Chasuble.In Paris! (Shakes his head.) I fear that hardly points to any very serious state of mind at the last. You would no doubt wish me to make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic affliction next Sunday. (Jack presses his hand convulsively.) My sermon on the meaning of the manna in the wilderness can be adapted to almost any occasion, joyful, or, as in the present case, distressing. (All sigh.) I have preached it at harvest celebrations, christenings, confirmations, on days of humiliation and festal days. The last time I delivered it was in the Cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the Society for the Prevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders. The Bishop, who was present, was much struck by some of the analogies I drew.Jack.Ah! That reminds me, you mentioned christenings I think, Dr. Chasuble? I suppose you know how to christen all right? (Dr. Chasuble looks astounded.) I mean, of course, you are continually christening, aren’t you?62
Chasuble.In Paris! (Shakes his head.) I fear that hardly points to any very serious state of mind at the last. You would no doubt wish me to make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic affliction next Sunday. (Jack presses his hand convulsively.) My sermon on the meaning of the manna in the wilderness can be adapted to almost any occasion, joyful, or, as in the present case, distressing. (All sigh.) I have preached it at harvest celebrations, christenings, confirmations, on days of humiliation and festal days. The last time I delivered it was in the Cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the Society for the Prevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders. The Bishop, who was present, was much struck by some of the analogies I drew.
Jack.Ah! That reminds me, you mentioned christenings I think, Dr. Chasuble? I suppose you know how to christen all right? (Dr. Chasuble looks astounded.) I mean, of course, you are continually christening, aren’t you?62
It is true that the last part of Chasuble’s speech illustrates his volubility, and that the way in which Jack picks up the idea, “christening,” shows that he is so absorbed in his purpose as to pay no attention to anything Chasuble says after “christenings.” Here, therefore, the method is probably justified, but ordinarily the end of one speech leads into the next, and when something which breaks the sequence stands between, it must prove its right to be there, or be postponed for later treatment, or be cut out altogether.What re-ordering will do for a dialogue which is uninteresting and somewhat confused was shown in the revising of the extract from the John Brown play (pp. 309-313). There is a brilliant instance, in Miss Anglin’s version ofLady Windermere’s Fan, of re-ordering such that a climax of interest develops from groups of somewhat independent sentences.
Dialogue may be both clear and characterizing yet fail because it is difficult to speak. Too many writers, as has been said, do not hear their words but see them. Could any one who heard his words have penned the lines, “She says she’s sure she’ll have a shock if she sees him.” That time “apt alliteration” was so artful that, setting her trap, she caught a dramatist. Here is the amusing comment of a critic on an author’s protest that her lines have been misquoted and made to sound difficult to deliver:
In the review of the——Theatre’s opening bill there occurred a line purporting to come from Miss Blank’s psychic play,The Turtle. Miss Blank writes, “The line, which was either incorrectly spoken or heard, was not, ‘How does one know one is one’s self?’ but ‘How is one to know which is one’s real self when one feels so different with different people?’” Naturally the reviewer of a play is as open to mistakes in noting down lines as the actor is in speakingthem, particularly if the author is much given to the “one-one-one” style of construction. If, however, Miss Blank prefers her own version of the sentence, she is welcome to it.
In the review of the——Theatre’s opening bill there occurred a line purporting to come from Miss Blank’s psychic play,The Turtle. Miss Blank writes, “The line, which was either incorrectly spoken or heard, was not, ‘How does one know one is one’s self?’ but ‘How is one to know which is one’s real self when one feels so different with different people?’” Naturally the reviewer of a play is as open to mistakes in noting down lines as the actor is in speakingthem, particularly if the author is much given to the “one-one-one” style of construction. If, however, Miss Blank prefers her own version of the sentence, she is welcome to it.
Of course each writer is perfectly sure that his own ear will keep him from errors of this kind, but even the greatest err. Did Shakespeare write the opening lines ofMeasure For Measure, he the master of exquisitely musical and perfectly chosen dramatic speech? Some scholars believe he did. If so, in that second speech of the Duke which wearies the jaws and tempts to every kind of slurring, Jove certainly nodded.
Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords and AttendantsDuke.Escalus!Escalus.My lord.Duke.Of government the properties to unfold,Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse,Since I am put to know that your own scienceExceeds, in that, the lists of all adviceMy strength can give you: then no more remains,But that, to your sufficiency ...... as your worth is able,And let them work.
Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords and Attendants
Duke.Escalus!
Escalus.My lord.
Duke.Of government the properties to unfold,
Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse,
Since I am put to know that your own science
Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice
My strength can give you: then no more remains,
But that, to your sufficiency ...
... as your worth is able,
And let them work.
Are the following straight translations from the old French farce,Pierre Patelin,64as easy to speak as the revisions?
The first revision certainly gives lines easier to speak. The writer of the second revision hears it and knows the gesture, facial expression, and intonation which must go with “This!” Dialogue which is perfectly clear and characterizing should not be allowed to pass in the final revision if at any point it is unnecessarily difficult to deliver.
