAMA 
 
 why the play pleased or displeased. He will do well to 
 read carefully the critiques of the best writers, and note 
 where and how they agree and differ. His own judg- 
 ment must then decide which of the many are near the 
 best analysis. He should now form a synthesis of the 
 analysis, and cast up the chief points in the arguments 
 of the critics till he is satisfied in his own mind of the 
 correctness of their opinions. There may have been cer- 
 tain scenes and certain acts which received special men- 
 tion for their skilfulness and excellence. These portions 
 of the play deserve to be repeatedly considered and 
 studied, and in such a way that the author will benefit 
 by their perusal. By attending the rehearsals of new 
 plays by authors of distinction the novice will be able to 
 acquire information which will be invaluable to him. 
 The stage manager, especially if he is one of experience, 
 will be brimming over with suggestions of distinct value 
 and importance. An author, too, will have plenty to 
 say and do, and sometimes even undo, because what 
 may have read well may not play effectively, and this 
 portion of the play will be, in many cases, considered 
 a subject for alteration and improvement. 
 
 The phrasing of a play, especially if it be a comedy, 
 should be as rapid and as consecutive as possible. The 
 quantity of dialogue introduced and allotted to each 
 character is a matter of opinion, and, consequently, no 
 hard and fast rule, or even suggestion, is to be followed. 
 It may be said, however, that too much should not be 
 given to any one speaker, whether for the principal or 
 minor characters. Authors who are also actors generally 
 give themselves too much to say, and this was especially 
 
THE DRAMA 63 
 
 the case with Boucicault in The Life of an Actress, a play 
 which reads remarkably well and plays remarkably 
 badly. Actors, of course, like plenty to say, and they 
 are extremely partial to the speech, especially if it be an 
 entreaty to the heroine or a denunciation of the villain. 
 The latest school of dramatic authors are fortunately 
 predisposed against the speech ; but a star actor, more 
 especially if he be at all concerned in the writing of the 
 play, will be a dramatic curio if he has not a speech 
 for himself at the end of which he expects thunders of 
 applause and several calls before the curtain. 
 
 The interruptions and interpolations of the characters 
 should always be happy and pointed, and bear directly 
 upon the subject at issue. Otherwise the interruption or 
 question, whatever else the matter may be, will add 
 nothing to, but rather detract from the quality of the 
 dialogue. The principal character in the piece or scene, 
 or he whose services are most particularly in request at 
 the time, should, undoubtedly, have the greater part of 
 the dialogue, not because he is the principal, but because 
 it is supposed the principal is actively engaged in the 
 furtherance of the play. 
 
 An actor does not, again, like to be talked at by another, 
 and, therefore, none of the characters should be made 
 to talk at the others ; they should rather be made to talk 
 to each other. It is, we think, bad policy to leave an 
 actor alone upon the stage, unless there be a good and 
 sufficient reason, because they then have to indulge 
 generally in soliloquisms, which are to be avoided. 
 Shakespeare's genius has been repeatedly manifested 
 in his soliloquies, but then the novice must not begin 
 
64 THE DRAMA 
 
 by considering himself a Shakespeare. What suited the 
 age for which Shakespeare wrote will not suit this age, 
 unless it be Shakespeare. He wrote, not for one age, 
 but for every age; but then he was Shakespeare. A 
 novice should avoid the tendency to do something just 
 because So-and-So has done it. The author must use 
 his own individuality, and not borrow that of another 
 author. An idea borrowed from another is generally 
 marred in the borrowing, and, to use a hackneyed but 
 pithy expression, "the game isn't worth the candle." 
 Before all things, be original ; an author can never hope 
 to make a reputation if he lives and writes by re-writing 
 what others have written. It is one thing to use the 
 works of others as models, it is quite another thing to 
 crib from them. This is too frequently the case, even 
 with dramatists of reputation and distinction, and the 
 practice is to be condemned as dishonourable and dis- 
 honest. The legal bearing upon plays is extremely 
 equivocal and misleading, and there are loopholes 
 through which a dishonest dramatist may readily 
 escape, luhe action of a play should not be inter- 
 rupted by the introduction of topics which have little 
 or nothing to do with the main purport of the piece. 
 Frequently whole scenes are devoted to the discussion of 
 sundry matters which have not the most indirect bearing 
 on the ultimate climax. Many authors have certainly 
 been singularly successful in the manner in which they 
 weave into their dialogue references to topical events, 
 but the practice does not admit of much development, 
 and cannot conscientiously be recommended to the 
 beginner. 
 
THE DRAMA 65 
 
 It is commonly admitted, among even the most ex- 
 perienced dramatists, that they frequently find a difficulty 
 in beginning a play. The opening scene appears to give 
 cause for the chief anxiety. And, indeed, a good open- 
 ing to a play is half the battle. First impressions are 
 generally valued, especially with the majority of people. 
 Make a good first act. But even a good first act does 
 not compensate for the remainder of the work being 
 badly finished. We had an example in Mr. James's play, 
 Guy Domville, at the St. James's Theatre, which possessed 
 the unquestionable advantage of a thoroughly good first 
 act, but, the remainder of the play being weak, the whole 
 performance was condemned by almost all the critics. 
 
 If any portion of the play is to suffer, it should be the 
 middle portion. The commencement and the end of the 
 play should stand out in bold relief. An audience likes 
 to leave the theatre with good impressions, and not dis- 
 appointed. It may forget the inferiority of the second 
 act, but it cannot be recompensed if the third or last 
 acts be bad. The author, then, should strive to place his 
 workmanship into those parts of his work which will be 
 most easily remembered, and which the audience are less 
 likely to forget. 
 
 The young dramatic author should avoid the danger- 
 ous experiment of employing too many characters in the 
 telling of his story. It would be nonsensical to attempt 
 to give any code by which a writer may choose his 
 characters, or the number of them. The working of the 
 play, and the manner in which the plot is developed, 
 must, in a great measure, guide the writer. He will, 
 however, soon learn, by experience, that four characters 
 
 5 
 
66 THE DRAMA 
 
 are less difficult to manipulate than eight, and that the 
 greater the number of people on the stage the greater 
 also will be the difficulty in grouping them. 
 
 Characters upon the stage should be as dissimilar 
 as possible, both in their individuality and make-up. 
 Audiences do not like the same dish placed before 
 them again and again during the piece. They do not 
 mind one character, but they will not tolerate many or 
 more of the same kind. Two colonels or two doctors 
 are nearly always wearisome unless there is judicious 
 use made of them. Two barristers may be discovered 
 working in their chambers, or two doctors may be seen 
 in consultation ; but unless there is a direct and definite 
 purpose for their presence, it is not considered good 
 workmanship to introduce them. Then, again, the 
 individuality of the characters should be altogether 
 different. This is a matter which needs no demon- 
 stration. We will presume that the playwright who 
 understands his business also understands Shakespeare, 
 the greatest model in the subtlety of his individualisation. 
 The dramatist will perceive how in Shakespeare is the 
 individuality of his characters kept pre-eminently apart 
 the one from the other. A man is never created by 
 him to speak, act, or think like a woman. A child is 
 the child absolute, and not only a child absolute, but 
 a real living and existing creation. The character of 
 Arthur in King Arthur is an illustration which instinc- 
 tively presents itself. Ophelia and Desdemona are as 
 different the one from the other as are Hamlet and 
 Macbeth, and yet they are men and women in every 
 line they utter. The situations in which they are 
 
THE DRAMA 67 
 
 placed are those which any woman might occupy, and 
 which, doubtless, thousands have occupied. The 
 genius of Shakespeare was here signally displayed in 
 a most conspicuous manner, and the student of the 
 drama who wishes to understand the secret springs 
 of passion and emotion, would do well to study the 
 bard in this one particular element of his workmanship. 
 The student should brood over his plays, and become 
 saturated with their construction and the manner of 
 their composition. Let him dissect one character from 
 the other, and analyse the two ; compare them together, 
 and note the distinction between the two ; go closely 
 into details, and separate the principles of one act from 
 those of another. Go deeper still, and ask yourself the 
 reason why the author does such and such a thing; 
 seek for the reason till you have found it. Understand 
 to the fullest extent why he introduces characters at 
 certain stages, and why they exit at certain stages. 
 Imagine the character on the stage acting and speaking, 
 and imagine that you are the audience, and note the 
 impression each character makes upon you as it 
 enters and leaves the stage of your imagination. Think 
 out whether or not it would be more advantageous or 
 useful to introduce a character at a certain point in the 
 narrative. All this, and a great deal more, requires 
 study and application, and study of a very severe kind. 
 And the would-be dramatic author must be prepared to 
 study and to think, and to learn to think, if he has not 
 already done so. 
 
 It is a matter of considerable importance to know 
 whether it will be best to keep the sequence of the plot 
 
 52 
 
68 THE DRAMA 
 
 unknown to the audience. Sometimes it is better to take 
 them into your confidence, and sometimes it is better to 
 take them by surprise. This point should be thoroughly 
 considered by the author before he commits himself 
 either way, and he should fully understand the reason 
 why he chooses either method of working out his play. 
 The majority of dramatic works are in favour of taking 
 the audience into the confidence of the author and 
 allowing them to watch the working out of the scheme. 
 I think this is by far the better method. It is more 
 natural, and the attention of an audience will be more 
 engrossed by it. The other plan is certainly more 
 exciting, but it is more risky, and an audience may be 
 disappointed with the result. 
 
 An audience does not like being disappointed in the 
 unravelling of the story. It prefers to find its own 
 anticipations realised. It may, however, be judicious to 
 suspend the consecutive working out of the story by the 
 introduction of some means which will heighten the 
 interest of an audience ; but this should not be done at 
 the expense of the main points of the narrative. The 
 narrative, generally speaking, should be interrupted as 
 seldom as possible ; but, when a change of any kind does 
 take place, it should be, if anything, a relief to the 
 audience. In big melodramas which require extensive 
 staging it has often been found useful to introduce a 
 character or two to entertain the house while a scene is 
 being arranged at the back of the curtain. If these 
 characters and their business are introduced, it must 
 be done circumspectly ; otherwise the audience will see 
 through the device and lose their confidence in the 
 
THE DRAMA 69 
 
 play. All this amounts to saying briefly that the work- 
 manship of the play should be kept in the background ; 
 the audience should not know how the scenes are 
 arranged or why they are arranged. It should be 
 enough for them that they are so arranged, and if 
 ''the tricks of the trade" are hidden from them they 
 will be all the more satisfied. 
 
 To completely appreciate the skill and technical 
 knowledge required in play-writing it would be necessary 
 for us to go fully into the details of stage-craft, and lay 
 bare all the various means adopted in stage carpentry. 
 This would be a ridiculous attempt at giving the novice 
 the clue to write plays, and it would, moreover, be quite 
 impracticable. The best thing the young author could 
 do is to go on the stage and see for himself how things are 
 done. Practical knowledge is always preferable to 
 theoretical smattering, and the young dramatic scribe 
 will find ample opportunity (if he keeps his eyes and 
 ears open) to cultivate an acquaintance with the 
 mysteries of stage-craft. 
 
 There are very few cases where authors have pro- 
 duced good plays without having first of all studied 
 the resources of the stage. Mr. A. W. Pinero was a 
 student of elocution. He then learnt to know the value 
 and importance of words and sentences. He grasped the 
 force and the meaning of the text in the plays, which 
 he studied while yet in his novitiate. He then went 
 on the stage, and mixed with actors and stage managers, 
 stage carpenters and all who were competent to give 
 advice upon stage manoeuvres. Consequently, he gained 
 both practical and theoretical experience, and, of course, 
 
70 THE DRAMA 
 
 afterwards profited by it. H. J. Byron was an actor; 
 otherwise we doubt if he would ever have written Our 
 Boys. T. W. Robertson strutted on the boards, else 
 he might never have written Caste ; and many other 
 actor-dramatists could be mentioned who owe a con- 
 siderable portion of their success to their theatrical 
 apprenticeship. There are, however, hundreds, perhaps 
 thousands, who have been actively engaged on the stage, 
 possessing every opportunity for cultivating and acquiring 
 a knowledge of stage-craft, and yet who could never 
 write a scene to save their lives. This goes to prove 
 that a dramatist cannot be taught how to write a play, 
 and all the teaching in the world would not avail him. 
 But a young author who has any talent can cultivate 
 that talent which, without cultivation, would probably 
 be useless. If the would-be dramatist has any ability, 
 let him cultivate it by all means and develop his 
 dramatic instincts and acquirements; but at the same 
 time let this be done in the most direct way. Let him 
 set to work with a will and acquire gradually and 
 thoroughly the principles which constitute the grammar 
 of his craft. He should move in dramatic circles and 
 gain every possible item of information from the con- 
 versation of old and experienced authors, actors and 
 stage managers. If the young author has any natural 
 gifts and possesses confidence, prudence and common- 
 sense, we cannot conceive any reason why he should not 
 succeed in writing a successful play. 
 
 Besides all this, the dramatic author should be con- 
 versant with all the standard works upon the drama. 
 The essays of Hazlitt upon Shakespeare and the early 
 
THE DRAMA 71 
 
 English authors should be read, and as a more 
 advanced! work dealing with the drama the writings 
 of Dr. Hermann Ulrici should be perused. All kinds 
 of dramatic history and biography may be read with 
 advantage, for, although they will not teach the 
 dramatist to write plays any more than reading novels 
 will enable a person to write fiction, they are, never- 
 theless, a means by which the mind may be enriched 
 with dramatic topics. 
 
 Above all, the dramatist should be a student of the 
 times in which he lives. He should be in touch with all 
 social and political movements. Many blunders are 
 made by dramatists who do not know how people move 
 in fashionable society, and when they write dialogue 
 supposed to be characteristic of "the upper ten," it is 
 not only uncharacteristic, but often absurd. Frequently, 
 mistakes occur by making references which are incorrect, 
 and which show at once that the author did not write 
 from actual experience of things mentioned. Many 
 mistakes of this kind are discovered at rehearsal ; but 
 often they escape, and are left for the critics to giggle 
 over on " the first night." 
 
 IV. NOVELIST AND DRAMATIST 
 
 ^Whether a good novelist can make a good dramatist 
 is a question about which there can be very little dis- 
 cussion. The two spheres of literary art are altogether 
 dissimilar, and require dissimilar qualifications. We can 
 recall very few names which have been associated with 
 authors who have been successful both as novelists 
 and as dramatists. The reason is not difficult to find. 
 
72 THE DRAMA 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, in his essay on the life of Henry 
 Fielding, makes the following excellent observations: 
 
 " It is the object of the novel writer to place before 
 the reader as full and accurate a representation of the 
 events which he relates as can be done by the mere force 
 of an excited imagination without the assistance of 
 material objects. His sole appeal is made to the world 
 of fancy and of ideas, and in this consists his strength 
 and his weakness, his poverty and his wealth. He 
 cannot, like the painter, present a visible and tangible 
 representation of his towns and his woods, his palaces 
 and his castles ; but awakening the imagination of a con- 
 genial reader, he places before his mind's eye landscapes 
 fairer than those of Claude and wilder than those of 
 Salvator." 
 
 But here the novelist stops. In balancing a dialogue 
 and giving points to a description he does all that it is 
 possible for him to do, be he a Dickens, a Thackeray, a 
 George Eliot or a Ouida. The novelist has plainly 
 many advantages over the dramatist, because he can 
 indulge in extensive parades of dialogue and descrip- 
 tion, where a dramatist would be limited in the one and 
 completely debarred from the other. A novelist has not 
 to consider almost to a nicety the extent to which he 
 may go in the length of his chapters. A dramatist who 
 does not attend scrupulously to this element in his art 
 commits an egregious error at the outset. The length of 
 the scenes of a play is, and always was, a matter of the 
 gravest anxiety to the dramatic author. The distribution 
 of the dialogue in the several scenes is always attended 
 with considerable care and circumspection. Whether 
 
THE DRAMA 73 
 
 the direct basis of the plot will be commenced in the 
 first part of the first scene or the last part of the second 
 scene ; whether the heroine shall become engaged to the 
 hero in the first or the second act; whether the hero 
 shall be cut off with a shilling in the commencement of 
 the play or during its progress all this is matter for 
 study by the author. In novel writing, although there is 
 a measure of the same responsibility, the author has not 
 so many various circumstances to consider. That his 
 book will consist of three hundred pages or six hundred 
 pages depends partly upon the writer's pocket, partly 
 upon his reputation as an author of entertaining fiction, 
 and partly upon his genius to develop the interest of his 
 novel to the end. 
 
 The dramatist is differently circumstanced. He 
 must confine his play within the limits of three, four 
 or five acts, according to the nature of the piece and 
 according to the caprice of the public taste. It may be 
 found to be judicious to write a Society play in four acts, 
 as it has been found advantageous to write a farcical 
 comedy in three acts. Melodrama is usually developed 
 in five acts, with intermittent scenes. In all this the 
 author who aspires to dramatic authorship will be 
 puzzled what line to adopt. He may conclude that his 
 play will be best confined to four acts. He may then be 
 told that there is not sufficient interest in his perform- 
 ance to warrant it being presented in four, and that it 
 should be cut down to three. The author will, under 
 these and similar circumstances, have to depend largely 
 upon his own judgment and discretion, and run the chance 
 of his work either falling or standing upon its own merits. 
 
74 THE DRAMA 
 
 The province of the novelist is that he depends 
 largely upon description for his effects, and the nature 
 of the dramatist is that he depends wholly upon dia- 
 logue. The novelist has certainly the double advantage 
 of being able to enforce his dialogue by the aid of his 
 description. The description used by the novelist must 
 be rendered by the business of the actors and the 
 theatrical accessories upon the stage. That which the 
 novelist takes such pains to describe, is already present 
 upon the stage. Any further description would be un- 
 necessary, nay, fatal to the success of the piece. The 
 scenic artist and stage-carpenter have done the work 
 which the author of the novel laboured so assiduously 
 to depict realistically, and render complete by the aid 
 and instrumentality of his powers of graphic descrip- 
 tion. The lake, the forest, the ruined castle, instead of 
 being placed before our imagination in three octavo 
 pages, are there upon the stage represented in almost 
 natural distinctness and vivid reality. 
 