From the preceding discussion it must be clear that the three essentials of dialogue are clearness, helping the onward movement of the story, and doing all this in character. Dialogue is, naturally, still better if it possesses charm, grace, wit, irony, or beauty of its own. Dialogue which merely states the facts is, as we have seen, likely to be dull or commonplace. Well characterized dialogue still falls short of all dialogue may be if it has none of the attributes just mentioned. Feeling this strongly, the dramatists throughout the ages have striven to give their dialogue attractiveness because of its style, forgetting that above all for the dramatist it is true that “style is the man,” and that “style is a thinking out into language.” Lyly, Shakespeare, in some of the scenes of his early plays, Kyd inThe Spanish Tragedy, John Dryden in his Heroic Drama, Cibber and Lillo in their rhythmic prose which often might be perfectly well printed as blank verse, strove to decorate their dialogue from without—something sure to fail, either with the immediate audience or with posterity. If the charm, the grace, the wit, the irony of the dialogue does not come from the characters speaking, that dialogue fails in what has beenshown to be one of its chief essentials, right characterization. Congreve emphasized this in that classic of dramatic criticism, his letterConcerning Humour in Comedy.65“A character of a splenetic and peevish humour should have a satirical wit. A jolly and sanguine humour should have a facetious wit. The former should speak positively; the latter, carelessly: for the former observes and shows things as they are; the latter rather overlooks nature, and speaks things as he would have them; and his wit and humour have both of them a less alloy of judgment than the others.” Undoubtedly, however, the dramatist may do much in helping a character to reveal these qualities, particularly beauty of thought or phrasing. It is a conventional use supposed to make for beauty whichThe Rehearsalridicules in the following scene, for at nearly all crises the Heroic Drama rested on a simile for its strongest effect.
Prettyman.How strange a captive am I grown of late!Shall I accuse my love or blame my fate?My love I cannot; that is too divine:And against fate what mortal dares repine?Enter ChlorisBut here she comes.Sure ’tis some blazing comet! is it not? (Lies down.)Bayes.Blazing comet! Mark that; egad, very fine.Prettyman.But I am so surpris’d with sleep, I cannot speak the rest. (Sleeps.)Bayes.Does not that, now, surprise you, to fall asleep in the nick? His spirits exhale with the heat of his passion, and all that, and, swop, he falls asleep, as you see. Now, here she must make a simile.Smith.Where’s the necessity of that, Mr. Bayes?Bayes.Because she’s surprised. That’s a general rule; you must ever make a simile when you’re surprised; ’tis the new way of writing.Chloris.As some tall pine which we on Ætna findT’ have stood the rage of many a boist’rous wind,Feeling without that flames within do play,Which would consume his root and sap away;He spreads his worsted arms unto the skies:Silently grieves, all pale, repines, and dies:So, shrouded up, your bright eye disappears.Break forth, bright scorching sun, and dry my tears.(Exit.)John.Mr. Bayes, methinks this simile wants a little application, too.Bayes.No faith; for it alludes to passion, to consuming, to dying, and all that, which, you know, are the natural effects of an amour.(ActII, sc. 3.)66
Prettyman.How strange a captive am I grown of late!Shall I accuse my love or blame my fate?My love I cannot; that is too divine:And against fate what mortal dares repine?
Enter Chloris
But here she comes.Sure ’tis some blazing comet! is it not? (Lies down.)
Bayes.Blazing comet! Mark that; egad, very fine.
Prettyman.But I am so surpris’d with sleep, I cannot speak the rest. (Sleeps.)
Bayes.Does not that, now, surprise you, to fall asleep in the nick? His spirits exhale with the heat of his passion, and all that, and, swop, he falls asleep, as you see. Now, here she must make a simile.
Smith.Where’s the necessity of that, Mr. Bayes?
Bayes.Because she’s surprised. That’s a general rule; you must ever make a simile when you’re surprised; ’tis the new way of writing.
Chloris.As some tall pine which we on Ætna findT’ have stood the rage of many a boist’rous wind,Feeling without that flames within do play,Which would consume his root and sap away;He spreads his worsted arms unto the skies:Silently grieves, all pale, repines, and dies:So, shrouded up, your bright eye disappears.Break forth, bright scorching sun, and dry my tears.
(Exit.)
John.Mr. Bayes, methinks this simile wants a little application, too.
Bayes.No faith; for it alludes to passion, to consuming, to dying, and all that, which, you know, are the natural effects of an amour.
(ActII, sc. 3.)66
Why is it that the citation from Shakespeare in the left-hand column is less satisfactory than that in the right-hand?
The second extract is the more effective because the onward sweep of the emotion of the scene reveals beauty as it moves, but the first shows King Richard checking the course of his natural emotion in order suavely and perfectly to develop his comparison. Of course there is beauty in the first extract, but it is not genuine dramatic beauty. Why does one find the following passage fromThe Importance of Being Earnest(Act I), delightful as it is, less fine than the passage fromThe Way of the World(Act II, Scene 5)?
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNESTLady Bracknell.(Sitting down.) You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.(Looks in her pocket for notebook and pencil.)Jack.Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.Lady Bracknell.(Pencil and notebook in hand.) I feel bound to tell you that you are not down on my list of eligible young men, although I have the same list as the dear Duchess of Bolton has. We work together, in fact. However, I am quite ready to enter your name, should your answers be what a really affectionate mother requires. Do you smoke?Jack.Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.Lady Bracknell.I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it is. How old are you?Jack.Twenty-nine.Lady Bracknell.A very good age to be married at. I have always been of opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know?Jack.(After some hesitation.) I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.Lady Bracknell.I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything that tempers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. What is your income?Jack.Between seven and eight thousand a year.Lady Bracknell.(Makes a note in her book.) In land or investments?Jack.In investments, chiefly.Lady Bracknell.That is satisfactory. What between the duties expected of one during one’s lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one’s death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives one position and prevents one from keeping it up. That’s all that can be said about land.Jack.I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it, about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don’t depend on that for my income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the only people who are making anything out of it.Lady Bracknell.A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that point can be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl with a simple unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be expected to reside in the country.Jack.Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the year to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at six months’ notice.Lady Bracknell.Lady Bloxham? I don’t know her.Jack.Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably advanced in years.Lady Bracknell.Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability of character. What number in Belgrave Square?Jack.149.Lady Bracknell.(Shaking her head.) The unfashionable side. I thought there was something. However, that could easily be altered.Jack. Do you mean the fashion or the side?Lady Bracknell.(Sternly.) Both, if necessary, I presume. What are your politics?Jack.Well, I’m afraid I really have none. I am a Liberal Unionist.Lady Bracknell.Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come in the evening, at any rate. Now to minor matters. Are your parents living?Jack.I have lost both my parents.Lady Bracknell.Both?—That seems like carelessness. Who was your father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy?Jack.I’m afraid I really don’t know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me—I don’t actually know who I am by birth. I was—well, I was found.Lady Bracknell.Found!Jack.The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.Lady Bracknell.Where did the gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you?Jack.(Gravely.) In a hand-bag.Lady Bracknell.A hand-bag!Jack.(Very seriously.) Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag—a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it—an ordinary hand-bag in fact.Lady Bracknell.In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?Jack.In the cloak-room at the Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for his own.Lady Bracknell.The cloak-room at Victoria Station?Jack.Yes, the Brighton line.Lady Bracknell.The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate, bred in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that remind one of the worst excesses of theFrench Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion—has probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now—but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognized position in good society.Jack.May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen’s happiness.Lady Bracknell.I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is quite over.Jack.Well, I don’t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can produce the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.Lady Bracknell.Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter—a girl brought up with the utmost care—to marry into a cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing!(Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation.)69THE WAY OF THE WORLDEnter Mrs. Millamant, Witwoud, MincingMirabell.Here she comes, i’faith, full sail, with her fan spread and streamers out, and a shoal of fools for tenders; ha, no, I cry her mercy.Mrs. Fainall.I see but one poor empty sculler; and he tows her woman after him.Mirabell.(To Mrs. Millamant.) You seem to be unattended, Madam—you us’d to have the beau monde throng after you; and a flock of gay fine perukes hovering round you.Witwoud.Like moths about a candle,—I had like to have lost my comparison for want of breath.Mrs. Millamant.Oh, I have denied myself airs today, I have walk’d as fast through the crowd—Witwoud.As a favourite just disgraced; and with as few followers.Mrs. Millamant.Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your similitudes; for I am as sick of ’em—Witwoud.As a physician of good air—I cannot help it, Madam, though ’tis against myself.Mrs. Millamant.Yet again! Mincing, stand between me and his wit.Witwoud.Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a great fire. I confess I do blaze today, I am too bright.Mrs. Fainall.But, dear Millamant, why were you so long?Mrs. Millamant.Long! Lord, have I not made violent haste? I have ask’d every living thing I met for you; I have enquir’d after you, as after a new fashion.Witwoud.Madam, truce with your similitudes—no, you met her husband, and did not ask him for her.Mrs. Millamant.By your leave, Witwoud, that were like enquiring after an old fashion, to ask a husband for his wife.Witwoud.Hum, a hit, a hit, a palpable hit, I confess it.Mrs. Fainall.You were dress’d before I came abroad.Mrs. Millamant.Ay, that’s true—O but then I had—Mincing, what had I? why was I so long?Mincing.O mem, your La’ship staid to peruse a pacquet of letters.Mrs. Millamant.O, ay, letters—I had letters—I am persecuted with letters—I hate letters—nobody knows how to write letters, and yet one has ’em one does not know why—they serve one to pin up one’s hair.Witwoud.Is that the way? Pray, Madam, do you pin up your hair with all your letters? I find I must keep copies.Mrs. Millamant.Only with those in verse, Mr. Witwoud, I never pin up my hair with prose. I think I try’d once, Mincing.Mincing.O mem, I shall never forget it.Mrs. Millamant.Ay, poor Mincing tift and tift all the morning.Mincing.’Till I had the cramp in my fingers, I’ll vow, mem. And all to no purpose. But when your Laship pins it up with poetry, it fits so pleasant the next day as anything, and is so pure and so crips.Witwoud.Indeed, so crips.Mincing.You’re such a critic, Mr. Witwoud.Mrs. Millamant.Mirabell, did you take exceptions last night?O ay, and went away—now I think on’t, I’m angry—no, now I think on’t I’m pleas’d—for I believe I gave you some pain.Mirabell.Does that please you?Mrs. Millamant.Infinitely; I love to give pain.Mirabell.You wou’d affect a cruelty which is not in your nature; your true vanity is in the power of pleasing.Mrs. Millamant.O I ask your pardon for that—one’s cruelty is in one’s power; and when one parts with one’s cruelty, one parts with one’s power; and when one has parted with that, I fancy one’s old and ugly.Mirabell.Ay, ay, suffer your cruelty to ruin the object of your power, to destroy your lover—and then how vain, how lost a thing you’ll be! nay, ’tis true: you are no longer handsome when you’ve lost your lover; your beauty dies upon the instant; for beauty is the lover’s gift; ’tis he bestows your charms—your glass is all a cheat. The ugly and the old, whom the looking-glass mortifies, yet after commendation can be flatter’d by it, and discover beauties in it; for that reflects our praises rather than our face.Mrs. Millamant.O the vanity of these men! Fainall, d’ye hear him? If they did not commend us, we were not handsome! now you must know they cou’d not commend one, if one was not handsome. Beauty the lover’s gift—Lord, what is a lover, that it can give? Why, one makes lovers as fast as one pleases, and they live as long as one pleases, and they die as soon as one pleases; and then if one pleases, one makes more.Witwoud.Very pretty. Why, you make no more of making of lovers, Madam, than of making so many card-matches.Mrs. Millamant.One no more owes one’s beauty to a lover than one’s wit to an echo; they can but reflect what we look and say; vain empty things if we are silent or unseen, and want a being.Mirabell.Yet to those two vain empty things you owe the two greatest pleasures of your life.Mrs. Millamant.How so?Mirabell.To your lover you owe the pleasure of hearing yourselves prais’d; and to an echo the pleasure of hearing yourselves talk.Witwoud.But I know a lady that loves talking so incessantly, she won’t give an echo fair play; she has that everlasting rotation of the tongue, that an echo must wait ’till she dies before it can catch her last words.Mrs. Millamant.O fiction! Fainall, let us leave these men.70
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST
Lady Bracknell.(Sitting down.) You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.