 Again, the novelist has full power to mix his dia- 
 logue with the description, and hence the narrative 
 often becomes a highly interesting descriptive dialogue, 
 heightened by the sparkling wit of the characters and 
 the mutual interchange of their ideas. The dulness of 
 lengthy description is relieved by the timely appearance 
 of the hostess, the guests in the coach. The reader is 
 kept in a constant fever of excitement as to the final 
 catastrophe, which in a play is generally seen before 
 the curtain falls upon the first act. The reader of a 
 novel may wade through thirty chapters and be sur- 
 prised at the climax at the end. A breathless interest 
 
THE DRAMA 75 
 
 may be sustained, the reader enchanted, carried away by 
 the onward current of the author's thoughts, as irresistibly 
 interested as by the transitions of an exciting panorama. 
 The exquisite word-painting of Bulwer Lytton is an 
 instance which may be cited. Who has ever read his 
 works without experiencing the sensation known among 
 penny-a-liners as " breathless excitement " ? Dickens 
 was a master, in one sense the most accomplished 
 master, of that peculiar kind of loose description which 
 at once captivates and enriches the reader's imagination 
 with the multiplicity of its objects and the faithfulness 
 of the likeness. This valuable power he well understood 
 and utilised with distinguished advantage. Not alone 
 did he introduce it into the purely descriptive portions 
 of his works, he made eminent use of it in the charac- 
 terisation of his individuals and creations. The descrip- 
 tions which are placed in inverted commas and put in 
 the mouths of his characters glow with animation. It 
 is undoubtedly this element in his works which has 
 tended so much to constitute Dickens one of the 
 foremost masters of literary portraiture, and it is at 
 the same time this qualification which has been the 
 means of rendering his works unfit as plays and stage 
 representations. For the more the descriptive element 
 enters into a work of imagination, the more that work 
 will be unfitted for stage representation. It is a fact 
 as strikingly true as the conclusion of a valid syllogism, 
 that a great novelist cannot be a great, or even good, 
 dramatist. If we reason out this assertion purely by 
 analogy, we will find it correct. Henry Fielding wrote 
 comedies in his early life ; when he was matured both 
 
76 THE DRAMA 
 
 in judgment and years, he wrote a novel. He wrote plays 
 to earn a subsistence, like most of his contemporaries, 
 and it was not till he had been raised to the dignity of a 
 Justice of the Peace that he thought of writing his best 
 performance. It was not till he had passed through 
 all those vicissitudes of fortune, which in Johnson pro- 
 duced his Trip to the Hebrides, and in Goldsmith pro- 
 duced "The Deserted Village" and "The Citizen of 
 the World," that in Fielding produced " Tom Jones," 
 the work which has immortalised him. It might have 
 been supposed that, when the angry and impatient 
 creditors were kicking out the panels of his doors in 
 the Temple, he would have been impelled to exert the 
 best part of his genius to pay them off. It might have 
 been supposed that Johnson, while he was going about 
 like a half-famished wolf, dropping with hunger, in Fleet 
 Street, would have exerted himself to write the works 
 by which posterity will best remember him. Yet it 
 was not till Johnson was in comparatively easy circum- 
 stances that he wrote his account of the Hebrides and 
 his " Lives of the Poets." This class of men have 
 been generally found in good circumstances before they 
 give the best products of their minds to the world. 
 
 We shall pursue the analogy no further, but content 
 ourselves with one case, which, we think, will be suf- 
 ficiently conclusive. The comedies of Fielding are good 
 of their kind, but they sink into insignificance when 
 compared with the author's genius as exemplified in 
 "Tom Jones." And the reason appears to be because 
 what is really worthy of the author of the " Foundling " 
 is in his dramatic pieces distinctly out of place. On 
 
THE DRAMA 77 
 
 the other hand, however, the perusal of his great work 
 shows us how this is. The author who aimed at writing 
 plays was essentially a descriptive writer, and not a 
 writer of dialogue. But his dialogue was sufficiently 
 elegant and polished to be associated with his descrip- 
 tion. His description was, however, so far above his 
 dialogue, that the wonder is he ever thought of writing 
 plays at all. The only reason which suggests itself is 
 that play-writing was then the fashion, the craze, and 
 he who wished to gain public notoriety and distinction 
 could do nothing better to attain the object of his 
 ambition than by writing plays. Whether they were 
 good or bad was a matter concerning which the author 
 does not appear to have given much attention. They 
 were plays, and that was enough. They were all 
 dialogue, broken up into scenes and acts ; their characters 
 came under the title of dramatis persona, and that was 
 apparently all that was wanted. 
 
 It would have been needless, if not idle, to prolong 
 the discussion of this point further, were it not for the 
 fact that a similar school of playwriters is again spring- 
 ing up. Why an author who has been a success at novel 
 writing should become weary of that occupation where 
 he has earned reputation and profit, and waste precious 
 time upon the thankless and expensive luxury of scrib- 
 bling badly constructed plays, it is difficult to under- 
 stand. It does not appear to be natural or consistent 
 that an imaginative writer should be endowed with a 
 sufficiency of Nature's gifts to enable him to be accept- 
 able in both spheres of literature. In fact, the con- 
 sequence of his being good in one department would 
 
78 THE DRAMA 
 
 seem to imperil, if not altogether to nullify, his ability 
 in the other. A clever novelist is continually introducing 
 into his plays narrative description which is fatal to the 
 interest of the piece. A novelist may not understand 
 why his description, which is so valuable elsewhere, 
 should be of little use in a play. Were a novelist to 
 depend wholly upon his dialogue for all his effect, it 
 seems certain that his work would be of little use. Were 
 it simply description in a series of descriptive essays 
 dished up under appropriate headings, his work would 
 also be of little use. It is the amalgamation and inter- 
 mixture of the two elements which, when they are judi- 
 ciously interwoven, make a good work of fiction. The 
 novelist who has most successfully distinguished herself 
 in this respect is, we think, Ouida. Her imaginative works 
 are clearly a proof that narrative, to be interesting, must 
 be interwoven with dialogue. But she possesses the power 
 of engrafting the two elements in a higher degree of per- 
 fection than any novelist with whom we are acquainted. 
 The boldness with which she draws all her strokes of 
 characterisation is discernible in all her writings, but in 
 none more especially than in " Moths." The principal 
 characters of this novel and the surroundings are so 
 artistically moulded and adapted to the sequence of the 
 plot and the general purport of the story, that they might 
 have been the outcome of a laborious process of charac- 
 terisation and study. Yet there seems to be such spon- 
 taneity and reality among them all, that the creative 
 faculty of the author must have conceived them, not in 
 the making, rude, unfinished, and angular, but in all the 
 glow and freshness of animal life. 
 
THE DRAMA 79 
 
 It is certainly this feature more than any other 
 which has been the means of the success of " Moths " as 
 a stage performance. The whole story is dramatic, and 
 the interest is kept so vividly alive throughout the piece, 
 that the dramatic instinct must be regarded as one of 
 its chief attributes. 
 
 We cannot say that we have observed the same de- 
 gree or kind of workmanship in any of our other novelists. 
 The works of Miss Braddon on the whole, if they lack 
 anything, lack dramatic interest and intense reality. 
 In a prolific writer such as she undoubtedly is, one 
 might have looked for and expected to find numerous 
 specimens of the novelist's character, deeply studied 
 and artistically represented. Yet we cannot recall 
 one of her many works in which this character- 
 istic is eminently portrayed or represented. In " Lady 
 Audley's Secret," which is perhaps one of her most 
 dramatic works, there is no indication that the authoress, 
 although she was acquainted with the stage, rightly 
 understood the meaning and application of dramatic 
 perspective. Unquestionably she wrote not for the 
 stage, but for the fireside; nevertheless, one might 
 have expected to find developed in the initial effort 
 of a writer of such prolific resources the chief and 
 primary element which constitutes the excellence of 
 fiction. The quality in this author which has nearly 
 always best atoned for this want of literary perfection, is 
 the grasp she has always held over a situation. But 
 this in itself does not make amends for the absence of 
 dramatic perspective. The means by which a situation 
 may be rendered highly dramatic does not necessarily 
 
8o THE DRAMA 
 
 make the characters and the action of the piece dra- 
 matic. There is in Miss Braddon's works the absence 
 of force and dramatic passion which are to be found in 
 all Ouida's books. The prevailing tendency, which 
 has become the fashion, to dwell too much upon the 
 details of descriptive and epigram, to the deterioration 
 of the force of the story, must be signally detrimental 
 to any piece of fiction. Mr. Rider Haggard, in "Dawn " 
 and " The Witches' Head," has closely followed the 
 plan, which has really become a principle, that there 
 can be no interest where there is no force. The 
 absolute basis upon which the drama in its perfect 
 aspect rests, is upon the principle that passion and 
 force are the regulators of the action of the story. 
 FeeSleness can be tolerated nowhere in fiction, where 
 character and situation are the two chief ingredients 
 which guide the reader's imagination, and give colour 
 and life to the author's diction. 
 
 " Dawn " has an excellent subject for its treatment, 
 and one that can never be too fully understood and 
 scientifically discussed the passion of the human heart. 
 The subject never becomes weary where men and women 
 exist, and where there is human emotion and human 
 sympathy. And the author of " Dawn " has shown, in 
 his treatment of this all-absorbing passion, that he has 
 pried into the depths of man's and woman's heart, and 
 analysed the feelings and the desires of Nature. This he 
 has unfolded with palpable skill and power, giving ex- 
 pression, as he proceeds, to the fundamental principle 
 which governs good fiction. And as Mr. Haggard has 
 this gift in many respects superior to any one of his 
 
THE DRAMA 81 
 
 contemporaries, he has a fault which almost counter- 
 balances his other distinguishing characteristics he has 
 yet to learn the value of a judicious application of what 
 is known in authorship as " contributing circumstances." 
 His conclusions, too, are not so good as his commence- 
 ments. His contributing circumstances become prolonged 
 toward the end, and we have the initial development of a 
 new story. The welding together of trivial circumstances 
 should be made to harmonise with the general tenor of 
 the plot. Yet Mr. Haggard places too much confidence 
 in his power of creating new interest before he has 
 utilised the old. His pictures and his action towards the 
 end of his narratives are too rapidly changed, and in 
 such a way as to transfer the characters from one 
 situation to another without a sufficient reason. The 
 result is that the several parts of the story are ill- 
 balanced, and the interest, which should have been 
 continuous and consecutive, is interrupted by some new 
 circumstance which has no real object with the ultimate 
 catastrophe and consequence. These qualities are what 
 we have had the assumption to regard as faults in Mr. 
 Haggard's writing, but they are relieved by many ex- 
 cellencies, which have repeatedly been enumerated in 
 connection with his fascinating stories. 
 
 These blemishes in the style of the author of " King 
 Solomon's Mines" are not those which are found con- 
 spicuously absent in other authors, but which are rather 
 too plentifully profuse. But they are those which require 
 the presence of singularly good attributes to render toler- 
 able. We are often ready to forget a fault if there are 
 many beauties to relieve.it, and these are certainly present 
 
 6 
 
82 THE DRAMA 
 
 in this author's composition. What we cannot pardon, 
 and what we never try to excuse, is the presence of intoler- 
 able errors which any intelligence must necessarily deem 
 inconsistent with good fiction. And the preponderance 
 of errors and exaggeration we find plentifully distributed 
 in the works of nearly every novelist who depends wholly 
 on what is technically termed "inspiration." An author 
 who simply writes down what comes into his head and 
 continues to add to it by a continuance of inspired 
 description or dialogue, will surely fall into this error as 
 unmistakably as an undisciplined child will prefer doing 
 wrong. And this seems to have been the modus operandi 
 adopted by the generality of novelists and dramatists who 
 periodically appear upon the literary horizon. That they 
 do revise and amend their work goes without saying, but 
 if we were to take up some works >f fiction which issue 
 from the press, they would give us the impression of 
 being done so hastily and so spasmodically that we must 
 perforce conclude their authors acted on the principle 
 of adopting what first presented itself to their imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 As this refers to novels, so it does to dramatic 
 writing. The young author who has had little or no 
 experience in dramatic writing, usually takes the advice 
 contained in the articles of the critics. This is of 
 necessity fragmentary and loose, and, to say the least 
 of it, frequently vague and amateurish. What the 
 majority of the newspaper critics know about the 
 structure of a play we could never ascertain. And 
 yet they are heard to dilate upon the most abstruse 
 problems of stage craft and effect, as if they were 
 
THE DRAMA 83 
 
 minutely acquainted with the whole process of stage 
 management. Nevertheless, they do occasionally give 
 some good advice to the young author after they have 
 almost annihilated him with their sarcasms. The 
 young dramatic author has much to learn, and yet he 
 has almost insuperable difficulties placed in his path 
 when he begins his novitiate. There is something 
 peculiarly aggravating in an author being told off-hand 
 that his play failed because he did not fulfil the laws 
 of the drama. The frantic author may well enquire 
 what the laws of the drama really are, and the critics 
 would be clever fellows if they could inform him. The 
 fact is, there is nothing which could go by the name 
 law in connection with the drama. It is a convenient 
 way of appearing as if the critics knew a great deal 
 more about playwriting than the author himself, when 
 in reality they generally know nothing. We never have 
 read a criticism upon a play which the critic regarded 
 as a failure, which gave us the impression that the 
 critic could have done better, or, indeed, done as well. 
 And yet they speak from a pedestal of judgment, as 
 though they were a quorum of judges settling a simple 
 point of law, or an assembly of surgeons examining a 
 medical student. No doubt, these worthy Pressmen 
 are well-intentioned, and have very high notions of 
 the art of which they are champions; but, until they 
 become more explicit upon technical points of the 
 dramatist's art, it must be concluded they know little 
 about^the science of dramatic criticism. 
 
 The dramatic critic should give the author all the 
 assistance in his power, and he should place before 
 
 62 
 
84 THE DRAMA 
 
 him a systematic enunciation of the faults he may have 
 committed, and he should explain himself simply and 
 intelligibly. Why is it that critics do not do this ? 
 The answer suggests itself they have not the technical 
 knowledge, the scientific acquaintance with the litera- 
 ture of the drama and the theatre which they should 
 possess, the absence of which they seek to conceal by 
 a literary excresence euphemistically dubbed " dramatic 
 criticism." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 THE DRAMA: ITS INFLUENCE. DOES IT EDUCATE? 
 
 THERE are few more debatable questions than that 
 which is constantly enquiring whether or not the drama 
 acts as a factor of influence, and whether that influence 
 is a good one. Has the drama in its legitimate bearing 
 any educational influence, and how does that influence 
 operate ? Those who are fit to reason upon this point 
 are only those who have any connection with the drama 
 either as playgoers, dramatists, or actors. Those who 
 remain at home and shudder at the very thought of 
 witnessing a play are certainly those whose opinion can- 
 not be of any great value. Grave charges have been, 
 and we suppose will continue to be, made against the 
 theatres, because many people see, or say they see, in them 
 a direct means of going astray. They sum up the entire 
 situation by saying that the influence of plays is bad, 
 intolerable, and hence young people, and even grown 
 people, should not go to the theatre. Many excellent 
 clergymen have repeatedly put their veto upon the 
 question by denouncing the theatre as a place of amuse- 
 ment, and regard it as one of those evils with which 
 society is pestered. It is simply another case where one 
 story is good till another is told. The examination of 
 the pros and cons of the question cannot fail to be highly 
 interesting. 
 
86 THE DRAMA 
 
 There is, and necessarily must be, a close relationship 
 between the drama of an age and the literature of that 
 age. Now, unquestionably, literature has an influence, 
 and a powerful influence, upon the reading public ; and 
 as the drama and literature are closely allied, one being 
 simply an exponent of the other, the drama and the 
 theatre must have a proportional influence upon the 
 educated community. That an age and a society have 
 been and are the means of creating a literary epoch, and 
 that the nature of that literature is affected by the age 
 (and not vice versa], it will be readily admitted at the 
 outset that the people are not reflected by the drama, 
 but the drama by the people. It is not the drama which 
 creates the people, but the people who create the drama. 
 There never was a clearer case of this than during the 
 Restoration period when Farquhar and Wycherley 
 wrote. The dramatic works of that period were affected 
 by the predominating tastes of the Court and the 
 populace. The age previous to the Restoration is 
 another proof. The Puritans regarded the theatre 
 and the drama with befitting horror and detestation. 
 These are examples, then, of the influence of society upon 
 the drama, and they might be enlarged by others taken 
 from the Continental schools of drama, which, like ours, 
 have from time to time received periodical and spas- 
 modic changes and fluctuations. 
 
 The fact, therefore, that the drama is influenced by 
 the people is not plainer than that the people are 
 influenced by the drama. That they are influenced is 
 one matter, how they are influenced is quite another. 
 All sensible people, we are sure, will readily admit that 
 
THE DRAMA 87 
 
 persons who would have been virtuous and respect- 
 able citizens before they saw a play of questionable 
 morality would continue to be virtuous after they had 
 seen it that is, if they were destined to be virtuous at 
 all. It is almost impossible to believe that a young 
 lady who had been brought up in an atmosphere of 
 morality would suddenly become immoral because she 
 saw what has been termed an immoral play. It seems 
 more difficult still to understand why clergymen who 
 preach against the drama, allow young women of tender 
 and impressionable years to read and study the Bible, 
 when there are expressed in the Scriptures references 
 unfit for any delicately constituted mind. There cer- 
 tainly never was introduced into a play of any kind 
 such expressions as are to be found in the Bible, which 
 every child is taught to understand. Why the drama 
 should be censured and the Bible propagated, when 
 there never was anything equally immoral in the former 
 compared with the latter, is, indeed, difficult to under- 
 stand. And if clergymen were broached upon the 
 subject, there is only one way by which they could get 
 out of the dilemma, and that is by using the same 
 argument that has been used again and again in favour 
 of the drama. 
 
 We have a parallel case in literature. The ancient 
 classics are as conspicuous for their immorality as they 
 are for being examples of great literary genius. The 
 comedies of Aristophanes, and others of a kindred nature, 
 are subjects for examination at our universities. These 
 have been edited and sub -edited by reverend and right 
 reverend commentators, and students^ are yearly ex- 
 
88 THE DRAMA 
 
 amined in them. Evidently, these learned dignitaries of 
 the Church are under the impression that the minds of 
 the students will not be wrongly influenced by these 
 classic writings and the broad suggestions which they 
 contain. There is a wealth of meaning in this com- 
 parison, and, if it be rightly understood to mean that the 
 works of these classical authors are useful to students, 
 then the works of modern dramatists must also be useful. 
 Perhaps one of the most immoral poems which 
 have been written within recent years is Byron's 
 " Don Juan," and yet as a whole this poem is not 
 any more immoral or hurtful than ^Tennyson's " In 
 Memoriam." If a few passages in the former were 
 excised it would not be immoral at all. But admitting 
 that it is immoral, in what does its immorality consist ? 
 It consists in the general association of incident with 
 what is usually connected with equivocal meanings. 
 The reader, reading between the lines, has no very 
 difficult task in ascertaining what the real meaning of 
 the author is, and the meaning is decidedly not of the 
 purest. But here it ends. The palpable and apparent 
 viciousness too frequently found amalgamated with 
 poems and plays requires no defence, and is deserving 
 of none. But to condemn altogether either poems or 
 plays ipso facto on this account is hardly right. It is 
 most emphatically wrong to encourage these perform- 
 ances; they may be hurtful in many cases. But in 
 many other cases they may serve to show a valuable 
 connecting link between the literature which exists 
 and the character of the people who have adopted 
 that literature. 
 
THE 
 
 The stage has within recent years undergone a 
 marked change in its character; time has wrought 
 many significant changes, and time will doubtless bring 
 many more. The amount of temptation which at 
 present exists will be lessened as the stage becomes 
 gradually purified. The stage to-day, we are convinced, 
 offers no greater facilities for temptation and its con- 
 sequences than the drawing-room or the ball-room. 
 It is not the place which makes the temptation, it is 
 the people themselves ; and the people of the stage are 
 as good and pure as the people off it, and in very 
 many cases a great deal better. The old worn out 
 cry against the stage has had its day; people have 
 ceased to hum and haw, and shake their heads about 
 matters concerning which they are for the most part 
 almost, if not entirely, ignorant. 
 
 The question may now be considered : Does the drama 
 act as an educational force and medium ? The influence 
 exerted by dramatic literature and dramatic representa- 
 tions has always exercised an influence upon the people, 
 acting as a reflection of the particular time in which the 
 drama has existed. This influence in itself is, unques- 
 tionably, of an educational value, because it places the 
 reader and the spectator in direct communication with 
 the literary characteristics of the respective epochs in 
 which any literary works flourished. We have a forcible 
 example of this in the plays bequeathed to us of the Resto- 
 ration period, in which can be clearly seen the popu- 
 lar tastes of the people who supported the drama, and 
 upon whom the drama depended for support. We can 
 observe in the dramatic works of the French School the 
 
90 THE DRAMA 
 
 peculiar and pervading tone which distinguished the 
 popular vices. And thus in the entire range of literature 
 we can plainly perceive the predominating influence 
 exerted upon the drama by the people. 
 
 It is a mistake to suppose that the drama itself 
 has any influence upon a people, except, of course, the 
 momentary emotional impression, which is forgotten 
 in twenty-four hours, and is seldom renewed until 
 the play is again seen. Dramatic works, in their 
 primary influence upon a people or an audience, are 
 only impressions given to the mind, and which soon 
 afterwards leave the mind. But their value in a relative 
 sense is quite a distinct matter, and deserves some 
 consideration. The value of placing human nature 
 before human nature, the one in an abstract sense, the 
 other in the concrete sense, has been repeatedly shown 
 to be useful. The novel which displays an intimate 
 acquaintance with human passion and emotion, and 
 places the reader in a position to judge of the emotions 
 which regulate the heart and the mind this is, surely, 
 a valuable acquisition. But the novel or the play, or 
 the work of imagination, whatever it may be, which 
 not only does this, but induces the reader, or the 
 spectator, to know himself, or herself, better than 
 before, and thus knowing human nature itself better 
 is a valuable means of education. Education in its 
 least arbitrary sense means, we understand, the general 
 as well as particular impressions given to the mind. 
 The particular impressions are often found valueless, 
 where the general impression has been of considerable 
 utility and importance. It is often, moreover, almost 
 
THE DRAMA 91 
 
 an impossibility to gain a particular impression where 
 the general impression is not only a sequence but a 
 consequence of the original contact with the thing 
 giving the impression. Thus an audience witnessing 
 The Profligate, for example, receive a particular im- 
 pression in the mere spoken words as they form the 
 dialogue of the play, but they receive, likewise, im- 
 portant and general impressions when the curtain 
 descends after the last act. The general impression, 
 which in this case is more valuable, is one which an 
 audience is not likely to forget, and one which carries 
 with it a lesson and a moral, which no sermon which 
 we have ever heard has placed in so conspicuous and 
 telling a contrast with the workings of passion and 
 the operations of emotion. Here, then, the general im- 
 pression given by the play is valuable because it serves 
 the very useful purpose of teaching a great moral lesson, 
 which, in many respects, cannot be so forcibly taught in 
 any other form whatever. The fact that this lesson and 
 this moral are told in a manner which carries with it an 
 amount of suggestive immorality is no proof or argument 
 that the object of the play is not good and valuable. We 
 cannot think how anybody who had seen a performance 
 of The Profligate would, in consequence of seeing it, 
 become a profligate, or be at all influenced in that direc- 
 tion. On the contrary, we are strongly tempted to be- 
 lieve that the person who had been a profligate before 
 seeing the play would be overcome by the force of 
 the plot and the final consequences of the story, and 
 be made better, if only for a time. It may be set 
 up as an argument that people who have no knowledge 
 
92 THE DRAMA 
 
 of wickedness should not be tempted to read an expo- 
 sition on wickedness, or a play containing the elements 
 of wickedness developed and laid bare before them as 
 those good people might thereby become bad. There is 
 unquestionably a certain amount of soundness in this 
 system of argument, which with a class of people has 
 become a favourite method of refutation. When ex- 
 amined, however, it reveals a miserable subterfuge 
 which is quite valueless as a means of argumentative 
 proof. We make bold to affirm there is nobody except a 
 confirmed simpleton or an absolute idiot, who does not 
 understand the ways, and especially the bad ways, of 
 this world after reaching a certain age. That the 
 wickedness of this unfortunate world of ours is, in its 
 abstract sense, made concrete by intuition and instinct, 
 requires no syllogistic inference to show. Observation, 
 intelligence, intercourse with one's fellow creatures, carry 
 with them the means of acquiring, in spite of ourselves, 
 the baseness and the dissimulation of mankind. Every 
 schoolgirl who is not deaf, dumb or blind, knows as well, 
 in the abstract, the wickedness of the world as the 
 veriest profligate knows it in the concrete. And we 
 cannot understand why that schoolgirl would be trans- 
 formed into a profligate by seeing such a play as The 
 Profligate produced upon the stage. The child or the 
 youth either understands wickedness in the abstract, or 
 it does not. It knows as well as the grown up man or 
 woman that it is wrong to steal, swear or blaspheme, 
 and the fact of its hearing these practices condemned 
 will not in the slightest cause the child to commit 
 any of these offences. Then, if from the pulpit these 
 
THE DRAMA 93 
 
 criminal actions are condemned, why may not similar 
 actions be condemned from the stage ? / 
 
 It is very seldom any play is performed which carries 
 with it a bad or questionable moral lesson. Indeed, the 
 business of the play during late years has been, not to 
 encourage wickedness, but to chastise it and hold it up 
 to derision. There has been, unfortunately, a period 
 in our dramatic annals when nearly everything that was 
 vicious and immoral was held up for admiration, or, at 
 all events, presented to the people in such a manner and 
 under such a systematic cloak of disguise, that it was 
 admired and applauded. We now allude to the comic 
 dramatists of the Restoration. It would, however, be 
 illogical to argue that, because these plays were bad and 
 injurious to the morals, both public and private, all plays 
 are to be condemned. Such has been the line of argu- 
 ment adopted by the majority of those who have seen 
 nothing in our dramatic literature but what was bad and 
 contemptible. They forget the many useful lessons, 
 both social and moral, which have been, and which con- 
 tinue to be, taught from the footlights and from the pages 
 of dramatic literature. They forget that the object of 
 the drama was originally intended as a popular medium 
 by which great sacred truths were disseminated among 
 the people. The drama was, in its primary condition, a 
 means by which the monks taught the people such 
 mysteries and miracles as were contained in biblical 
 creeds. The object of the drama has not changed to 
 any very great extent since then. It has undergone 
 many vicissitudes and alterations, and its object is to- 
 day to give the people representations of truths which, 
 
94 THE DRAMA 
 
 although they are expounded from the pulpit, are not 
 there developed and sustained before the people with the 
 characteristic effects of theatrical representations. 
 
 No lover of art can consistently condemn the theatre 
 and the stage because its past history has been sullied 
 by literature not altogether fit for gentle and refined 
 minds. No literature, whether it be dramatic or other- 
 wise, has been altogether free from the impure tendency 
 of the Middle and succeeding ages; and to condemn 
 that literature would be as foolish as to condemn the 
 Scriptures. Every sensitive man or woman who has 
 any regard for the niceties and refinements of life will 
 always do well to discourage immorality and impurity 
 in every shape and form, but when our drama is now 
 comparatively free from all innuendos and all sugges- 
 tiveness, there surely should be a lull, for some time, 
 at least, in the whirlwind of passionate invective, which 
 has been employed against the literature of the English 
 drama. 
 
 |_It may now be reasonably deduced that the drama 
 does educate, and forms, moreover, a very useful and 
 important factor in our educational system^ The 
 development which has taken place during recent 
 years has been owing, in a great measure, to the 
 efforts of Sir Henry Irving, whose whole life has been 
 spent in the cause of the drama's elevation. To others 
 the same praise may be extended. Dramatic authors 
 have been keen in their appreciation of the tendency 
 of the age, and in their works have been careful to 
 avoid those causes from which the drama has so often 
 suffered condemnation. The most recent element in 
 
THE DRAMA 95 
 
 our drama has been the introduction of the woman 
 with the past, and the man with the past. The past 
 has been generally, if not always, a bad one, and there- 
 fore, as a dramatic representation, it has been chosen 
 as an interesting one. The reason for its being interest- 
 ing is because it is so common, and because, therefore, 
 many people wish to understand the final end of anyone 
 who has a past. These plays have been christened, and 
 very properly so too, '* Society plays." Society in its 
 real bearing upon the drama gives its sanction to what- 
 ever affects itself, and nowhere has it been so emphatic 
 in this respect as when it ushered in the play after its 
 own heart. 
 
 It would be difficult to define the real meaning of a 
 Society play : a definition is altogether out of the 
 question. But, probably, it would not be far wrong to 
 say that the Society play is one which treats of a Sdciety 
 scandal ; at all events, in nearly every play regarded as a 
 Society play, there is always some intrigue which is 
 applicable, more or less, to the upper classes of society. 
 Moths is one ; The Second Mrs. Tanqueray is another. 
 These plays, although they may be regarded at first 
 sight as tending to destroy the fine moral fibre which 
 we are all supposed to possess (but which, we are afraid, 
 very few of us do possess in that ideal state which we 
 ought), will not be so harshly considered when the lesson 
 which they teach is properly understood. It has now 
 been generally accepted that that only is immoral which 
 tends to place immorality attractively before the minds 
 of the susceptible. The drama of the present day does 
 not do this. It places the villain and the intriguers in 
 
9 6 THE DRAMA 
 
 the most despicable contrast to the hero and the heroine, 
 always giving the palm to the virtuous man and woman. 
 If, then, this is the case, the drama, as a work of art, 
 should be patronised and utilised as a means for which 
 it was originally intended, to give a correct representa- 
 tion of the human passions in the manner most consistent 
 with the refinement of the people. 
 
 That the drama should be regarded as a means of 
 educational influence there can, then, be little doubt. 
 Whether the drama should be, or can be, made the 
 vehicle for the discussion of psychological problems and 
 metaphysical mysteries, is a question which has been 
 frequently and openly discussed. Whether the stage 
 is the proper place for the examination of cause and 
 effect, or for the enunciation of mental vagaries and 
 phenomena ; or whether such conundrums should be 
 left for the psychological student in his class-room or 
 study, we think is only answerable in one way. The 
 theatre is a place for amusement, and not for debating 
 the subtelties of mental phenomena, which even the com- 
 bined minds of John Stuart Mill and Sir W. Hamilton 
 could but imperfectly solve. That the stage is a plat- 
 form of huge educational influence and importance is 
 a fact there is no disputing, but few really seriously 
 apply to it for the solution of intricate and endless meta- 
 physical problems. The theatre in its proper sphere 
 is more useful as an open album of historical por- 
 traiture, wherein the public may see reflected the face, 
 voice, expression and physique of past generations, of 
 which it can glean little, and that only imperfectly, from 
 the necessarily crude pages of the historical essayist. 
 
THE DRAMA 97 
 
 These remarks apply most immediately to the drama in 
 its relation to dramatic literature and representation, not 
 only to productions at the Lyceum, but also to the three- 
 act comedy of the lesser satellites of the histrionic fir- 
 mament. 
 
 The comedy of the present age will exhibit to the 
 people of to-day their own forms and features, while a 
 hundred years hence our posterity will see us as we now 
 see the people who were photographed by such men as 
 Sheridan and Goldsmith. This means of impressing 
 upon the everlasting page of historical tradition the 
 peculiar and distinguishing characteristics of ages that 
 come and go, constitutes an invaluable series of con- 
 secutive chapters in the world's history, which cannot be 
 over-estimated in its endeavour to portray glimpses 
 of our dramatic and histrionic ancestry ; so will pos- 
 terity in turn be thankful and gracious in their ac- 
 knowledgments for what has been done and written 
 during this our epoch. The glory of one age is a bright 
 inheritance for its successors, and it is often that the real 
 value of one era is not recognised fully till it has passed 
 away, and leaves only its recollection and impression in 
 the volume of literary and historical post mortem examina- 
 tion. 
 
 It may, then, be safely concluded that the drama in its 
 legitimate and, therefore, artistic sense is a medium for 
 educational good, and, as such, there can be no valid 
 reason for its condemnation. Ephemeral knowledge of 
 things and especially of an artistic or scientific nature 
 often leads to fallacious conclusions which may be hurt- 
 ful to the progress, or, at all events, the correct estima- 
 
 7 
 
98 THE DRAMA 
 
 tion of human genius. Those who either deny or fail to 
 acknowledge, without equivocation, the substantial re- 
 lationship of the drama to the diffusion of useful know- 
 ledge, must be either blindly adhesive to inherent bigotry 
 or altogether inconsistent with the accepted principles 
 and canons of universal education. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 SOCIETY PLAYS AND THEIR RELATION TO THE DRAMA 
 
 A NEW epoch has undoubtedly been introduced into 
 the modern drama by the " Society play." It carries 
 with it the works of an entirely new school, which 
 has been opened at a critical era in the history of 
 our drama. The modern school of English drama is 
 essentially a national institution, and one which is 
 significant of the taste of the public. And nowhere, 
 perhaps, is there such a striking instance of this than 
 in the latest school of comedy we mean the Society 
 play. There is a peculiar characteristic in this pro- 
 duction, containing an element of innovation which, 
 in some respects, is singularly novel and artistic. And 
 the novelty of the play, or, rather, the manner in 
 which it is designed, presents an index of the coming 
 generation of writers of light comedy. The Society 
 play, as it at present exists, is a development in a 
 polite way of the innuendoes of the early comedies, 
 refined and reset to suit the present age. The skill 
 which is employed in moulding a dramatic situation 
 in a crisp and neatly written setting of dialogue seems 
 to us to be the lever and the thumbscrew by which 
 the dramatist of to-day seeks to reach the climax of 
 his dramatic construction. The materials of which the 
 dramatist composes his dramatic structure are those 
 
 72 
 
ioo THE DRAMA 
 
 which can never become wearisome, because they form 
 one of the most important portions, of social inter- 
 course, namely, the relationship which exists between 
 the sexes. All the attending circumstances which belong, 
 either naturally or unnaturally, to the many vicissitudes 
 which have during all time been associated with married 
 and single life, offer the dramatist opportunities for 
 plot and the exposition of passion, which are generally 
 welcomed as side lights upon a great and burning topic ; 
 a topic which becomes warm by debate and red-hot 
 by the animation of its own intrinsic particles. The 
 dramatists of the Restoration gave us an open page 
 of worldly philosophy upon the same subject that is 
 treated day after day in our homes and police-courts, 
 our novels and our dramas. They viewed the subject 
 according to the complexion which had been given to 
 it by the popular voice. They spoke for the people 
 and to the people, and they succeeded in making that 
 people now appear to have been very wicked and 
 profligate indeed. But society was not so bad as it 
 has often been painted, and the same amount of dis- 
 cretion should be exercised in the examination of the 
 morals of comedy of past generations as we now exercise 
 in the other extravagances which from time to time 
 require our scrutiny. 
 