(Looks in her pocket for notebook and pencil.)
Jack.Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.
Lady Bracknell.(Pencil and notebook in hand.) I feel bound to tell you that you are not down on my list of eligible young men, although I have the same list as the dear Duchess of Bolton has. We work together, in fact. However, I am quite ready to enter your name, should your answers be what a really affectionate mother requires. Do you smoke?
Jack.Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.
Lady Bracknell.I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it is. How old are you?
Jack.Twenty-nine.
Lady Bracknell.A very good age to be married at. I have always been of opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know?
Jack.(After some hesitation.) I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.
Lady Bracknell.I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything that tempers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. What is your income?
Jack.Between seven and eight thousand a year.
Lady Bracknell.(Makes a note in her book.) In land or investments?
Jack.In investments, chiefly.
Lady Bracknell.That is satisfactory. What between the duties expected of one during one’s lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one’s death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives one position and prevents one from keeping it up. That’s all that can be said about land.
Jack.I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it, about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don’t depend on that for my income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the only people who are making anything out of it.
Lady Bracknell.A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that point can be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl with a simple unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be expected to reside in the country.
Jack.Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the year to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at six months’ notice.
Lady Bracknell.Lady Bloxham? I don’t know her.
Jack.Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably advanced in years.
Lady Bracknell.Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability of character. What number in Belgrave Square?
Jack.149.
Lady Bracknell.(Shaking her head.) The unfashionable side. I thought there was something. However, that could easily be altered.
Jack. Do you mean the fashion or the side?
Lady Bracknell.(Sternly.) Both, if necessary, I presume. What are your politics?
Jack.Well, I’m afraid I really have none. I am a Liberal Unionist.
Lady Bracknell.Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come in the evening, at any rate. Now to minor matters. Are your parents living?
Jack.I have lost both my parents.
Lady Bracknell.Both?—That seems like carelessness. Who was your father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy?
Jack.I’m afraid I really don’t know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me—I don’t actually know who I am by birth. I was—well, I was found.
Lady Bracknell.Found!
Jack.The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.
Lady Bracknell.Where did the gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you?
Jack.(Gravely.) In a hand-bag.
Lady Bracknell.A hand-bag!
Jack.(Very seriously.) Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag—a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it—an ordinary hand-bag in fact.
Lady Bracknell.In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?
Jack.In the cloak-room at the Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for his own.
Lady Bracknell.The cloak-room at Victoria Station?
Jack.Yes, the Brighton line.
Lady Bracknell.The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate, bred in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that remind one of the worst excesses of theFrench Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion—has probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now—but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognized position in good society.
Jack.May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen’s happiness.
Lady Bracknell.I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is quite over.
Jack.Well, I don’t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can produce the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.
Lady Bracknell.Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter—a girl brought up with the utmost care—to marry into a cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing!
(Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation.)69
THE WAY OF THE WORLD
Enter Mrs. Millamant, Witwoud, Mincing
Mirabell.Here she comes, i’faith, full sail, with her fan spread and streamers out, and a shoal of fools for tenders; ha, no, I cry her mercy.
Mrs. Fainall.I see but one poor empty sculler; and he tows her woman after him.
Mirabell.(To Mrs. Millamant.) You seem to be unattended, Madam—you us’d to have the beau monde throng after you; and a flock of gay fine perukes hovering round you.
Witwoud.Like moths about a candle,—I had like to have lost my comparison for want of breath.
Mrs. Millamant.Oh, I have denied myself airs today, I have walk’d as fast through the crowd—
Witwoud.As a favourite just disgraced; and with as few followers.
Mrs. Millamant.Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your similitudes; for I am as sick of ’em—
Witwoud.As a physician of good air—I cannot help it, Madam, though ’tis against myself.
Mrs. Millamant.Yet again! Mincing, stand between me and his wit.
Witwoud.Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a great fire. I confess I do blaze today, I am too bright.
Mrs. Fainall.But, dear Millamant, why were you so long?
Mrs. Millamant.Long! Lord, have I not made violent haste? I have ask’d every living thing I met for you; I have enquir’d after you, as after a new fashion.
Witwoud.Madam, truce with your similitudes—no, you met her husband, and did not ask him for her.
Mrs. Millamant.By your leave, Witwoud, that were like enquiring after an old fashion, to ask a husband for his wife.
Witwoud.Hum, a hit, a hit, a palpable hit, I confess it.
Mrs. Fainall.You were dress’d before I came abroad.
Mrs. Millamant.Ay, that’s true—O but then I had—Mincing, what had I? why was I so long?
Mincing.O mem, your La’ship staid to peruse a pacquet of letters.