 Like other things, society has improved, and plays 
 have happily improved with it ; and to-day we have our 
 literature ornamented with plays which, if they bear a 
 resemblance to the dramas of past generations, are a 
 great deal more artistic in their conception, and are, in 
 many cases, more valuable examples of literary ex- 
 
THE DRAMA 101 
 
 cellence. The British drama, as far as it affects our 
 social state, is, to a great extent, guarded by the general 
 judgment of the people. The author feels the pulse of 
 his audience, partly by the aid of experience and partly 
 by intuition. The writer's own natural resources are 
 necessarily exercised in the structure and composition, 
 not only of the dialogue and the plot, but also in the 
 surroundings in which the play is at the time cast. Both 
 the dialogue, the plot, and the surroundings are individu- 
 ally, as they form the entire whole, dependent upon the 
 audience for their primary and initial degree of realism 
 and applicability. The acting drama, as it is an appeal 
 to a people, and in some cases to classes of people, has 
 perforce to receive its complexion from the epoch which 
 gives it birth, and its character from the brain and 
 influence of the author. Thus, plays which are great 
 successes to-day may fifty years hence be considered 
 mere obsolete compositions, valuable only as they give 
 their index to the condition of the drama as it now exists. 
 The temperament of the public and the peculiar mood in 
 which they are at the time when a play is produced, is 
 a matter which every author who is desirous of success 
 must be careful to study. All the influences which bear 
 upon our social condition, and which are inseparable 
 from our national state, are reflected in the plays of 
 every era in our history ; and the carefully adjusted 
 principles of the author's art and observation are here 
 most signally displayed when he gives us a correct like- 
 ness of our manners and customs. The especial manner 
 in which the author manipulates the implements of his 
 work will, of course, depend upon his own insight into 
 
102 THE DRAMA 
 
 human nature and all the innumerable attributes which 
 are associated with our being and existence. Hence the 
 writer, to succeed in any marked degree at playwriting, 
 must be a student of human nature, and a diligent 
 observer of its laws and fallacies. ' Holding the mirror 
 up to Nature is the principle which should actuate all 
 imaginative writing, whether it be simply speculative or 
 fictional. 
 
 The Society play, in its extensive application to our 
 drama, has made an attempt, and a very respectable 
 attempt, to reflect phases of our Society and its charac- 
 teristics in a dramatic representation of incidents which 
 are familiar to most people interested in the movements 
 of Society. 
 
 Indeed, the Society play has been the means of giving 
 a sensitive medium to our drama, a medium with which 
 it connects the higher and more ideal state of the drama 
 with the broad comedy of the old schools, and gives, also, 
 an enlargement and development of mental emotions 
 which have not been previously analysed. For this we 
 owe much both to Mr. A. W. Pinero, Mr. Sidney Grundy, 
 and those who have followed them. Mr. Henry Arthur 
 Jones has given several examples of his brilliant qualities 
 as an author of thoroughly good plays. These three 
 playwrights occur to us as being the founders of the 
 school which has given us the Society play properly so 
 called. The Profligate is one of the most powerful and 
 moving plays of the century. The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, 
 and other plays from Mr. Pinero's pen, are examples of 
 this author's keen insight into the dark recesses of the 
 human heart. The exposition in these works of the 
 
THE DRAMA 103 
 
 workings of material passion gives us a reflection of 
 ourselves as we are, and as we frequently think and act. 
 These are studies of human character which will live, 
 doubtless, as long as our language. Great practical and 
 religious lessons may be taught and learnt by the Society 
 play, and, indeed, were such not the case its value would 
 be greatly diminished. Its moving force and penetrating 
 influence would be, perhaps, lost if it existed in any other 
 shape. At all events, it shows us Nature undisguised, 
 except through the thin veil of art, which just serves to 
 hide the deep scars and sores which are, unfortunately, 
 too painfully present on the body of our social system. 
 If a great crime has been committed, or a great wrong 
 done, it is not for us to hide it or put the guilt where it 
 cannot be examined. We should rather look closely into 
 it, and study its impression upon ourselves. Therefore, 
 if it be granted, and we think it must, that the Society 
 play gives us an unexaggerated reflection of our social 
 system in some particular respects, it follows, if we adhere 
 to deductive reasoning, that its influence is useful and 
 good. The fault would rather lie if the author, instead 
 of attempting to give us an impression of the existing 
 state, gave us, rather, an imaginative state, worse than 
 that which really is. But as long as an author adheres 
 to the real, hi this connection at all events, his course 
 will be so far secure, and undoubtedly beneficial. 
 
 In no play, and certainly in no Society play, have we 
 noticed any attempt on the part of the author to secure 
 the final object of his initial undertaking. And there 
 appears with the comedy of the present day, and es- 
 pecially in the imaginative comedy, a desire to introduce 
 
104 THE DRAMA 
 
 a story depending for its development upon an intrigue 
 which may have happened before the play begins, and 
 which is unfolded as it proceeds. This idea is centered 
 most realistically, not only in The Second Mrs. Tanquemy, 
 but in all the plays of the same school which have since 
 appeared. Sowing the Wind is another example. We 
 remember seeing the announcement of this play in 
 London when it first appeared. It had a good run, and 
 yet very little was said about it. The newspapers were, 
 for the most part, silent as to the progress it was making 
 in the public favour, and we came to the conclusion that 
 there could not be very much backbone in it. It was 
 not till we were in Cork that we saw it at the Opera 
 House there by a good touring company, with Miss Lena 
 Ashwell in the principal part. The cause of its success 
 was then easily understood. The novel rendering of an 
 old dramatic situation was carefully worked out by Mr. 
 Grundy with exquisite skill and workmanlike finish. 
 There was the master's hand in every line of it. jThe 
 immoral basis, which keeps the public judiciously quiet, 
 but which fills the theatre, was consummately introduced 
 and interwoven in a highly dramatic manner. This, we 
 believe, is the reason why the play had the success it de- 
 served. Mr. Grundy recognised the necessity of placing 
 upon paper an analysis of a great story, and in doing so 
 he was judicious in giving it the tone and morals of a 
 recent age. However much a dramatist may admire 
 his own art, he must also exercise a partiality for the 
 tastes and distastes of the public for which he caters. 
 The successful dramatist soon finds this out. In fact, 
 his success is the best proof that he has already found 
 
THE DRAMA 105 
 
 it out. He then acts upon the broad and commercial 
 value of popular applause. He ceases for the while to 
 regard art so seriously, or, at all events, that Utopian 
 state of art about which young dramatists rave un- 
 ceasingly. When they do make a hit it is generally 
 because they have found it unprofitable to adhere to 
 their mystical views on " Art for art's sake," and, being 
 sensible for once, turn their attention to the more cosmo- 
 politan labour of pleasing the public. Finding that 
 this succeeds they congratulate themselves as clever 
 fellows, and inwardly determine to adopt in the future 
 the best thing that pays. 
 
 This is exactly the principle upon which the Society 
 play is constructed. An immoral intrigue is made the 
 origin of the plot, and around this the dramatist weaves 
 his thread of narrative, balanced here and there by in- 
 tervals of passionate appeal and speech-making, which 
 he knows from experience, and an intimate acquaintance 
 with an audience, will form a good and telling situation. 
 He finds, too, from his commercial instincts, that a 
 plot which is in every sense real, and of daily occur- 
 rence in ordinary life, will be best likely to succeed. 
 Knowing, moreover, that it is the real, and not the 
 ideal, which pays, he introduces a theme and a situa- 
 tion in which any man and woman could easily be 
 placed, and, indeed, a situation in which men and 
 women are placed every hour of the day. Take Mr. 
 Pinero's play, The Profligate, for example. There are 
 situations in this piece which are not only possible, 
 but exceedingly probable. The writer has made the 
 narrative consecutive and consistent to suit the pur- 
 
io6 THE DRAMA 
 
 pose of stage representation ; but, in the most straggling 
 and fragmentary arrangement, the play would have been 
 intensely interesting. And why ? Simply because the 
 idea of the author has been a plain and straight- 
 forward reflection of real life an image before which 
 the mirror has been held up, and Nature, in her naked- 
 ness, exposed with unerring accuracy and precision. 
 All this, then, is art engaged in the presentation of 
 the really natural. We think now and we always 
 have thought, despite the modern theory about ideality 
 and all that sort of thing that the drama of the future, 
 as in the past, will depend largely upon the dramatist's 
 skill in revealing the truly natural. A dramatist may 
 try to idealise Nature in her dependence upon natural 
 laws and customs, but to attempt anything irrelevant to 
 Nature's own self will never, we are convinced, render 
 the drama popular, and certainly not profitable. The 
 patrons of the drama are always anxious to see them- 
 selves reflected as they are, as they might be, and, in 
 all probability, may be. They wish to see a picture of 
 truth breathing, speaking out of the canvas, feeling 
 and acting as they themselves feel and act. We have 
 had this systematically worked out in John-a-Dreams, 
 by Mr. Haddon Chambers. In this play the author has 
 done his best to depict a natural sequence of events 
 which might happen at any time. 
 
 The essential element in all drama must be truth, 
 fidelity, and precision, and these elements must, in turn, 
 be revealed in a series of consecutive scenes and acts 
 digested by the skill of the dramatist. The Society play, 
 a welcome addition to our dramatic literature, is the 
 
THE DRAMA 107 
 
 newest and latest experiment in support of this con- 
 tention a contention which has, we are glad to say, 
 been generally accepted as a rule and first principle. 
 
 The distinctive merit which the Society play seems 
 to us to possess, independent of its endeavour to add 
 novelty or innovation to our dramatic epoch, is the 
 precedent it affords to the rising generation of dramatic 
 authors. The pioneer play is generally looked upon 
 askance for the first term of its existence, at least, and 
 it is not till it has fairly gripped the public that authors 
 begin to imitate, and managers to encourage it. The 
 patronage of the public is, doubtless, the first and most 
 important consideration, and the weight of their opinion 
 is of more consequence than the combined efforts of 
 half-a-dozen leading newspaper critics. Perhaps the 
 most melodramatic Society play is The Second Mrs. 
 Tanqueray, but this was not a pioneer play in the 
 absolute sense of the term. The Profligate was more 
 a pioneer play than the other, and, no doubt, in a 
 great measure prepared the people for it. Yet The 
 Profligate as a play was dissimilar to Tanqueray, but 
 they, nevertheless, bore a common resemblance in the 
 fact that they touched upon a theme closely connected 
 with the recognised moral code of nineteenth century 
 society. To Mr. Pinero belongs the credit of handling 
 this subject in a broad and comprehensive manner, 
 and, although it must be agreed he has treated the 
 subject in a harsh manner, yet he has given us a crisp 
 and scholarly sketch of social life as it may exist, not 
 only in his own imagination, but in that of everyone 
 who sees or reads his plays. 
 
io8 THE DRAMA 
 
 It may, perhaps, be objected that the subject upon 
 which The Second Mrs. Tanqueray is constructed is 
 unhealthy, and, in a sense, false to nature. If by 
 " unhealthy " is meant that the morality which this 
 play contains is not fit for the general public to hear 
 or experience, we must beg leave to differ. Morality 
 is not interested in the question at all. If a people are 
 to be influenced by a play, they will be influenced by 
 anything. We do not mean for a moment to under- 
 value the influence of the play, and of the theatre. Our 
 conviction that they are both useful is far too strong 
 for that, but we do mean to say that the morals ex- 
 pounded in such plays as these which have been 
 designated Society plays, will never materially injure 
 anyone. Our candid opinion is this, that the person 
 who thoroughly understands, or thinks he understands, 
 the analysis of morality, and consequently of immor- 
 ality as applied to the stage, knows full well both 
 what is wrong and what is right. That such a person 
 in his proper senses could be injured by seeing any 
 Society play performed is beyond our comprehension. 
 On the other hand, we do not think that such plays 
 should be selected by fond parents for their children's 
 amusement, when their minds are still impressionable, 
 and their judgment improperly seasoned. It is time 
 enough to let young men and women into the secrets of 
 life's wickedness when time and experience have led the 
 way. And any young woman (we won't speak of the 
 young man) who in her simplicity of heart and mind, 
 sees such plays as The Profligate or The Second Mrs. 
 Tanqueray will have a most excellent opinion of the 
 
THE DRAMA 109 
 
 world if she does not discover therein a great deal 
 of wickedness. When she finds that such baseness 
 does exist, why, she must be a model young lady if 
 she does not open her eyes very wide, and look round 
 upon everybody with the utmost astonishment and 
 bewilderment. However, for these good young people 
 such plays were never intended, and it would be a 
 very sorry thing if they were. Those who make a 
 practice of seeing them are past, far past, the impres- 
 sionable stage, and do not fear the 1 influence of " the 
 woman with a past." 
 
 The morality of the nineteenth century, and more 
 especially the morality of the latter half in which we 
 live, is most decidedly of a progressive nature. The age 
 signifies progress, but it does not signify that it should 
 be more unusual than its predecessors. What it does 
 signify, and what we intend these remarks to signify, is 
 not to place the public in the path of immorality, but to 
 place them in the best position of meeting it and com- 
 bating its devilish ingenuity to seduce our better in- 
 stincts. It may be objected that such plays as we 
 have enumerated are not calculated to assist many in 
 this design. That is just exactly what we do mean. 
 People must be taught what is wrong, as well as what is 
 right, otherwise they would be playing at blind-man's- 
 buff, groping in the dark, falling over each other's feet, 
 not knowing, in a word, where or when to turn. It is 
 always a lame excuse to give for falling into error, that 
 we did not know it was wrong. The people should be 
 taught what is wrong, and, so long as they are taught 
 this useful acquirement, it is then their own fault if they 
 
no THE DRAMA 
 
 do wrong. We feel absolutely assured that the criminal 
 will no more be made a saint by intercourse with all that 
 is good, than the saint will be made a criminal by inter- 
 course with all that is bad. Macaulay has put the case 
 on the most reasonable basis when he declared that, 
 " The virtue which the world wants is a healthful virtue, 
 not a valetudinarian virtue, a virtue which can expose 
 itself to the risks inseparable from all spirited exertion, 
 not a virtue which keeps out of the common air for fear 
 of infection, and eschews the common food as too stimu- 
 lating. It would be, indeed, absurd to attempt to keep 
 men from acquiring those qualifications which fit them to 
 play their part in life with honour to themselves and 
 advantage to their country, for the sake of preserving a 
 delicacy which cannot be preserved ; a delicacy which a 
 walk from Westminster to the Temple is sufficient to 
 destroy." 
 
 Macaulay was proving why such comedies as the 
 Athenian of ancient and the Restoration of modern times 
 should be read by all whose duty it is to be equipped 
 with a liberal and classical education. In the same way, 
 and by exactly the same process of reasoning, we might 
 show why the comedies or tragedies labelled " Society 
 plays," which contain questionable morality, should be, 
 or, at least, may be, witnessed by all who are desirous of 
 watching the current of progress of the literary world of 
 to-day. We say literary because the drama is a part, 
 and a very considerable part, of our literature ; and 
 knowledge of the one is incomplete if not accompanied 
 by a knowledge of the other. 
 
 We do not in the least degree attempt to set up an 
 
THE DRAMA in 
 
 apology for equivocal morality, either on the stage or 
 off it. We believe, and we think we are right in believing, 
 that the stage and its morality affects the general public 
 very little. But we do believe that the public affect the 
 morality of the stage. There is, then, something akin to 
 incongruity in a public creating something which it after- 
 wards refuses, to recognise. It is something like a parent 
 disowning its own offspring. No, the morality of the 
 legitimate stage is as good, and better, than it ever has 
 been ; and we know of no justifiable reason why its 
 dramas should be tabooed, or their teaching scoffed at, 
 any more than the preacher who dissects crime on 
 Sundays for our moral and social welfare. Much heated 
 discussion was recently sustained in the Times con- 
 cerning the morality of John-a- Dreams, a good type of 
 the Society play. It ended where it began. Goody- 
 goody people who held hazy notions about the stage, 
 and enthusiasts who waxed ambiguous and intolerant, 
 swelled a bulk of valueless correspondence, which, if at 
 all interesting, was so on account of the fact that it made 
 a great deal of noise about nothing. We have very 
 rarely read so much correspondence which resulted in 
 so little information being bestowed upon what at first 
 appeared to be a debatable question. 
 
 The history of English comedy from its origin will 
 give us some idea of the various stages through which 
 this vexed question has passed. It will serve our purpose 
 to glance at the development rapidly; and if we can 
 discern the causes which distinguished each change, it 
 will be sufficient for our purpose. 
 
 The growth and development of the school of comedy 
 
H2 THE DRAMA 
 
 is an element in our drama which must always constitute 
 a highly interesting study. From the antique drollery 
 of Ben Jonson to the refined and sparkling wit of 
 Sheridan an album of fun and humour contrasts favour- 
 ably with the parallel vitality of tragedy, and, in our 
 own day, of melodrama. The various schools of comedy 
 which have, during successive generations, punctuated 
 the cadence of humour, are coincident in many respects 
 with the age which gave them birth. Thus, as a con- 
 sequence, we notice a marked difference between the 
 comedy introduced by succeeding epochs in the history 
 of our drama. A play of Beaumont and Fletcher 
 shows, upon comparison, many changes from a work 
 by Wycherley and his school a change, indeed, which 
 was brought about by the difference of " manners, in- 
 stitutions, laws," which gave their complexion to things 
 dramatic. This point cannot be exemplified or illus- 
 trated more forcibly than by the perusal of the 
 comedies of the Restoration period and by contrasting 
 them with their predecessors and successors a con- 
 trast which will exhibit a change in the tone and 
 morals of society. The morals of society are, indeed, 
 generally to be found reflected in the dramatic specimens 
 of which the respective age has been the producer ; that 
 age gives, as it were, an index and a purpose to the 
 dramatic taste, and the patrons of the drama are found 
 to give their patronage to the dramatic fare which will 
 appease their temporary appetite. That appetite will 
 change assuredly, but the drama will not affect it; but 
 the change will affect the drama. Nothing in literature 
 generally, and in dramatic literature most especially, is 
 
THE DRAMA 113 
 
 more significant than this parallel change a change 
 which we must notice in our own time. The looseness 
 of the morals of the Restoration required or suggested 
 a looseness in the dramatic literature, and the time 
 produced authors who were willing to serve up the 
 appetising dish. Farquhar, who, although superior to 
 Wycherley in morality, was inferior in dramatic skill, 
 followed in the footsteps of his leader, and gave to 
 the world comedies which might then have* been con- 
 sidered decent, but which are on all hands now re- 
 garded as obscene. Passages in Congreve and Farquhar 
 might be quoted which would cause one's hair to stand 
 on end, but which, in their day, may not have caused 
 so much as a wrinkle of the brow. The licentiousness 
 which was the natural consequence of the Cromwellian 
 dynasty, broke out under Charles II. in such a manner 
 as would have made the Puritans of the Protectorate 
 stagger against a door-post for support. Under Charles 
 they were signals for applause and approbation. As 
 time went on, a narrower sphere of action was allowed 
 the dramatist, and he had to confine his indecencies 
 to a circumlocution of references, which, although not 
 so important, were scarcely less dangerous or evident. 
 It had become a matter of taste as to whether an idea 
 or object should be designated by a noun substantive 
 or by a roundabout reference ; it was now, in the 
 later school of comedy, regarded as more artistic to 
 avoid a bald ejaculatory expletive, and only refer to it 
 circumspectly. This means of satisfying the popular 
 impulse became, in short, one of the marks by which 
 true comedy was recognised, and the author who could 
 
 8 
 
ii4 THE DRAMA 
 
 best succeed in this was the recipient of the distinction. 
 Comedy, pure and simple, soon became the order of 
 the day, anything more serious than The Plain Dealer 
 or The Constant Couple being tabooed as dull and 
 monotonous. A striking feature of the comedy of the 
 modern school was the treatment of the characters 
 and the novelty of the situations. The hero of the 
 piece was made a libertine, whom all the boys in the 
 gallery cheered to the echo, and the heroine was an 
 impudent miss, who, in our day, would be looked 
 upon as a horror in any class of society where the 
 word decent is known. The change from this to the 
 more refined banter of Goldsmith and Sheridan was 
 gradual, almost imperceptible. When the latest school 
 of comedy, that of H. J. Byron and Robertson, after- 
 wards embellished by Mr. Pinero, was introduced, the 
 critics were full of comparisons, and almost again set 
 the public a-longing for what they had almost forgotten. 
 Then another class of playwriters sprang up and began 
 to give plays which were really hardly superior in tone 
 to those of Wycherley. These were at once condemned, 
 only to be succeeded by others of a more fatal character. 
 Previously irregularities were confined to single men 
 and women on the stage. Afterwards, intrigues were 
 associated with people living under the bond of matri- 
 mony. Whether these are less injurious, from a moral 
 point of view, than the others which we have enumer- 
 ated, is a question which can receive only one answer. 
 They are just as hurtful, and under certain circum- 
 stances a great deal more so. 
 
 Recent authors have taken pains to place a high 
 
THE DRAMA 115 
 
 moral in the framework of their plays, and in many 
 cases to give a noble view of life, although shown by 
 means exhibiting the weakness of frail Nature. Here is 
 art, and art useful y applied occupied in refuting the 
 oft-repeated query, " Should goody-goody people go to 
 the theatre ? " Unquestionably, plays of a certain class 
 keep people from witnessing them who would otherwise 
 go to the theatre and enjoy the amusement. But, on the 
 other hand, a far greater number of people will frequent 
 the theatre just on account of the questionable character 
 of the performance. We remember, some years ago, the 
 clergy of Dublin forbidding the people to visit the Gaiety 
 during the run of a play by a dramatist still living. 
 What was the consequence ? The theatre was full to 
 overflowing every night, and only for this advertisement 
 the piece would, in all probability, have been an ordinary 
 draw. As it was, the curiosity of the people was roused, 
 and they went. Perhaps they would not go again, but 
 in all probability they would moan over the play to all 
 their friends, and they, in turn, would book seats just to 
 see if it really was so wicked, and so on. The authors 
 themselves must be the purifiers of the comedy of the 
 present day (if it requires any purification), but, if they 
 do not, they will have plenty of supporters who will be 
 ready to pay to see anything well, questionable. 
 
 There is such a thing in this world as a false morality, 
 which has often found its way into our theatres and 
 given cause for much discussion which, as far as can 
 be gleaned, has ended in nothing except a great deal 
 of critical verbiage which really means nothing. Many 
 people are always on the look out for what it would 
 
 82 
 
n6 THE DRAMA 
 
 appear they are only too ready to discover when once 
 they do drop upon anything which, by any means, they 
 can distort into double meanings and mismeanings and 
 what not. They are then satisfied we are all going to 
 the dogs, and that the theatre and all connected with 
 it is the prime mover. But if people of this disposition 
 went to the theatre with better intentions we would 
 hear less of the immorality of the stage and more about 
 the value and amusement to be obtained from the prac- 
 tice of frequenting our theatres. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 PLAYWRITING 
 
 IT is necessary that the drama, in its literary sig- 
 nification, should receive an impression of systematic 
 classification, but very few writers who have attempted 
 anything of the kind have as yet succeeded in satisfying 
 the critical analysis of literary precision. As a matter of 
 fact, there can be no satisfactory method of classifying 
 the drama ; at any rate, the English have none. There 
 does exist, among the dramatic literature of Germany, 
 illustrations and devices by which this may be attained, 
 but no British writer has given any elaborate study to 
 the question. For the working playwright this is, 
 perhaps, no very serious consequence. If his play is a 
 success it matters very little to him what name is applied 
 to it. Nevertheless, occasions arise when even the play- 
 wright would find it convenient to indicate the character 
 of his production by a single word instead of by a long 
 circumlocution ; while for critic and manager the defect 
 is a matter of never-ceasing embarrassment and per- 
 plexity. 
 
 The growth of the drama in all civilised countries has 
 resulted in the development of two classes of plays, dis- 
 tinguished by certain general marks of divergence. One 
 class deals with the serious aspects of life, and is called 
 tragedy; the other with the laughable aspects, and is 
 called comedy. In the early history of the stage, while 
 
n8 THE DRAMA 
 
 the dramatic forms were simple, and criticism as yet un- 
 developed, the terms above given would be used with 
 accuracy and significance ; but, as the development of the 
 drama continued, the two classes showed a tendency, in 
 some cases, to merge one into one another, until the dis- 
 tinction lost much of its earlier importance, while the rise 
 of formal criticism created arbitrary standards where no 
 essential distinction existed. To illustrate the tragedies 
 of ^Eschylus deal solely with the serious side of life ; the 
 comedies of Aristophanes solely with its follies. In the 
 tragedies of Shakespeare we find abundance of comedy, 
 and in his comedies, especially in the Merchant of Venice, 
 All's Well that Ends Well, and As You Like It, scenes 
 that might well form part of a tragedy. For examples of 
 the influence in giving arbitrary names, mention may be 
 made of Dante's Divina Commedia and Corneille's Le Cid. 
 
 Notwithstanding the truth of the facts just stated, the 
 traditional distinction between tragedy and comedy must 
 always be a valuable one for the critic. In the first 
 place, it is a natural distinction, a direct result of the 
 two-fold character of life^ itself, and, in the second place, 
 it is already thoroughly impressed upon the popular 
 consciousness. Whatever classifications are made, there- 
 fore, it will be advisable to use the common division into 
 comedy and tragedy, as a convenient starting-point for 
 the discussion. 
 
 The general character of tragedy, as that species of 
 drama which presents the serious aspects of life, has 
 already been suggested. As it is the business of the 
 drama in general to portray the clash of individual 
 interests, it is the peculiar function of tragedy to repre- 
 
THE DRAMA 119 
 
 sent this conflict as terminating fatally, that is, as 
 resulting generally in the death of one or more of the 
 contending characters, or, at any rate, as involving a 
 struggle of a stern and momentous character, from which 
 escape is possible only through the intervention of extra- 
 ordinary agencies. Hence tragedy calls for characters of 
 unwonted strength of will and depth of seriousness, and 
 an elevated style of diction generally rare. 
 
 Comedy is the converse of tragedy. In it the conflict 
 is always reconciled at the end, and all disasters averted. 
 The conflict itself, however serious it may seem during 
 the progress of the play, turns out at the end to have 
 been a case of much ado about nothing. The characters 
 are either not serious in their aims, or, if they are, the 
 objects for which they have been striving are shown to 
 be worthless. In comedy, somebody is nearly always 
 represented as pursuing a bubble. At the close the 
 bubble bursts, and, with good-natured submission, the 
 deluded pursuer acknowledges his folly. It follows that, 
 while in tragedy the characters are mostly taken from 
 the higher walks of life, in comedy the average man is 
 the central figure. The style is familiar and colloquial, 
 and generally precise. 
 
 From the preceding paragraphs it appears that the 
 principal lines of distinction between tragedy and 
 comedy are to be sought for in the theme, the 
 characters, the plot and the style. 
 
 tBy the theme of a play is meant the problem, social, 
 moral, political, religious, psychological, or whatever it 
 may be, which the play presents for the consideration 
 of the spectatorT] It is generally agreed that the drama 
 
120 THE DRAMA 
 
 should not be didactic, that is, should not directly teach 
 anything, but this by no means precludes the dramatist 
 from bringing before us questions of momentous human 
 interest, and so treating them that the rightful solution 
 is suggested, if not demonstrated. It should not be 
 inferred, however, from what has been said that the 
 playwright must select a theme at the outset, and de- 
 liberately build his play upon it. He may be conscious 
 of his theme, or he may work unconsciously and find 
 with astonishment, when his work is over, that a theme 
 has grown up under his hand unbidden. A thoughtful 
 man, with well denned views of the problem of human 
 existence, can hardly present any picture of life or 
 society without giving it somewhere the impress of his 
 own thought, and making it somehow the reflex of 
 his own ideals. The theme in comedy is naturally of 
 less importance than in tragedy, and in the light forms 
 may not appear at all. Still, even here a master hand 
 will manage to suggest in a striking manner current or 
 political problems. 
 
 We may now attempt to give an answer or definition 
 to the query, " What constitutes a play ? " In the 
 broadest sense, according to Hennequin, a play is a 
 complete and unified story of human life acted out on 
 the stage in a series of motived ^incidents, so arranged 
 as to excite the greatest amount of interest and pleasure 
 in the spectator by means of novelty, variety, contrast, 
 suspense, surprise, climax, humour, and pathos. 
 * This is not intended, of course, for an exact scientific 
 definition ; but, as it covers the essential features of 
 all plays produced at the present day, it is much better 
 
THE DRAMA 121 " 
 
 adapted for our purpose than any of the definitions 
 which have come down to us from antiquity. We shall 
 now proceed to examine the many elements of which 
 a play is usually composed. First, let us consider the - 
 " story." This is the first and most essential feature 
 in the play. It may be very simple, or it may be very 
 complex. It may be no more than this : John wants 
 to marry Susan, but cannot because Dick has told her 
 that John was in love with Mary. John discovers Dick's 
 villainy and marries Susan. Many successful plays have 
 had no better formula than this. On the other hand, 
 the story may be a confused tangle of ingenious compli- 
 cations, as difficult to separate as a Chinese puzzle. 
 In any case, there must be a story of some sort some- 
 body must steal, or kill, or deceive, or wed or there 
 can be no play. The first thing, then, that the play- 
 wright must provide himself with is a good story, or, - 
 better still, a collection of good stories. Every story 
 that has any value for dramatic purposes may be re- 
 duced to the following formula : 
 
 A. (standing for one or more characters) is trying 
 to achieve some purpose. A. is opposed to B. (repre- 
 senting one or more characters), who tries to prevent 
 A. from . carrying out his design. After a series of 
 incidents, in which first one and then the other seems 
 to have the upper hand, A. finally succeeds in frus- 
 trating the designs of B., and either accomplishes the 
 end sought, or is killed. < 
 
 As the story is one of human life, it treats of the 
 actions of men and women, and in consequence has 
 characters. In the selection of his chacae^ers^he play- 
 
122 THE DRAMA 
 
 wright has an almost unlimited range ; but four 
 requirements must be observed : 
 
 i. T*he characters must be suited to the story; the 
 story to the characters. 2. The characters must be 
 clearly distinguished one from another. 3. The char- 
 acters must be self - consistent. 4. The characters 
 must be so selected and arranged that each one may 
 seem as a foil to another. uThe incidents of the story 
 must seem to grow out of the nature of the characters, 
 and, on the other hand, the incidents must react on 
 the characters to produce the result arrived atA In 
 the Merchant of Venice, the trial scene is the direct 
 outcome of Shylock's avarice and race prejudice. 
 Put generous Othello in Shylock's place, and the trial 
 scene would be an absurdity. Equally absurd, on the 
 other hand, would it have been to represent the keen- 
 witted Shylock as believing in lago's veracity. 
 
 As in real life no two persons are exactly alike, so 
 in a play each character must be marked off from 
 every other, down to the least important. A skilful 
 dramatist will manage to do this by a single touch. 
 Thus the one line in which Shakespeare characterises 
 Robin Ostler, " Never joy'd since the price of oats 
 rose," distinguishes him from all other characters. 
 \The distinguishing marks and manners should be real 
 ielements of character, not mere tricks of dress, manner 
 x>r speech. A set form of words put always into the 
 mouth of the same character is called a gag. Each 
 personage must be made to say and do exactly what 
 is appropriated to his character. A flagrant violation 
 of this rule is found in Boucicault's London Assurance 
 
THE DRAMA 123 
 
 (as commonly performed), where that selfish old re- 
 probate, Sir Harcourt, gives at the close a speech 
 teeming with lofty sentiments and exalted morality. 
 As Aristotle very justly points out, a character to 
 be consistent with itself must often be drawn as 
 inconsistent. An inconsistent woman, for example, 
 would be self-consistent only if portrayed in all her 
 characteristic inconsistency. 
 
 As will be shown later, contrast is one of the in- 
 struments of dramatic effect. An avaricious character, 
 like Shylock, stands out much more vividly when a 
 generous nature like Antonio's slants over against it 
 as a foil. Plays composed entirely of virtuous 
 characters would be insufferable. The characters 
 should be so selected and arranged, that in each 
 scene the prominent characteristics of each may be 
 made more prominent by contrast with the others of 
 the same group. The characters, as they are depicted 
 by the imagination of the author, must be rendered 
 individually dependent upon one another's actions, 
 and this dependency, and final co-operation, is imparted 
 to the characterisation by the circumstances attending 
 the development of the story. This gives completeness. 
 By a complete story is meant one that has a beginning, 
 a middle, and an end. A story is complete when it is 
 told so that the listener does not need to ask what 
 happened before it began, nor care to ask what 
 happened after it concluded. When we have heard a 
 complete story through to the end, we know all that 
 there is to tell. When a play, like Othello, for instance, 
 has come to a close, the spectator feels that he has 
 
124 THE DRAMA 
 
 been put in possession of every fact about Othello and 
 the other characters that he needs to know. No 
 additional knowledge of Othello's career previous to 
 the opening of the play would afford him any satis- 
 faction, nor does he care to know what happens after 
 the curtain falls. A remarkable, but successful, violation 
 of this requirement may be found in Sardou's Daniel 
 Rochat, in which the curtain falls just before the 
 decisive step is taken which would relieve the 
 spectators' suspense. Whether atheism or religion is 
 master of the situation is a problem left for the 
 audience to solve. It need hardly be said that no 
 playwright of ordinary powers would dare try this 
 bold expedient, or having tried it, would stand one 
 chance in a hundred of succeeding. With an incom- 
 plete story, the spectator is left unsatisfied ; he wants 
 to know what happened before the play opened, in 
 order to understand what occurred during its progress ; 
 but he is not satisfied with its close, and wants to know 
 what is going to happen next. 
 
 The story must be unified. This has been variously 
 interpreted; but the most sensible view is that all the 
 incidents of the stage must be made to cluster about a 
 single central animating idea. The purpose must be 
 seen to run throughout the whole series of incidents. If 
 there are two series of incidents they must be woven 
 together, that, at the end of the story, it will be evident 
 that one could not have taken place without the other. 
 Although of little value, we shall give here what are 
 understood as the " Unities." They are three in num- 
 ber, and belong to the French school of criticism of the 
 
THE DRAMA 125 
 
 seventeenth century. They are : i. The unity of action ; 
 2. The unity of time ; 3. The unity of place. The nar- 
 rowest of French critics understood the unity of action 
 to mean that the play should have a single event and a 
 single hero. Following an ambiguous statement in Aris- 
 totle's Poetics, the French critics restricted the time of the 
 play to twenty-four hours. An extension of thirty hours 
 was barely permitted. The unity of place required that 
 there be no change of scene during the entire play. 
 
 It is important to notice that these three unities, in 
 their historical meaning, were the invention of French 
 criticism. From this source they were adopted for a 
 time by English playwrights. At the present time the 
 terms no longer have any meaning, save in their his- 
 torical sense, when speaking of plays written under the 
 influence of the old rules of criticism. No one pretends 
 to regard them at the present day. It is still convenient, 
 however, to speak of the unity of action, not in the old 
 sense, but with the meaning already explained. 
 
 Unless the story be one that can be acted out on the 
 stage by men and women it is worthless for dramatic 
 purposes. It is not enough that it can be told or nar- 
 rated ; it must be acted. It must find its natural expres- 
 sion in those movements of the human body which tell 
 of passion, emotion and resolve. It must be a story capa- 
 ble of being told in dagger-thrusts, kisses, frowns, sighs, 
 laughter, caresses, eating, fighting and dying. If it can 
 be expressed in dumb-show, like L'Enfant Prodigue, then 
 it satisfies at least one requirement of dramatic con- 
 struction ; if it cannot, it may make a good novel or a 
 good poem, but it will never make a successful drama. 
 
126 THE DRAMA 
 
 The story must also be told in accordance with the con- 
 ventions and limitations of the stage as it exists. A 
 story, in which a dozen people are represented through- 
 out the entire narrative, may be very pleasant in the 
 telling, but it will never do for the stage, where there 
 must be entrances and exits to give life and variety to 
 the scene. A story of the war, in which a tree is cut in 
 two by a canon-ball, and throws a spy, who has been 
 hiding in it, headlong through the window-sash of a 
 house, may be the most delightful sort of reading, and 
 yet be wholly impracticable for stage production. 
 
 The story when acted out upon the stage takes the 
 form of a series of incidents. Not every series of inci- 
 dents, however, will constitute a play. The incident 
 must be motived. This means that the cause of every 
 incident must be apparent in some incident that has 
 preceded it, and serves as a motive for it. Every event 
 must be seen to grow naturally out of what has gone 
 before, and to lead naturally to what comes after. An 
 incident which is introduced arbitrarily, simply for effect, 
 is only clap-trap. 
 