Mrs. Millamant.O, ay, letters—I had letters—I am persecuted with letters—I hate letters—nobody knows how to write letters, and yet one has ’em one does not know why—they serve one to pin up one’s hair.
Witwoud.Is that the way? Pray, Madam, do you pin up your hair with all your letters? I find I must keep copies.
Mrs. Millamant.Only with those in verse, Mr. Witwoud, I never pin up my hair with prose. I think I try’d once, Mincing.
Mincing.O mem, I shall never forget it.
Mrs. Millamant.Ay, poor Mincing tift and tift all the morning.
Mincing.’Till I had the cramp in my fingers, I’ll vow, mem. And all to no purpose. But when your Laship pins it up with poetry, it fits so pleasant the next day as anything, and is so pure and so crips.
Witwoud.Indeed, so crips.
Mincing.You’re such a critic, Mr. Witwoud.
Mrs. Millamant.Mirabell, did you take exceptions last night?O ay, and went away—now I think on’t, I’m angry—no, now I think on’t I’m pleas’d—for I believe I gave you some pain.
Mirabell.Does that please you?
Mrs. Millamant.Infinitely; I love to give pain.
Mirabell.You wou’d affect a cruelty which is not in your nature; your true vanity is in the power of pleasing.
Mrs. Millamant.O I ask your pardon for that—one’s cruelty is in one’s power; and when one parts with one’s cruelty, one parts with one’s power; and when one has parted with that, I fancy one’s old and ugly.
Mirabell.Ay, ay, suffer your cruelty to ruin the object of your power, to destroy your lover—and then how vain, how lost a thing you’ll be! nay, ’tis true: you are no longer handsome when you’ve lost your lover; your beauty dies upon the instant; for beauty is the lover’s gift; ’tis he bestows your charms—your glass is all a cheat. The ugly and the old, whom the looking-glass mortifies, yet after commendation can be flatter’d by it, and discover beauties in it; for that reflects our praises rather than our face.
Mrs. Millamant.O the vanity of these men! Fainall, d’ye hear him? If they did not commend us, we were not handsome! now you must know they cou’d not commend one, if one was not handsome. Beauty the lover’s gift—Lord, what is a lover, that it can give? Why, one makes lovers as fast as one pleases, and they live as long as one pleases, and they die as soon as one pleases; and then if one pleases, one makes more.
Witwoud.Very pretty. Why, you make no more of making of lovers, Madam, than of making so many card-matches.
Mrs. Millamant.One no more owes one’s beauty to a lover than one’s wit to an echo; they can but reflect what we look and say; vain empty things if we are silent or unseen, and want a being.
Mirabell.Yet to those two vain empty things you owe the two greatest pleasures of your life.
Mrs. Millamant.How so?
Mirabell.To your lover you owe the pleasure of hearing yourselves prais’d; and to an echo the pleasure of hearing yourselves talk.
Witwoud.But I know a lady that loves talking so incessantly, she won’t give an echo fair play; she has that everlasting rotation of the tongue, that an echo must wait ’till she dies before it can catch her last words.
Mrs. Millamant.O fiction! Fainall, let us leave these men.70
Is not the dialogue of Congreve the finer because one feels in Wilde the ringmaster showing off his figures, and with Congreve is not conscious of the author at all? That is, the wit of the first passage is an assisted wit, edged, underscored, selectively phrased by a skilful author. In the second, everything springs seemingly unassisted from the characters. The range of accomplishment from obvious search for beauty in consciously made similes, through such relatively fine accomplishment as Wilde shows, to such perfect work as that of Congreve, should be carefully studied by the would-be dramatist. John Ford’s wonderful lines
Parthenophil is like to something I remember,A great while since, a long, long time ago
Parthenophil is like to something I remember,
A great while since, a long, long time ago
hold the memory not merely because of the loveliness of their haunting melody, but because they are in character and help to portray the wistful bewilderment of the moment. Why go far afield searching for the phrase that shall give charm, grace, beauty? Look into the souls of your characters and find them there. Either you haven’t seen them or, not being there, they cannot properly appear in your text. Mr. W. B. Yeats tells of rehearsing a young actress who stumbled constantly over the line
And then I looked up and saw you coming toward me, I know not whether from the north, the south, the east or the west.
And then I looked up and saw you coming toward me, I know not whether from the north, the south, the east or the west.
She gave it with no sense of its contained rhythm, and always came to a full stop after “toward me,” adding the last words almost unwillingly. When asked why she did this, she said that all which followed seemed to her unnecessary: the important fact was contained in what preceded. It took much rehearsing to make the young woman see that the music of the line is characteristic of the dales people, and so has characterizing value, and that she had totally forgotten the situation of the woman speaking. A peddlerhas come to the only hut in a lonely valley. The woman welcomes him heartily, not that she may buy, but because after days in which she has seen no one except her “man,” she is greedy for talk. Having bargained as long as she can, very regretfully she sees the man departing, and, other topics being exhausted, she tells him of her pleasure in his coming, spinning out her phrase as long as she possibly can in order to hold him. Out of that set of conditions springs a highly characterizing phrase that also has beauty. If Synge had done no more by his plays than to make us recognize in the speech of the peasant the characterizing power and the beauty for him who has “the eye to see and the ear to hear,” his work would deserve permanent fame. He states his ideas in the preface toThe Playboy of the Western World.