 Above all, the work of the dramatist must both 
 interest and please if he would have it successful. This 
 is, indeed, the fundamental law of the modern drama. 
 It is not forbidden the dramatist to point a moral or 
 discuss a social problem ; but these are side issues, extra 
 dramatic effects, which he must undertake at his own 
 risk. His first and his last business as a playwright is to 
 tell such a story, and to tell it in such a way that his 
 audience will be forced to listen, and listening, cannot 
 fail to be delighted. The story should be fresh and 
 
THE DRAMA 127 
 
 original. The old, worn-out themes have been written 
 threadbare, and something fresh is always hailed with 
 satisfaction. Nothing wearies us like the stale anecdote 
 a joke which has become vapid by over-repetition. It 
 should be the playwright's endeavour to exert his origin- 
 ality, if he have any, in the construction of new incidents. 
 There have been cases, however, where an old story, 
 retold in a new and more attractive way, has given 
 renewed pleasure. But when an author sets out only to 
 regild, as it were, an old piece of furniture, he must do 
 so with circumspection. If an old story is told again, 
 it should possess some new element, if only to give it 
 an indirect suspicion of novelty. Along with novelty of 
 design, there should be an accompaniment of variety and 
 contrast. Too much of one subject or of one kind of 
 incident is apt to weary and become monotonous. There 
 should be plenty of quick changes from pathos to humour, 
 from wit to eloquence. A scene between the comic lovers 
 may be followed by one between the hero and heroine. 
 The entire play should be made to change as many times 
 as possible, preserving all the while the sequence of 
 events and the virtue of probability. Variety not only 
 destroys monotony, but it secures also the powerful effect 
 of contrast. A piece of humour is twice as effective if it 
 follows an instant of pathos, or even of commonplace. 
 Brilliant dialogue seems doubly brilliant after a mono- 
 logue. But by far the most important means of arousing 
 interest is by suspense. Keep a listener in doubt as to 
 what is coming, and he cannot help but listen. ; Suspense 
 is, in a word, the nervous system of the drama. 1 In some 
 form or another, it must exist throughout the entire 
 
128 THE DRAMA 
 
 progress of the story. At various points of the play, 
 generally at the close of each act, it may be partially 
 relieved ; but it must always be done in such a way as 
 to give rise to new suspense, or to leave one or two 
 particulars still unsettled. Not until the last moment 
 of the story should every item of doubt be cleared away. 
 This does not, however, mean that the audience should 
 not invariably be told what is coming. It is a curious 
 fact of human nature that we aw-^it an event with no 
 less interest, and sometimes with greater interest, when 
 we know exactly what is coming, than when we are left 
 in ignorance of its nature, provided the story is told in 
 such a way as to arouse our sympathy. This is one 
 reason why the best plays may be heard again and 
 again without losing any fascination for us. 
 
 If the dramatist be sure of his powers, it is a very 
 effective device to take the audience into his confidence. 
 Let them see just what is coming, and depend upon his 
 skill in telling the story to keep them in a state of 
 suspense. A successful play written upon this plan is 
 sure of a much longer life than one which depends on 
 mere surprise through unexpected incidents. 
 
 Nevertheless, surprise is one of the most potent of 
 stage effects. An audience may be startled or shocked 
 into a state of interest when no other device would be 
 of any avail. Surprises are most valuable in light 
 comedies, which sometimes consist of little more than 
 a succession of startling incidents. In more serious 
 plays, too sudden surprises give the story an un- 
 pleasantly abrupt and freaky character. The surprise 
 in such cases must be, in a manner, prepared for ; the 
 
THE DRAMA 129 
 
 audience must be made to have a dim foreboding of the 
 impending disaster, while its exact nature is left a 
 matter of surprise. 
 
 A regular increase of force and interest, culminating 
 in a strong situation, is called a climax. A dramatic 
 story should be full of climaxes from beginning to end. 
 Every act should have several lesser ones scattered 
 through it, and should invariably end with one of greater 
 importance. Towards the end of the play should occur 
 the great climax (in the technical sense of the word), 
 the point at which the interest of the play reaches its 
 highest stage. All the incidents leading up to a striking 
 situation should be arranged in the form of the climax, 
 growing gradually in force until the last is reached. 
 The situation concluding a climax generally takes the 
 form of a tableau, or stage picture. The technical 
 climax should be carefully distinguished from the cata- 
 strophe, which last, in tragedies especially, is often the 
 strongest situation of the play. 
 
 Except in the lighter sort of comedy, the two ele- 
 ments of humour and pathos are always introduced in 
 the modern drama. No one any longer thinks of writing 
 pure tragedy for the stage, and, on the other hand, 
 the most saleable comedies are those which have a few 
 touches in them of genuine pathos. 
 
 But the question may be asked, Where do stories 
 come from ? How are they manufactured ? how do 
 they strike the authors ? Well, there are no rules for 
 collecting stories; they must come from observation in 
 life, from conversation, from reading, from old news- 
 paper scraps anywhere, in a bit of life vividly told, 
 
 9 
 
130 THE DRAMA 
 
 may lurk the germ of a first-rate dramatic story. Many 
 dramatists will confess to having had their best ideas 
 suggested while reading old and forgotten novels. Many 
 more, if they could be made to confess, would acknow- 
 ledge their indebtedness to French brochures. A good 
 story, wherever it conies from, is a priceless gem, and 
 the playwright who has a note-book full of them has the 
 beginnings of a valuable stock-in-trade. 
 
 The best stories for dramatic purposes require few 
 pre-suppositions, and those of a character capable oi 
 being implied rather than demanding explicit state- 
 ment. The story must, of course, be of such a character 
 that it can be symmetrically developed under the dra- 
 matic form. The drama is a regular, orderly growth, 
 and neither a story which consists of a series of episodes 
 following one another like knots in a string, nor one 
 which shoots suddenly upwards to a resplendent climax, 
 and as suddenly goes out in utter darkness, is of any 
 value for purposes of dramatisation. 
 
 A word as to adaptation. There are two ways or 
 methods of adaptation ; first, by dramatising a novel, 
 and secondly, by the translation and alteration of a 
 play written in another language. Not every novel can 
 be successfully adapted, for the reason that its success 
 may arise from features which do not admit of trans- 
 ference to the stage. The first point to notice in every 
 case is the action. If the interesting portions of the 
 novel depend for their interest, not on what the charac- 
 ters say, but on what they do, the novel probably has 
 dramatic possibilities. As for adapting French, or any 
 play or work written in another language, this is, for 
 
THE DRAMA 131 
 
 the beginner, almost a hopeless task. Except in rare 
 instances, nothing but a large experience with the 
 conventions of the British stage, and the demands of 
 the British public, will enable the adapter to decide 
 what portions of the foreign production will be effective. 
 Some plays need only to be translated, with a little cut- 
 ting here and there ; others, and by far the greatest 
 number, must be absolutely reconstructed, the characters 
 altered and renamed, the minor incidents created anew, 
 the whole play denationalised and worked over on the 
 British plan. 
 
 Not least necessary is the knowledge of the dramatist 
 concerning the peculiar line of acting which distinguishes 
 leading actors and actresses, and theatrical people gene- 
 rally. This knowledge will be indispensable when he 
 comes to casting, or, at any rate, assist at the casting 
 of his play. He must know that Mr. William Terriss 
 would not play a part evidently written for a comedian 
 like Mr. Harry Nicholls ; and that the line of acting 
 adopted by Sir Henry Irving is altogether distinct from 
 that of Mr. J. L. Toole. The dramatist may have to 
 write a play sometimes for a particular company. He 
 may have all his leading people in his mind's eye, as 
 Mr. Pinero had Mrs. Patrick Campbell in his mind's eye 
 when he was writing The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith. This 
 process has both its advantage and disadvantage. It 
 may be easier to write a play to fit some people when 
 the author thoroughly understands their powers and 
 capabilities ; but it will be easier for the author to give 
 free scope to his individual style of composition when he 
 knows he is unfettered by any systematic arrangement 
 
 92 
 
132 THE DRAMA 
 
 to adhere in his characterisation to the formalities of any 
 one actor or actress in particular. 
 
 It is interesting to notice the habits which dramatists 
 have with regard to their writing and the mode of their 
 composition. They all seem to vary and have methods 
 of their own. Mr. Grundy once declared that he had no 
 set method of working, and generally allowed the fit to 
 take him ; but, when once he was seized by it, he worked 
 away steadily until he was tired out. He rarely adds 
 anything to what he has already written, but he uses the 
 pruning-knife very freely. He thinks out the plan first 
 and the process by which the plot will be naturally de- 
 veloped, then he thinks how it can be dramatically 
 developed. He used, he says, to plan out all the exits 
 and entrances before he began to write, but he now finds 
 it more advisable to refrain from going into such detail, 
 because, " when he has thoroughly warmed up, the 
 details arrange themselves more naturally than he could 
 have arranged them beforehand." Mr. A. W. Pinero 
 says he thinks of some people, and lives with them until 
 they prove interesting or otherwise. In the latter case 
 he cuts them ; but, if their natures, manners, peculiarities, 
 resolve themselves into a story, he tries to ascertain if 
 that story will shape into dramatic form. If yes, he 
 constructs his play, but only act by act, the second act 
 depending upon the first, the third on the second, and so 
 forth. He makes very few notes or plan of dialogue, as 
 he finds himself often checked by them ; but the whole 
 matter, he says, is settled in his mind or he fancies it 
 is, sometimes to find it isn't. He writes in the evening 
 when there is quiet, and does not dine. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 AMATEUR THEATRICALS AND AMATEUR ACTORS 
 
 WE were almost about to close these pages and bring 
 this little book to a conclusion, when we suddenly re- 
 membered we had forgotten an item of no inconsiderable 
 status and notoriety. The amateur actor will not be 
 ignored ; his vocation, as far as it goes, is a matter of 
 some importance, and, therefore, to pass him over would 
 be sheer bad taste, to say the least of it. Why should he 
 not have his allowance of space as well as those who may 
 now sneer at him and his work ? Let them sneer, my 
 young friend ; their sneers will do you no harm and can- 
 not possibly do them any good. They were amateurs 
 themselves once, and perhaps you may rise to the same 
 level as they. Who knows but that you may not be another 
 Kean, Macready, Siddons, or Bernhardt ? At all events, 
 you can try. But before commencing, or, if you have 
 already commenced, it will not be any harm in fact, we 
 think it will do you a great deal of good if you read the 
 following, as well as the preceding pages, and then think 
 the matter over in your own mind seriously. Remember, 
 or rather realise, that amateur acting is very nearly akin 
 to professional acting. The difference is only in the 
 quality, and, after all, quality is not a very important 
 point at least, so many amateurs think. But it is a 
 very great point, and one about which you should exer- 
 
134 THE DRAMA 
 
 else the utmost possible solicitude. Then if you are an 
 amateur, don't run on the stage without some prelimi- 
 nary knowledge of the subject don't for goodness sake 
 imagine you cannot be taught anything! You have 
 everything to learn, and if you are earnest you will do 
 well to learn all you can. One of the best means of 
 learning "how to act" is to go to the best theatres and 
 watch the best actors and actresses " as they do it." 
 Look at them closely and see for yourself how they make 
 their effects, watch how they enter and leave the stage ; 
 how they conduct themselves when they are saying 
 nothing ; how they do nothing ; how they assist one 
 another; how they act up to one another; how they work 
 up a point and climax together. Think of all this, and 
 think at the same time that they have been taught all 
 that. There is such an individual as the stage manager, 
 who drills the people on the stage into their positions, 
 which cannot be altered after they are finally settled. 
 There is the author, who marks stage directions in the 
 manuscript (or "script," to make it more professional, for 
 we take it you are a real amateur by this time and have 
 already shaved off your moustache), and who generally 
 superintends the rehearsals. There is a great deal to be 
 learnt from the front of the house, and if you are a 
 thoroughbred amateur you will go to the theatre and see 
 every show you can. In this way you will become 
 acquainted with the business of the stage. In the mean- 
 time, however, let us exchange our ideas upon the sub- 
 ject, and first let us consider the very indispensable 
 element in acting, not only on the stage but off it, viz., 
 gesture and deportment. We are not going to lay down 
 
THE DRAMA 135 
 
 any hard and fast rules here. That is for the class, and 
 as you are not in class we will simply give our general 
 views upon the subject. 
 
 After you have learnt to stand perfectly quiet and 
 at ease, always remembering that true ease in standing 
 
 "comes from art, not chance, 
 As those move easiest who have learnt to dance " ; 
 
 and not to appear " a guy," the next important step to 
 be taken by the student of elocution (yes, my friend, you 
 must learn elocution, for it does teach us these things) is 
 to make yourself aware of the best manner of moving 
 the limbs about gracefully, and in accordance with the 
 rules of gesture, for, after all, there are rules of gesture. 
 There are those peculiar and harmless individuals who 
 have said that gesture cannot be taught. These extra- 
 ordinary mental phenomena may possibly, and in all 
 probability do, find a physical difficulty in moving 
 their limbs gracefully, but, provided that you suffer 
 from no bodily malformation, we cannot imagine what 
 there is to prevent you using your hands, arms, and 
 body, as Nature intended that you should. In applying 
 yourself to the subject, which everyone might do with 
 advantage, you will do well to keep in mind that all 
 that is expected of you is to be natural. And here is 
 just the difficulty. It is like the fond mother who told 
 her little boy to walk naturally, to which request the 
 child answered : " But I can't mamma, you must show 
 me ! " And she had to show him. And you, if you 
 wish to learn gesture, will have to be shown too. As 
 to how you should be shown is quite another matter. 
 We have our opinions upon this subject, which differ 
 
136 THE DRAMA 
 
 greatly from those of other people. But it would never 
 do if everybody was of the same opinion. There would 
 then be no argument, and without argument how would 
 we get on ? But to continue with the gesture. No 
 matter what your action may be, if it is natural and 
 significant you can safely consider it good. But good 
 is not excellent, perfect, nor anything but good, which 
 is only so-so. There is such a thing as improving 
 natural motion, and, as a naturally good singer can be 
 made to excel, so also good inherent qualities in any 
 other direction may, and ought to be, cultivated to the 
 best possible advantage. We can never understand 
 why a naturally gifted person neglects to cultivate the 
 good qualities of which he or she may be possessed. 
 It is both unjust to the individual and to Nature her- 
 self, who to quote a musty, but pertinent, expression 
 "helps those who help themselves." It is often in- 
 teresting and instructive to watch the gesture or action 
 of two or more persons speaking without knowing or 
 understanding what they are saying. It is curious to 
 notice how one of them may use more action than the 
 other, and yet not appearing to convey much to his 
 advantage. We can on such occasions distinguish one 
 who does not use much action, and yet who seems to 
 make himself understood, and appears to be listened to 
 with more attention than another. This example illus- 
 trates an important point. Never use too much gesture ; 
 a preponderance or superfluity of action does not mean 
 strength; it rather signifies weakness and want of 
 judgment upon the part of the speaker or actor. Be 
 sparing with your movements, and, when they are re- 
 
THE DRAMA 137 
 
 quired, bring them in with promptness and distinction. 
 Shakespeare has said : " Suit the action to the word, 
 and the word to the action." That looks very well on 
 paper, but you watch anyone speaking who tries to 
 follow out that advice ; he will bring down a blow upon 
 every word, and when he comes to emphasise any par- 
 ticular word, or convey any particular and definite 
 meaning, he will be unable, because too much action 
 means no action at all. Suit the action rather to the 
 " idea," and by so doing you will run a less chance of 
 overstepping the modesty of Nature. Nothing has 
 tended so much to deprive actors and reciters of natural 
 strength than a slavish attention to this rule. There 
 is nothing more pleasing than a man or woman on the 
 stage who has himself or herself perfectly under con- 
 trol, and what we believe distinguished Charles Kean 
 was this rare gift of using gesture with discrimination. 
 By means of his movements and expression, he could, 
 we are told, act with such power that it was immaterial 
 whether he articulated a word. The criticisms which 
 we have, demonstrate that Kean had a bad voice and 
 an insignificant person. Yet who could approach his 
 Othello ? The Count de Soligny whose letters on 
 England, although not well-known, are among the most 
 remarkable of their kind when writing of this wonderful 
 actor, makes use of the following expression when criti- 
 cising Kean's great masterpiece : " His eyes glare ; his 
 teeth grind against each other ; his voice is hoarse and 
 broken ; his hands clench and open alternately, as if 
 they were revelling in the blood of his enemy, and his 
 whole frame seems to have imbibed the will and the 
 
138 THE DRAMA 
 
 powers of a demon." In this description we have an 
 admirable portrait of how the passion of the Moor 
 should be presented. But apart from that, we can 
 clearly understand how action must accompany articu- 
 lation. The two are kindred in this matter, and go 
 together to assist each other ; the former, however, 
 being subordinate in its signification to the other ; but 
 still the two must harmonise and keep time, as it were, 
 and mutually assist each other in the ultimate attain- 
 ment of the object of their endeavours. Besides the 
 action of the limbs, which is in itself powerful, there is 
 also another, and equally strong, important feature, 
 namely, facial expression. There is nothing so truly ridi- 
 culous as to see a person gyrating on or off the stage who 
 does so without feeling, or seeming to feel, what he is 
 saying. If a man feels what he is saying, he will show it 
 in his face, in his voice, and, above all, in his gestures. 
 He must, if he be an actor or reciter, sink himself, for the 
 time being, heart and soul into the character he is re- 
 presenting. If he can do so successfully, he has every 
 right to be called a good actor or a good elocutionist. If 
 he cannot, he is simply a mouthing, ranting, grotesque 
 magpie, who apes the character, but who does not do it. 
 The actor whom we cannot recognise in his different 
 impersonations on the stage is unquestionably a con- 
 scientious actor; and he who can be discovered in the 
 first words he speaks is only a theatrical parrot, who gets 
 off words by rote, and repeats them with as much force 
 and intelligence as that species of the feathered tribe 
 generally succeeds in doing. Then, what is acting and 
 what is elocution ? In these days of stage monstrosities 
 
THE DRAMA 139 
 
 the question is, indeed, difficult to answer, for we see 
 and hear such extraordinary contortionists that one is 
 bewildered with a medley almost inconceivable in its 
 chaotic state of rant and roar. An actor must be human. 
 He must have human interests and desires. He must be 
 capable of loving, hating and despising. All the passions 
 and emotions are his, and should be under his immediate 
 control. He should be able to depict all the passions 
 almost in the very turn of his eye. " There is rhetoric 
 in the eye," and as that feature is the most expressive, it 
 is there the actor should centre most of his resources of 
 power, sorrow, rapture, love, hate. We are told that 
 Miss O'Neil, who was a contemporary of Kean, was, or 
 rather her expression was, composed of smiles and tears. 
 Facial expression, then, plays a distinct part in the 
 actor's art, and without it the actor is deficient in one 
 of the chief characteristics which give him distinction 
 and genius. All this, then, constitutes gesture, and 
 gesture means and includes all this ; and all this the 
 student of the drama, the elocutionist, the amateur and 
 the professional actor should understand. 
 
 Sir Henry Irving was once asked by an aspirant after 
 Thespian honours what he was to do in order to learn 
 how to become an elocutionist. " Place yourself under a 
 good master," said the popular actor. There is no doubt 
 that this is sound advice, and given after years of experi- 
 ence ; but there is something further, still more import- 
 ant to one anxious to acquire the rudiments of elocution 
 and acting. Without unremitting and careful practice 
 you cannot become proficient. All the lecturing and ex- 
 amples that could be placed before the student will not 
 
MO THE DRAMA 
 
 be of the slightest avail unless he is prepared to give 
 daily attention to the cultivation of the subject. There 
 may be those who will make more progress than others, 
 and there are those who will appear to make no headway 
 at all. But all will gain some good from the study if it be 
 only for the sake of gaining confidence in society, and 
 learning how to walk and talk with propriety and self-pos- 
 session. The young amateur actor and student of elocu- 
 tion must be careful, in his application to the study, to go 
 the right way about learning the subject ; otherwise he 
 may acquire a false system of speech and action which 
 may do more harm than good. While on the point of 
 gesture, we would advise all students to cease studying 
 gesture from books and illustrations; gesture must be 
 viva voce in its explanation, and, what is more, it must be 
 taught by an experienced and naturally gifted teacher. 
 Many persons, as we have already stated, assert that 
 gesture cannot be taught; but experience has shown 
 us that it is only by proper teaching that it is cultivated 
 at all and brought into a state of perfection. Always 
 recollect that a naturally gifted person is rarely so good, 
 if not taught, as one possessing moderate ability, but who 
 has received the advantage of expert tuition. Perhaps 
 the best example of what gesture is in its good and 
 bad aspects, is the amateur actor and the professional. 
 Contrast the amateur stage with the professional, and 
 what do we find ? Want of grace and ease to begin with. 
 Amateurs, as a rule, but not always, have their words oft 
 and can pronounce them in that manner of indifference 
 which distinguish their utterances; but it is in acting 
 we find them principally deficient. They occasionally 
 
THE DRAMA 141 
 
 throw in a sweep or two, seldom significant, often in- 
 appropriate, and, if it be a love scene that is being mal- 
 treated, the individual impersonating Romeo almost 
 invariably throws himself, like a sack of coals, on to the 
 wrong knee. Nearly every amateur actor and every 
 student of elocution whom we have instructed, and some 
 people calling themselves professionals, were at first 
 ignorant of the rule relating to this stage position. fThe 
 rule is, when kneeling on the stage, lower the body on to 
 the limb which is further from the audienceTj Plenty of 
 people find a difficulty in kneeling, or dropping gracefully 
 on to the knee, without toppling over, and we remember a 
 young lady, who had undertaken to play a part which 
 demanded this facility, being compelled to relinquish the 
 task owing to her inability to sustain her equilibrium 
 (and the gravity of the audience) at this critical moment? 
 
 As a general rule, you should not, unless absolutely 
 compelled, turn your back upon the front of the house. 
 We must confess a great number of professionals ignore 
 this, but then they have usually something in the 
 matter of dress and headgear to display, and a good 
 back view is often desirable to give the critical element 
 an opportunity of seeing a well-shaped back and pair 
 of shoulders. It must also be remarked that women 
 are more guilty in this respect than men, because they 
 have points to show off which men have not. 
 
 A side face, too, is objectionable, as the full expres- 
 sion is not obtained, which can only be seen in the three- 
 quarter and the full, but seldom, if ever, in the profile. 
 When walking off the stage you have to carry the 
 interest and goodwill of the audience with you, and 
 
142 THE DRAMA 
 
 as this has to be sustained from the moment you step 
 before them, it should be your all-absorbing duty to 
 leave a good impression, and make an agreeable exit. 
 Above all things, don't finish your lines in the centre 
 of the stage, and then walk off, probably to find your- 
 self confronted with a dummy door, and, to your dis- 
 gust and the merriment of the audience, that you have 
 to walk across the boards, sometimes to be met by 
 somebody coming in, when a collision is inevitable. 
 We have witnessed some most laughable mistakes of 
 this nature, which occasionally, unfortunately, occur at 
 a most pathetic portion of the piece, just when the 
 character thinks he is making a stroke of good business ; 
 the end, perhaps, of one of those grand speeches in 
 which actors delight so much to indulge. Audiences, 
 or a particular portion of them, are, as a rule, on the 
 look-out for anything to guy, and when an opportunity 
 does occur they are not slow to take advantage of it. 
 These are incidents familiar to all theatre-goers, and 
 are by no means confined to amateurs. They should 
 be carefully and studiously guarded against, for once 
 a man or woman loses his or her head on the stage, 
 there is nothing too absurd to follow. Presence of mind 
 and a keen look-out for accidents on the stage, only 
 comes after years of experience and study ; its practice 
 distinguishes the real actor; its want, the trembling 
 and over- ambitious amateur, who, while thinking of 
 the present, loses all anticipation for the future. We 
 once witnessed a performance by an amateur club in 
 which an actor referred to a picture which must have 
 been situated, according to his gestures, somewhere 
 
THE DRAMA 143 
 
 near the limelight, but which, in reality, was behind 
 his back. An eminent professional, while once playing 
 Hamlet, again made a similar error, and instead of 
 looking " upon this picture and upon this," the Queen 
 was compelled to follow his action, which pointed to 
 a gaping exit. Not long ago an actor came upon the 
 stage without his "property," which in this case was 
 a paper in the shape of a will. Having intimated in 
 a whisper to his fellow player what he had done, or 
 rather forgotten to do, the latter replied aloud with 
 astonishing alacrity: "Never mind, sir; I know all 
 about that will." A scene not intended for performance 
 was accordingly avoided ; but such presence of mind is 
 a rarity, and such an occasion, which is by no means 
 exceptional, is generally followed by confusion on the 
 stage and all sorts of abuse behind the scenes, to the 
 unfortunate pilgarlic who committed no other wrong 
 than that of causing rounds of laughter, and cat-calls 
 from the "gods." These experiences are interesting, but 
 very painful to those who have created them. They 
 serve, however, to show us how very essential it is to 
 have complete control over all our resources when 
 appearing before an audience. 
 
 The amateur actor has many things to learn and 
 many things also, perhaps, to unlearn before he can 
 confidently place himself upon the stage, even for the 
 amusement of his friends. It is only fair to them that 
 if he does appear, and if they are present, he should 
 conduct himself to the best possible advantage. Much 
 good may be done by amateur theatricals if they are 
 done circumspectly and with an anxiety to make the 
 
144 THE DRAMA 
 
 best impression. There is a wide field open for their 
 operations in the numerous charities which may be as- 
 sisted by their co-operation. Besides this, the zealous 
 student may gain experience which will be useful if 
 he ever " adopt the stage as a profession." Certain it 
 is that the professional stage is overcrowded, but what 
 walk in life is not blocked by the number of candidates 
 who are competitors for success? Your ability will be 
 recognised, if you have any, but don't be too ready to 
 place confidence in the friendly approval and en- 
 couragement of friends, who may be influenced by 
 personal feelings. The best course is to go to a 
 teacher of elocution, who will give you impartial 
 advice, and, if he understands his business, assist you 
 in your studies. In the selection of an elocution in- 
 structor you will do well to exercise discrimination, 
 and ascertain if he or she really is a bond-fide teacher, 
 or only a teacher by the mere stress of circumstances. 
 It is often the case, when a man or a woman fails at 
 everything else, they purchase a cane and a copy-book 
 and set up as teachers. The bogus agent is another 
 lady or gentleman to be guarded against. It will, 
 however, be time enough to consider these individuals 
 when you have some ability to test, and then, if you 
 have any common sense and judgment, you will be 
 able to select a qualified teacher for yourself. 
 
 The average student will experience his greatest 
 difficulty in the study and acquirement of gesture. 
 This is, in fact, the stumbling-block par excellence with 
 students. It will depend greatly upon the teacher's, 
 we were going to write "experience," but "tact" con- 
 
THE DRAMA 145 
 
 veys our meaning better. There are teachers in London 
 of considerable experience we have one especially in 
 our mind's eye who are incapable, absolutely, of 
 teaching the rudiments of gesture. We say absolutely 
 because they are unfitted by nature for the task. We 
 have watched and noted various teachers in London, 
 and have had their pupils, and, for the life of them, 
 they could neither explain why or how gesture was to 
 be done, and the pupils were, of course, hopelessly at 
 sea. Teaching gesture by imitation is, perhaps, in an 
 elocutionary sense, the greatest crime a teacher can 
 commit. To tell a student to do a particular gesture 
 in a particular way is to destroy at once his or 
 her individuality and originality. No two people do 
 anything alike. Individualities are entirely dissimilar. 
 People are dissimilar in every respect in handwriting, 
 walk, speech, voice, accent, thought and, in fact, in 
 everything. They are also different in the way they 
 conceive and display their emotions, and, as gesture is 
 the outcome of emotion, it must be different in different 
 individuals. To tell a student to wait for a particular 
 word before raising the hand to denote emphasis is as 
 absurd as to tell him to commence thinking of anything 
 at a certain point. No ; there is such a thing as in- 
 dividuality, and this should not be interfered with ; if 
 so, the pupil is only a copy of the teacher, and that 
 teacher may be very unworthy of being copied. There 
 are certain arbitrary rules which deserve to be carefully 
 examined and applied, but here rule-of-thumb must end. 
 We would willingly go into the discussion of gesture 
 here, but as it is a subject which cannot be adequately 
 
 10 
 
146 THE DRAMA 
 
 treated in a limited article like the present, we must 
 content ourselves with what has already been said. 
 Gesture and its application it is only fair and honest 
 to admit is extremely difficult, and, we believe, there 
 are those people who cannot master it. Here, how- 
 ever, we must conclude. Our views upon this subject 
 are pretty well known by those who take any interest 
 in it ; but we hope in the future to contribute a work 
 upon gesture, which, we think, will not be altogether 
 without value. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE LAW OF COPYRIGHT IN ITS RELATION TO DRAMATIC 
 WORKS, BY EDMOND BROWNE, B.L. 
 
 THE dramatic author should be duly acquainted with 
 all the ins and outs of the law of copyright as it affects 
 the legal guardianship of his "property." By having 
 a knowledge of this department of law, he will be less 
 likely to blunder and better able to detect blunder in 
 others. The law of copyright is fearfully complicated, in 
 some cases hopelessly abstruse ; but we shall endeavour 
 to make the matter as clear and as understandable as 
 possible. First, to understand the meaning of the term 
 " Copyright," according to Lord Mansfield's definition, 
 is "an incorporeal right to the sole printing and pub- 
 lishing of somewhat intellectual communicated by 
 letters " ; the right " to print a set of intellectual ideas 
 or modes of thinking communicated in a set of words 
 and sentences and modes of expression " ; " it is de- 
 tached from the manuscript or any other physical exis- 
 tence whatsoever." The author of these ideas may 
 claim them as his own property, and, under certain 
 circumstances, as we shall see, can claim compensation 
 if his property is stolen or used in such a way that he 
 is debarred from reaping any benefit from it, either 
 pecuniary or otherwise. An author may have the right 
 of ownership before the publication of his literary work 
 
 10 2 
 
i 4 8 THE DRAMA 
 
 as well as after that publication. He has the right to 
 prevent others from publishing it, either in his or their 
 names. He has also the right, after publication, of 
 restricting the number of copies published or printed, 
 and of restraining others from publishing and printing 
 from those copies. But the last "right" is more liable 
 to be violated than the others. 
 
 A "dramatic piece" (with which, in this article, we 
 have most to do) signifies, " Every tragedy, comedy, 
 play, opera, farce, or other scenic, musical or dramatic 
 entertainment," and copyright, in reference to dramatic 
 pieces and musical compositions, means the sole right 
 of public representation or performance. The copyright 
 of a dramatic piece or musical composition extends for 
 forty-two years after its first performance, which is 
 equivalent to the first publication of a book. The fact 
 of a dramatic piece being printed in book form does 
 not give anybody, other than the author, the right of 
 producing, performing, or causing to be performed his 
 play or dramatic composition. The author's, or his 
 assign's, consent must be obtained before any perform- 
 ance of his work can be given. Otherwise those respon- 
 sible for such performance are liable to a penalty of 
 forty shillings, the forfeiture of all the receipts, benefits 
 or advantages of the performance. A musical com- 
 position published after August xoth, 1882, which dis- 
 allows public performance should have that fact stated 
 and printed upon the title-page. 
 
 A dramatic, musical or other author should be care- 
 ful to register his work, or works, at Stationers' Hall, 
 in accordance with the Act of 1842. This should be 
 
THE DRAMA 149 
 
 done whether the work is in manuscript, typewritten 
 or print. The author will have to enter the date and 
 place of first publication or representation, if the work 
 be not printed and published, but is only in manuscript; 
 also his own address. The fee for this is five shillings. 
 
 An author cannot sue or proceed for any infringe- 
 ment before registration. The fact of a book being 
 in print is sufficient to justify ownership and the penal- 
 ties attached to piracy; but, should the book be not 
 registered, the author cannot sue or proceed for infringe- 
 ment. 
 
 It is not an infringement of the copyright of a novel 
 to dramatise it for public performance or representa- 
 tion; but should a person multiply copies of the play, 
 or dramatised version, he will be liable. Anyone who 
 dramatised a novel like Rider Haggard's " Dawn," for 
 example, would be liable, because he would necessarily 
 be compelled to make several copies for the different 
 actors who would be employed in giving it represen- 
 tation. 
 
 A copy of all books or plays must, in compliance with 
 the Act of 1842, be sent to the British Museum, the 
 Bodleian Library at Oxford, the Public Library at 
 Cambridge, the Library of the Faculty of Advocates at 
 Edinburgh, and the Library of Trinity College, Dublin. 
 
 A point in the law of copyright, or rather in common 
 law in its bearing on copyright, is the fact that if you 
 employ another man, say at a weekly salary, to write 
 you^a play or adapt a play for your use and benefit, 
 that play is no more yours than The Notorious Mrs. 
 Ebbsmith. Even if you gave a literary or dramatic hack 
 
150 THE DRAMA 
 
 one hundred pounds for a play, it is his and not yours 
 although he was your employe, your servant, and having 
 done his work, you may have thought it yours. But no ; 
 unless he makes an assignment in writing to you, giving 
 up all claim to the composition or adaptation as the case 
 may be, he is at liberty to claim author's fees as if he were 
 an ordinary author. The case is altered, however, where 
 the manager obtains the assistance of the author to 
 revise the play, and so long as he does not do all the 
 writing, and so long as the manager has his finger in the 
 pie, the author can claim only the stipulated sum for his 
 portion of the work, which work is thus the property of 
 the manager or whoever employed the author. 
 
 The author of a play or a novel, or, indeed, of any 
 book, must give it no title that has already been used. 
 Nor is he at liberty to give an imitation, whether gauzy or 
 not. The public must not be deceived, and that is the 
 main point. When the deception of the public is being 
 practised, the law should promptly step in. To gull the 
 public to go and see a play which they are led to believe 
 is quite another, is as wrong as to delude them that 
 it is by an author different to the real and bond-fide 
 author and composer. The composer of a play might 
 call it His Excellency, but the author of an opera could 
 not, because it would be an atrocious means of deception. 
 
 Although hardly a matter of legal discussion, still it 
 might possibly lead to one in the Courts, any attempt 
 to caricature notabilities should be avoided. The 
 practice has received the sanction of public approval, 
 but the people themselves do not like it, and it is anything 
 but good taste. The Censor will generally put his pencil 
 
THE DRAMA 151 
 
 through anything liable to be regarded as a personal 
 insult upon public men and institutions ; sometimes, 
 however, he neglects to do so till these public people 
 request him. He should, however, exercise his censor- 
 ship before being asked at all. 
 
 The relations which exist between Great Britain and 
 America concerning the law of copyright are somewhat 
 complicated, and it would be requisite that you under- 
 stood something of law, before the different points at 
 issue could be really intelligibly explained. There are, 
 however, a few points which we select from the many 
 which will be of sufficient value and use to the author, 
 and which, if he rightly understands them, will enable 
 him to meet the majority of cases in which he is 
 concerned. The following extract from Morgan's " Law 
 of Literature," an American work, gives us an inkling 
 into the legal state of things as they exist between 
 the two countries. "It appears, first, that an alien 
 dramatic author in the United States, practically and in 
 effect, receives precisely the same protection in his 
 literary property as the citizen can receive in his ; and 
 secondly, that, by neglecting to comply with our copy- 
 right laws " (American mind), " the alien dramatic 
 author can actually enjoy greater privileges of pro- 
 tection in his literary property than he could by com- 
 plying with them." 
 