In writingThe Playboy of the Western World, as in my other plays, I have used one or two words only that I have not heard among the country people of Ireland, or spoken in my own nursery before I could read the newspapers. A certain number of the phrases I employ I have heard also from herds and fishermen along the coast from Kerry to Mayo, or from beggar-women and ballad-singers near Dublin; and I am glad to acknowledge how much I owe to the folk-imagination of these fine people. Any one who has lived in real intimacy with the Irish peasantry will know that the wildest sayings and ideas in this play are tame indeed, compared with the fancies one may hear in any little hillside cabin in Geesala, or Carraroe, or Dingle Bay. All art is a collaboration; and there is little doubt that in the happy ages of literature, striking and beautiful phrases were as ready to the story-teller’s or the playwright’s hand as the rich cloaks and dresses of his time. It is probable that when the Elizabethan dramatist took his ink-horn and sat down to his work he used many phrases that he had just heard as he sat at dinner, from his mother or his children. In Ireland, those of us who know the people have the same privilege. When I was writingThe Shadow of the Glen, some years ago, I got more aid than any learning could have given me from a chink in the floor of the old Wicklow house where I was staying, that let me hear what wasbeing said by the servant girls in the kitchen. This matter, I think, is of importance for in countries where the imagination of the people, and the language they use, is rich and living, it is possible for a writer to be rich and copious in his words, and at the same time to give the reality, which is the root of all poetry, in a comprehensive and natural form. In the modern literature of towns, however, richness is found only in sonnets, or prose poems, or in one or two elaborate books that are far away from the profound and common interests of life. One has, on one side, Mallarmé and Huysmans producing this literature; and on the other Ibsen and Zola dealing with the reality of life in joyless and pallid words. On the stage one must have reality, and one must have joy; and that is why the intellectual modern drama has failed, and people have grown sick of the false joy of the musical comedy, that has been given them in place of the rich joy found only in what is superb and wild in reality. In a good play every speech should be as fully flavoured as a nut or apple, and such speeches cannot be written by any one who works among people who have shut their lips on poetry. In Ireland, for a few years more, we have a popular imagination that is fiery and magnificent, and tender; so that those of us who wish to write start with a chance that is not given to writers in places where the springtime of the local life has been forgotten, and the harvest is a memory only, and the straw has been turned into bricks.71
In writingThe Playboy of the Western World, as in my other plays, I have used one or two words only that I have not heard among the country people of Ireland, or spoken in my own nursery before I could read the newspapers. A certain number of the phrases I employ I have heard also from herds and fishermen along the coast from Kerry to Mayo, or from beggar-women and ballad-singers near Dublin; and I am glad to acknowledge how much I owe to the folk-imagination of these fine people. Any one who has lived in real intimacy with the Irish peasantry will know that the wildest sayings and ideas in this play are tame indeed, compared with the fancies one may hear in any little hillside cabin in Geesala, or Carraroe, or Dingle Bay. All art is a collaboration; and there is little doubt that in the happy ages of literature, striking and beautiful phrases were as ready to the story-teller’s or the playwright’s hand as the rich cloaks and dresses of his time. It is probable that when the Elizabethan dramatist took his ink-horn and sat down to his work he used many phrases that he had just heard as he sat at dinner, from his mother or his children. In Ireland, those of us who know the people have the same privilege. When I was writingThe Shadow of the Glen, some years ago, I got more aid than any learning could have given me from a chink in the floor of the old Wicklow house where I was staying, that let me hear what wasbeing said by the servant girls in the kitchen. This matter, I think, is of importance for in countries where the imagination of the people, and the language they use, is rich and living, it is possible for a writer to be rich and copious in his words, and at the same time to give the reality, which is the root of all poetry, in a comprehensive and natural form. In the modern literature of towns, however, richness is found only in sonnets, or prose poems, or in one or two elaborate books that are far away from the profound and common interests of life. One has, on one side, Mallarmé and Huysmans producing this literature; and on the other Ibsen and Zola dealing with the reality of life in joyless and pallid words. On the stage one must have reality, and one must have joy; and that is why the intellectual modern drama has failed, and people have grown sick of the false joy of the musical comedy, that has been given them in place of the rich joy found only in what is superb and wild in reality. In a good play every speech should be as fully flavoured as a nut or apple, and such speeches cannot be written by any one who works among people who have shut their lips on poetry. In Ireland, for a few years more, we have a popular imagination that is fiery and magnificent, and tender; so that those of us who wish to write start with a chance that is not given to writers in places where the springtime of the local life has been forgotten, and the harvest is a memory only, and the straw has been turned into bricks.71
As Ibsen says, “Style must conform to the degree of ideality which pervades the representation.”
You are of opinion that the drama ought to have been written in verse, and that it would have gained by this. Here I must differ from you. The play is, as you must have observed, conceived in the most realistic style; the illusion I wished to produce was that of reality. I wished to produce the impression on the reader that what he was reading was something that had really happened. If I had employed verse I should have counteracted my own intention and prevented the accomplishment of the task I had set myself. The many ordinary, insignificant characters whom I have intentionally introduced into the play would have become indistinct, and indistinguishable from one another, if I had allowed all of them to speak in one and the same rhythmical measure. We are no longer living in the days of Shakespeare. Speaking generally, the style mustconform to the degree of ideality which pervades the representation. My new drama is no tragedy in the ancient acceptation; what I desired to depict were human beings, and therefore I would not let them talk “the language of the Gods.”72
You are of opinion that the drama ought to have been written in verse, and that it would have gained by this. Here I must differ from you. The play is, as you must have observed, conceived in the most realistic style; the illusion I wished to produce was that of reality. I wished to produce the impression on the reader that what he was reading was something that had really happened. If I had employed verse I should have counteracted my own intention and prevented the accomplishment of the task I had set myself. The many ordinary, insignificant characters whom I have intentionally introduced into the play would have become indistinct, and indistinguishable from one another, if I had allowed all of them to speak in one and the same rhythmical measure. We are no longer living in the days of Shakespeare. Speaking generally, the style mustconform to the degree of ideality which pervades the representation. My new drama is no tragedy in the ancient acceptation; what I desired to depict were human beings, and therefore I would not let them talk “the language of the Gods.”72
The dramatist who would write dialogue of the highest order should have not only an inborn and highly trained feeling for the emotional significance of the material in hand; a fine feeling for characterization; ability to write dialogue which states facts in character; and the power to bring out whatever charm, grace, irony, wit, or other specially attractive qualities his characters permit; also he should have, or develop, a strong feeling for the nicest use of language. Dumas fils said, “There should be something of the poet, the artist in words, in every dramatist.”
1The Far East, June 6, 1914, p. 295.2The Devonshire Hamlets, pp. 1-2.3The Devonshire Hamlets, pp. 26-27.4Act I. Scene 1. Belles-Lettres Series. Austin Dobson, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.5Hindle Wakes, Stanley Houghton. J.W. Luce & Co., Boston; Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd., London.6York Plays, p. 363. L. T. Smith, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford.7Ludus Coventriæ, p. 322. J. O. Halliwell, ed. Shakespeare Society.8Plays, pp. 71-72 Copyright, 1915, by Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.9B. W. Huebsch. New York.10Julius Cæsar, ActIII, Scene 3.11The London Merchant, or The History of George Barnwell, ActI, Scene 1. George Lillo. Sir A.W. Ward, ed. Belles-Lettres Series. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.12Works, R.W. Bond, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford.13Selected Dramas of John Dryden. Conquest of Granada. G. R. Noyes, ed.14Belles-Lettres Series. Sir A. W. Ward, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.15L’Année Psychologique, 1894, p. 120.16The Nigger, Act I. Edward Sheldon. The Macmillan Co., New York.17The Devonshire Hamlets, p. 99.18Letters of Bulwer-Lytton to Macready, p. 130. B. Matthews, ed.19Fortune by Land and Sea.T. Heywood and W. Rowley. W. B. Clarke Co, Boston.20From Ibsen’s Workshop, p. 162. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.21Prose Dramas, vol. 1, p. 377.Idem.22From Ibsen’s Workshop, p. 171. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.23Prose Dramas, vol. i, p. 386.Idem.24The Ambassador.T. Fisher Unwin, London.25Samuel French, New York.26Mistress Beatrice Cope.M. E. Le Clerc. D. Appleton & Co., New York.27The Devonshire Hamlets, pp. 4, 6.28Becket.Tennyson. The Macmillan Co.29Becket.Arranged by Sir Henry Irving.Idem.30George Riddle’s Readings.Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston.31The Origin of the English Drama, vol. II, p. 48. T. Hawkins, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1773.32Antony and Cleopatra, Act I, Scene 1.33Belles-Lettres Series. K. L. Bates, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.34Pre-Shakesperean Drama, vol. 1, p. 300. J. M. Manly. Ginn & Co., Boston.35Early Plays, p. 72. C. G. Child. Riverside Literature Series, No. 191. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.36Samuel French, New York.37Note that this is a literary detail effective for readers only. At best the first row of spectators alone could identify the title of the book.38Justice.Copyright, 1910, by John Galsworthy. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.39Die Frau im Fenster.Theater in Versen. H. von Hofmannsthal. S. Fischer, Berlin.40The final scene of Act IV ofNathan Haleshows effective use of pantomime.41Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.42The Great Divide, Act I. The Macmillan Co., New York.43Translated by Arthur Symons. Brentano, New York.44For such skilful substitution of pantomime for words, see pp. 388-89,Lady Windermere’s Fan.45Robert Louis Stevenson, the Dramatist, p. 15. Sir A.W. Pinero. Chiswick Press, London. For the play seeThree Plays, Henley and Stevenson. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.46Samuel French, New York.47The Duchesse of Malfi, ActV, Scene 4. Belles-Lettres Series. M. W. Sampson, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.48Othello, ActII, Scene 1.49Othello, ActIII, Scene 3.50Drama League Series. Hannah Lynch, tr. Doubleday, Page & Co.51Plays, vol. 1. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.52Plays, vol. 1. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.53Introduction to Browning, pp. 85-86. H. Corson. D. C. Heath & Co.54The Ring and the Book. Robert Browning. Tauchnitz ed., vol.IV. Leipzig.55Act II, Scene 2. Samuel French, New York.56Plays, vol. II, pp. 150-51. J. Tonson. London, 1730.57The Foundations of a National Drama, p. 23. H. A. Jones. George H. Doran Company, New York.58Concerning Humour in Comedy. A Letter. European Theories of the Drama, pp. 213-214. Ed. B. H. Clark. Stewart and Kidd Co., Cincinnati.59The Devonshire Hamlets, p. 28.60Belles-Lettres Series, pp. 271-273. A. Bates, ed. D.C. Heath & Co., Boston.61Plays of Oscar Wilde, vol. 1,Lady Windermere’s Fan. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.62Idem, vol.II.The Importance of Being Earnest.63Plays of Oscar Wilde, vol. 1. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.64Walter H. Baker Co., Boston.65Dramatic Works, vol.II, pp. 222-223. London, 1773.66Geo. Villiers, Duke of Buckingham.Selected Dramas of John Dryden, with The Rehearsal, p. 399. G.R. Noyes, ed. Scott, Freeman & Co.67Richard the Second, ActIV. Scene 1.68Twelfth Night, ActI, Scene 5.69Plays of Oscar Wilde, vol.II. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.70Dramatic Works of William Congreve, vol.II. pp. 111-117. S. Crowder, London, 1773.71J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.72The Letters of Henrik Ibsen, p. 269. Letter to Edmund Gosse, January 15, 1874. Fox, Duffield & Co., New York.