 Your consent must be obtained for an American 
 production of your play, unless you print it in book 
 form. Mr. S. Theyre Smith has written a well-known 
 piece, called A Happy Pair. It was produced in 
 America after he had it printed in book form, but, 
 
152 THE DRAMA 
 
 of course, he could obtain no redress. The American 
 version is certainly different from the original, but there 
 can be no doubt whence it came. The author, Mr. 
 Smith, was naturally indignant, but he could do nothing 
 to bring the adapter "to justice." He gives the follow- 
 ing footnote in his printed book : " The author wishes 
 it to be distinctly understood that A Happy Pair, as 
 published in New York by Mr. Dewitt, is a mere 
 American adaptation of the present piece. The inci- 
 dents generally are closely followed, but the dialogue 
 is marred and mangled in so shameless a fashion, that 
 it becomes a question which is the more unjustifiable, 
 the theft of the title and incidents, or the libel upon 
 the author implied in putting his name upon the title- 
 page." Not only is the play performed, but copies of 
 it are sold, and the author cannot claim any damages. 
 There is, however, a very advisable way of meeting 
 the difficulty. The English author can sell out all his 
 rights to the American for a round sum, and in this 
 way avoid all confusion and misunderstanding. The 
 English author may employ the services of anyone in 
 the United States who will collect his fees and send 
 them to him in the usual way. The most preferable 
 method, we think, is to sell out the rights altogether 
 if the author can get a good price for his work ; except, 
 however, in such cases where the English author is 
 well known and does not mind going to the expense 
 of taking a trip over to the States to uphold his rights. 
 But authors of small pieces and farces would be doing 
 better by selling out altogether. 
 
 Should a play be performed first in America, it can 
 
- 
 
 ~ 
 
 THE DRAMA 
 
 153 
 
 be afterwards played here, and, in order to protect 
 themselves from this kind of robbery, for that is what 
 it is pure and simple, the play is often produced first 
 in England and a few nights after in America. This 
 saves the copyright for the author. 
 
 When a play is written and intended for production, 
 a copy (we recommend a type-written copy) should be 
 sent to the " Censor " (or " Examiner of Plays " as he 
 is officially known), " H.M. Household, St. James's 
 Place." A fee of one guinea if the play is in one act, 
 and two guineas if in more than one act, should accom- 
 pany the copy. The signature of the manager, and the 
 name of the theatre at which it is to be produced, 
 should, with the proposed date of production, be also 
 stated. Usually within seven days the Lord Chamber- 
 lain's license is received at the theatre. If, on the 
 contrary, the Censor does not write after seven days, 
 it may be taken that there is nothing objectionable (or, 
 rather, he has seen nothing objectionable) in the play. 
 
 Since the passing of the American Copyright Bill, 
 authors, and especially those of the first class, have 
 printed and published their plays in book form. Be- 
 fore the passing of this Bill, there was the fear of the 
 American managers getting a copy, and using it in 
 America and paying no fees. Now all that is changed; 
 and if an author's play is refused at all the theatres 
 and by ah 1 the managers in London, he may yet have 
 the satisfaction (if there is any satisfaction in it) of 
 printing and publishing his play and sending it to 
 his friends and relatives, who, for the most part, will 
 probably only read the title-page. 
 
154 THE DRAMA 
 
 As to whether any portion of a copyright play which 
 is published in book form (like Mr. Pinero's and 
 Mr. Jones's) can be recited in public, either by one or 
 two (as in taking a scene between two or more charac- 
 ters), we have no authority for giving the law upon 
 the point. But we think there could be little difficulty, 
 if the author wished, in showing that such reciting of 
 his plays, or only part of them, was an infringement 
 of the copyright, especially if the play, or a portion of 
 it, was recited in ? public theatre and money was 
 charged for admission. 
 
 This, we believe, is all the legal matter which the 
 author of plays need understand. Although the law 
 may appear, upon a first reading, to be hopelessly 
 involved, that will be no excuse for the one who breaks 
 it. The substance of it, as it affects the playwright, 
 is simple enough, and he has no valid reason for either 
 infringing it himself or permitting its infringement in 
 others. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 A Happy Pair, S. Theyre Smith's play, 151. 
 
 Act, Parliamentary, of 1842, relative to the copyright of dramatic 
 
 compositions, 148, 149; Dramatic nature of an, i, 29. 
 , Action, of a play interrupted by superfluous characters, 58 ; in- 
 terrupted by extraneous topics, 64 ; Characters of a play should 
 assist the, 61 ; introduced into plays, 8. 
 
 Actors, Principal, in a play should have greatest quantity of dia- 
 logue, 63 ; like a speech, ibid. ; Disinclination of, to be dis- 
 covered on the stage, 60; like their entrances to be led up to, 
 ibid. ; engaged by royalty and nobility, 13 ; Characteristics of 
 great, 138 ; Professional, n ; Science and, 2. 
 
 Adaptation, of plays, and laws relating to, 149 ; of a novel, 130. 
 
 Aeschylus, Tragedies of, 118. 
 
 Age, no criterion of dramatic excellence, 55. 
 
 All's Well that Ends Well, Shakespeare's play, 118. 
 
 Allegorical figures, Introduction of, in dramatic compositions, n. 
 
 Amateurs, Importance and utility of, 133. 
 
 America, Law of Copyright relating to, 151. 
 _ Analysis of the drama, 3. 
 
 Antonio, Shakespeare's character compared with that of Shylock, 
 123. 
 
 Aporia, Dramatic authors often complain of, 65. 
 
 Archer, William, the dramatic critic, 9. 
 
 Aristophanes, immoral nature of his works, 87 ; Comedies of, 118. 
 
 Aristotle, his dictum upon dramatic characterisation, 123. 
 
 Arnold, Matthew, the critic, 25. 
 
 Art and religion, 5. 
 
 Arts, The imaginative, 2, 3. 
 
 Ashwell, Miss Lena, the actress, 104. 
 
 As You Like It, Shakespeare's play, 118. 
 
 Audience, Knowledge of the, by the dramatist necessary, 128; 
 French, 43; Attention of the, should not be distributed over 
 many characters, 61. 
 
 Author, Legal rights of, 147, 148, 150; Dramatic, should not slavishly 
 imitate the works of others, 35. 
 
 Beaumont, 112. 
 Bill, American Copyright, 153. 
 Bodleian Library at Oxford, 149. 
 
 Boucicault, Dion, Plays of, 53 ; Instance in which he violated a law 
 of the drama, 123. 
 
156 INDEX 
 
 Braddon, Miss, the novelist, 79. 
 Byron, H. J., the dramatist, 70. 
 
 Campbell, Mrs. Patrick, the actress, 131. 
 
 Caste, Robertson's play, 70. 
 
 Catastrophe distinguished from climax, 129. 
 
 Censor, The, 150, 153. 
 
 Chambers, Haddon, the dramatist, 55, 106. 
 
 Characterisation, Emblematical, n ; Value of, 58. 
 
 Characters, Number of, employed in helping a dramatic story, 65 ; 
 Selection of, by the dramatist, 121. 
 
 Charles II., drama of his reign, 44. 
 
 Charley's Aunt, Brandon Thomas's work, 35, 36, 43. 
 
 Christ, Representation of, in plays, 8. 
 
 Christianity, Drama associated with, 45. 
 
 Clap-trap, Instance of, 126. 
 
 Classics, Immorality of ancient, 87. 
 
 Clergy associated with the drama, 6. 
 
 Climax, Definition of, 129 ; Application of, to dramatic story, ibid. 
 
 Comedy, to succeed financially, 52 ; Irish, 53 ; Author of, should 
 understand the audience, 58; the converse of tragedy, 119; 
 Nature of characters represented in, ibid. ; defined and in- 
 cluded among dramatic pieces by law of copyright, 147 ; Mean- 
 ing of, 117. 
 
 Comic element introduced into plays, 13. 
 
 Comic relief opposed to fantastic ideals, 14. 
 
 Confreries, The, n, 12. 
 
 Congreve, Immorality of, 113; Comedy of, 45, 47. 
 
 Contrast, an instrument of dramatic effect, 123. 
 
 Copyright, Definition of, 147 ; Law of, ibid. 
 
 Corneille, 118. 
 
 Court, The, Morality of, during Restoration period, 48. 
 
 Creusa, Play of, 35. 
 
 Criticism, Utility of, to dramatic authors, 62 ; Explanatory nature 
 of, 32. 
 
 Critics, French, i, 25; their application of the "Unities," ibid. ; 
 Younger school of, 40. 
 
 Critics, Prejudices of, 7; Harshness of, 38; influenced by the "gods," 
 ibid. ; Qualifications of, 39. 
 
 Dante, 118. 
 
 " Dawn," Rider Haggard's work, 8p. 
 
 Deportment, Importance and application of, 135. 
 
 De Soligny, Count, Criticisms of, 137. 
 
 Dewitt, Mr., an American publisher, 152. 
 
 Dialogue introduced into dramatic compositions, 6 ; Quantity of 
 
 allowed to each character in a play, 62 ; Management of, 127. 
 Dickens, Charles, The works of, unfit for dramatic presentation, 
 
 72-75' 
 
INDEX 157 
 
 Divina Commedia, 118. 
 
 Divinity, the subject of early dramas, 7. 
 
 " Don Juan," Byron's work, Immorality of, 88. 
 
 Drama, the, Individuality of authors in the composition of, 55 ; 
 Authorship of the, often automatic and mechanical, 55 ; Repartee 
 introduced into works of the, 54 ; Humour introduced into the, 
 54 ; Exaggerated importance of inspiration for the composition 
 of the, 56 ; Individuality of style in the composition of the, ibid. ; 
 Proper balancing of scenes in the, 58; Effect of the Reformation 
 on the, 44 ; Criticism of the ; Attitude of the early Church to the, 
 7 ; Gesture first used in acting the, 8 ; Transformation of 
 spectacular into actual drama, ibid. ; the British drama influ- 
 enced by the progress of the people, 12; regarded as an art, 13; 
 Human nature and the, 2 ; Science and art applied to the, ibid, ; 
 Epochs of the, 5 ; History of the, ibid. ; Literature of the, ibid. ; 
 Scope and nature of the, 2, 3; Knowledge of the, i; Progress of 
 the, ibid. ; became rhetorical instead of musical, 9 ; Disunion of 
 the, from the clergy, 10 ; assumed a definite aspect, 10 ; 
 Classification of the, wanting in English, 118; Fundamental 
 law of modern, 126. 
 
 Dramatic effect of drama more suggestive than substantive. Edu- 
 cational influence of, 85, 89; Suggested immorality of, 85; 
 denounced by clergy, 85, 87; Pictures and frescoes employed 
 to heighten, 7; Primary function of, 125. 
 
 Dramatists, Connection of novelists with, 3. 
 
 Drapery used for dramatic effect, u. 
 
 Dresses used for dramatic effect, n. 
 
 Editors, their duty to the public when engaging dramatic critics, 42. 
 
 Edward IV., Aspect of the drama during reign of, 10. 
 
 Eliot, George, 72. 
 
 Elocution, Necessity of, 135. 
 
 Emotion, Connection of metaphysics with, i. 
 
 England, State of, during i?th and i8th centuries, 46, 48. 
 
 Farce, defined and included among dramatic pieces, 148 ; Presenta- 
 tion of, to an audience, 141. 
 
 Farquhar, Superiority of, in morality, and inferiority of, in dramatic 
 skill to Wycherley, 113; Comedy of, 44-46. 
 
 Fees, Regulation of, for registration of dramatic works, 149. i53 
 
 Fielding, Henry, 72, 75, 76. 
 
 Fletcher, 112. 
 
 Gag, Definition of a, 122. 
 
 Gesture first used in acting, 8; Importance and application of, 135. 
 
 Gilbert, W. S., 38. 
 
 Goldsmith, Transition of Restoration comedy to work of, 97, 114- 
 
 Grossmith, Weedon, the actor, 36. 
 
 Grundy, Sidney, Method of dramatic composition of, 102, 104, 132. 
 
158 INDEX 
 
 Haggard, Rider, the novelist, 80, 81. 
 Hamilton, Sir William, the philosopher and thinker, 96. 
 Hamlet, Anecdote connected with, 143. 
 Haydn, Music of, 28. 
 Hazlitt, William, the dramatic critic, 70. 
 Hennequin, his definition of a play, 119. 
 Henry VI., Aspect of the drama during reign of, 10, 12. 
 Henry VIII., Aspect of the drama during reign of, ibid. 
 His Excellency, Opera of, 150. 
 Howard, Sir John, cited, 12. 
 
 Humour should be spontaneous, 53; influenced by society, 44; 
 Partiality of English audiences for, 53. 
 
 " In Memoriam," Tennyson's work, 88. 
 
 Innocent III., Pope, attitude towards public performances of the 
 
 drama, 10. 
 
 Interludes, a species of dramatic performance, 15. 
 Irving, Sir Henry, Reply of, to an aspirant to the stage, 139. 
 
 John a Dreams, Haddon Chambers' play, discussed in the Press, in. 
 Jones, Henry Arthur, the dramatist, 102. 
 Jonson, Ben, 41 ; his comedies, ibid. 
 
 135, 137- 
 
 Kean, Charles, his extraordinary gift of using gesture, 
 " King Solomon's Mines," Rider Haggard's work, 81. 
 Kneeling on the stage, Rule relating to, 131, 141. 
 Knight, Joseph, the dramatic critic, 39. 
 Knowledge, Positive, essential to good criticism, 28. 
 
 " Lady Audley's Secret," Miss Braddon's work, 79. 
 
 Laity, The, take part in plays, 9. 
 
 Latin, the language used as the medium of plays, 9. 
 
 Laughter, its cause, 43. 
 
 Law, Arthur, the dramatist, 35. 
 
 " Law of Literature," Morgan's work, 151. 
 
 Lever, novelist, Works of, 53. 
 
 Library, Public, at Cambridge, 149 ; of the Faculty of Advocates at 
 
 Edinburgh, 149 ; of Trinity College, at Dublin, 149. 
 Literature, German, 9 ; Spanish, 9 ; English, 9 ; Influence of, ibid. 
 " Lives of the Poets," Johnson's work, 76. 
 Locke, John, the philosopher and thinker, 24. 
 Louis XIV., Characteristics of reign of, 48. 
 Love in a Wood, Boast of Wycherley with regard to, 50. 
 Lover, Samuel, Works of, 53. 
 Lyceum Theatre, Plays produced at, 98. 
 Lytton, Bulwer, the novelist, 75. 
 
 Macaulay, Lord, 52, no. 
 
 Mansfield, Lord, his definition of legal copyright, 147. 
 
INDEX 159 
 
 Masquerades, 10. 
 
 Melodrama, An Irish exponent generally found in, 53. 
 
 Messenger, the dramatist, his comedies, 41. 
 
 Middle Ages, Idealism of, 14. 
 
 Mill, John Stuart, the philosopher and thinker, 96. 
 
 Miracle plays, n. 
 
 Moralities, 10, 1 1. 
 
 Moral plays, 10. 
 
 Moore, the dramatist, 35. 
 
 Morgan, his legal work, 151. 
 
 " Moths," Ouida's work, 78, 79, 95. 
 
 Museum, British, 149. 
 
 Music, its connection with the drama, 9. 
 
 Mysteries, n. 
 
 Notices, Dramatic, not always trustworthy, 38. 
 Ouida, the novelist, 72, 78. 
 
 Parody, introduced into plays, 14. 
 
 Passion plays, 39. 
 
 Penley, W. S., the actor, 36. 
 
 People, The, take part in plays, 9. 
 
 Pioneer plays, Obstacles to the success of, 107. 
 
 Pinero, Arthur Wing, the dramatist, 33, 38, 54, 59, 102. 
 
 Pistol, Shakespeare's character, Humour of, 43. 
 
 Plays, " Society," made the medium of introducing men and women 
 
 with bad records, 95 ; Meaning of, ibid. ; Relation to the drama, 
 
 98 ; The anxiety of people to write, 34 ; Scarcity of good, 35 ; 
 
 Correct method of composing, 54. 
 Playwriting, Grammar of, 60. 
 Profligate, The ; Pinero's work an instance of good dramatic compo- 
 
 sition ; Importance of scenes contained in, 107 ; Impressions, 59 ; 
 
 received from witnessing, 102, 105. 
 Puritans, their connection with, and attitude towards, the drama, 
 
 Reformation, The Protestant, promoted the growth of the drama, 15. 
 Rubinstein, Music of, 28. 
 
 Sassoferrato, Portraits of, 28. 
 Satire introduced into plays, 14. 
 
 Scenery, Effects of, introduced into dramatic representations, 13. 
 Scenes, Length of, 72. 
 Scott, Clement, the dramatic critic, 39. 
 Scott, Sir Walter, 72. 
 
 Scriptures, Immoral and indelicate references contained in, 87. 
 Shakespeare, eminently successful in the distribution of characters 
 and effects, 58. 
 
i6o INDEX 
 
 Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, the dramatist, 97, 144. 
 
 Sowing the Wind, Sidney Grundy's work, 104. 
 
 Stage, Morality of, compared with other places, 89. 
 
 Story, The, of a play, it must be actable, 125 ; Originality of, 127. 
 
 Temple, The, where Fielding lived, 76. 
 
 Times, The, Correspondence in, relative to " Society plays," in. 
 
 Thackeray, W. M., the novelist, 72. 
 
 "Tom Jones," Fielding's work, 76. 
 
 " The Witch's Head," Rider Haggard's work, 80. 
 
 The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, Pinero's work, 95, 102, 107, 108. 
 
 The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith, Pinero's work, 149. 
 
 The Constant Couple, Suggestiveness of, 44. 
 
 The Plain Dealer, Suggestiveness of, 44. 
 
 The Provoked Wife, Suggestiveness of, 44. 
 
 The Gentleman Dancing Master, 52. 
 
 The Country Wife, 52. 
 
 The New Boy, Arthur Law's work, 35, 36, 43. 
 
 The Gamester, 35. 
 
 The School for Scandal, 54. 
 
 Theme, The, of a play ; Meaning of the word, 8. 
 
 Touchstone, Shakespeare's character, Humour of, 43. 
 
 Truth, Natural, the handmaid of scientific enquiry, 29. 
 
 Tudor period, the influence on the English people, 12. 
 
 Turner, Landscapes of, 28. 
 
 Ulrici, Dr. Hermann, the German critic, 8. 
 
 Universities, English, 87 ; Classical literature taught in, ibid. 
 
 Vanbrugh, the dramatist, Comedy of, 44, 45. 
 Venice, Merchant of, Shakespeare's play, 118. 
 
 Whitehall, Ladies of, known to Wycherley, 50. 
 Wycherley, Fame of, based upon his comedies, 44, 45, 49, 52: 
 Morality of his dramatic works, 52; his life, 50. 
 
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