1The Far East, June 6, 1914, p. 295.
2The Devonshire Hamlets, pp. 1-2.
3The Devonshire Hamlets, pp. 26-27.
4Act I. Scene 1. Belles-Lettres Series. Austin Dobson, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.
5Hindle Wakes, Stanley Houghton. J.W. Luce & Co., Boston; Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd., London.
6York Plays, p. 363. L. T. Smith, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford.
7Ludus Coventriæ, p. 322. J. O. Halliwell, ed. Shakespeare Society.
8Plays, pp. 71-72 Copyright, 1915, by Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
9B. W. Huebsch. New York.
10Julius Cæsar, ActIII, Scene 3.
11The London Merchant, or The History of George Barnwell, ActI, Scene 1. George Lillo. Sir A.W. Ward, ed. Belles-Lettres Series. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
12Works, R.W. Bond, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford.
13Selected Dramas of John Dryden. Conquest of Granada. G. R. Noyes, ed.
14Belles-Lettres Series. Sir A. W. Ward, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
15L’Année Psychologique, 1894, p. 120.
16The Nigger, Act I. Edward Sheldon. The Macmillan Co., New York.
17The Devonshire Hamlets, p. 99.
18Letters of Bulwer-Lytton to Macready, p. 130. B. Matthews, ed.
19Fortune by Land and Sea.T. Heywood and W. Rowley. W. B. Clarke Co, Boston.
20From Ibsen’s Workshop, p. 162. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
21Prose Dramas, vol. 1, p. 377.Idem.
22From Ibsen’s Workshop, p. 171. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
23Prose Dramas, vol. i, p. 386.Idem.
24The Ambassador.T. Fisher Unwin, London.
25Samuel French, New York.
26Mistress Beatrice Cope.M. E. Le Clerc. D. Appleton & Co., New York.
27The Devonshire Hamlets, pp. 4, 6.
28Becket.Tennyson. The Macmillan Co.
29Becket.Arranged by Sir Henry Irving.Idem.
30George Riddle’s Readings.Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston.
31The Origin of the English Drama, vol. II, p. 48. T. Hawkins, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1773.
32Antony and Cleopatra, Act I, Scene 1.
33Belles-Lettres Series. K. L. Bates, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
34Pre-Shakesperean Drama, vol. 1, p. 300. J. M. Manly. Ginn & Co., Boston.
35Early Plays, p. 72. C. G. Child. Riverside Literature Series, No. 191. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.
36Samuel French, New York.
37Note that this is a literary detail effective for readers only. At best the first row of spectators alone could identify the title of the book.
38Justice.Copyright, 1910, by John Galsworthy. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
39Die Frau im Fenster.Theater in Versen. H. von Hofmannsthal. S. Fischer, Berlin.
40The final scene of Act IV ofNathan Haleshows effective use of pantomime.
41Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.
42The Great Divide, Act I. The Macmillan Co., New York.
43Translated by Arthur Symons. Brentano, New York.
44For such skilful substitution of pantomime for words, see pp. 388-89,Lady Windermere’s Fan.
45Robert Louis Stevenson, the Dramatist, p. 15. Sir A.W. Pinero. Chiswick Press, London. For the play seeThree Plays, Henley and Stevenson. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
46Samuel French, New York.
47The Duchesse of Malfi, ActV, Scene 4. Belles-Lettres Series. M. W. Sampson, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
48Othello, ActII, Scene 1.
49Othello, ActIII, Scene 3.
50Drama League Series. Hannah Lynch, tr. Doubleday, Page & Co.
51Plays, vol. 1. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
52Plays, vol. 1. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
53Introduction to Browning, pp. 85-86. H. Corson. D. C. Heath & Co.
54The Ring and the Book. Robert Browning. Tauchnitz ed., vol.IV. Leipzig.
55Act II, Scene 2. Samuel French, New York.
56Plays, vol. II, pp. 150-51. J. Tonson. London, 1730.
57The Foundations of a National Drama, p. 23. H. A. Jones. George H. Doran Company, New York.
58Concerning Humour in Comedy. A Letter. European Theories of the Drama, pp. 213-214. Ed. B. H. Clark. Stewart and Kidd Co., Cincinnati.
59The Devonshire Hamlets, p. 28.
60Belles-Lettres Series, pp. 271-273. A. Bates, ed. D.C. Heath & Co., Boston.
61Plays of Oscar Wilde, vol. 1,Lady Windermere’s Fan. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
62Idem, vol.II.The Importance of Being Earnest.
63Plays of Oscar Wilde, vol. 1. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
64Walter H. Baker Co., Boston.
65Dramatic Works, vol.II, pp. 222-223. London, 1773.
66Geo. Villiers, Duke of Buckingham.Selected Dramas of John Dryden, with The Rehearsal, p. 399. G.R. Noyes, ed. Scott, Freeman & Co.
67Richard the Second, ActIV. Scene 1.
68Twelfth Night, ActI, Scene 5.
69Plays of Oscar Wilde, vol.II. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
70Dramatic Works of William Congreve, vol.II. pp. 111-117. S. Crowder, London, 1773.
71J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
72The Letters of Henrik Ibsen, p. 269. Letter to Edmund Gosse, January 15, 1874. Fox, Duffield & Co., New York.