Among the most interesting of recent dramatic contributions are William Butler Yeats’s “Plays for an Irish Theatre.” Mr. Yeats’s recent visit to this country is still fresh in recollection; and doubtless many of my readers have seen his beautiful little fairy piece, “The Land of Heart’s Desire.” Probably allegory, or at least symbolism, is the only form in which the supernatural has any chance in modern drama. The old-fashioned ghost is too robust an apparition to produce in a sceptical generation that “willing suspension of disbelief” which, says Coleridge, constitutes dramatic illusion. Hamlet’s father talks too much; and the ghosts in “Richard III” are so sociable a company as to quite keep each other in countenance. The best ghost in Shakespeare is Banquo’s, which is invisible—a mere “clot on the brain”—and has no “lines” to speak. The elves in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” and the elemental spirits in “The Tempest” are nothing but machinery. The other world is not the subject of the play. Hauptmann’s “Die Versunkene Glocke” is symbolism, and so is “The Land of Heart’s Desire.” Maeterlinck’s “Les Aveugles” and Yeats’s “Cathleen Ni Hoolihan” are more formally allegorical. The poor old woman, in the latter, who takes the bridegroom from his bride, is Ireland, from whom strangers have taken her “four beautiful green fields”—the ancient kingdoms of Munster, Leinster, Ulster, and Connaught.

These Irish plays, indeed, are the nearest thing we have to the work of the Belgian symbolist, to dramas like “Les Aveugles” and “L’Intruse.” And, as in those, the people are peasants, and the dialogue is homely prose. No brogue: only a few idioms and sometimes not even that, the whole being supposed to be a translation from the Gaelic into standard English. Maeterlinck’s dramas have been played on many theatres. Mr. William Sharp, who twice saw “L’Intruse” at Paris, found it much less impressive in the acting than in the reading, and his experience was not singular. As for the more romantic pieces, like “Les Sept Princesses” and “Aglavaine et Sélysette,” they are about as shadowy as one of Tieck’s tales. Those who saw Mrs. Patrick Campbell in “Pelléas et Mélisande” will doubtless agree that these dreamlike poems are hurt by representation. It may be that Maeterlinck, like Baudelaire, has invented a new shudder. But the matinée audiences laughed at many things which had thrilled the closet reader.

Yeats’s tragedies, like Maeterlinck’s, belong to the drame intime, the théâtre statique. The popular drama—what Yeats calls the “theatre of commerce”—is dynamic. The true theatre is the human will. Brunetière shows by an analysis of any one of Racine’s plays—say “Andromaque”—how the action moves forward by a series of decisions. But Maeterlinck’s people are completely passive: they suffer: they do not act, but are acted upon by the unearthly powers of which they are the sport. Yeats’s plays, too, are “plays for marionettes,” spectral puppet-shows of the Celtic twilight. True, his characters do make choices: the young wife in “The Land of Heart’s Desire,” the bridegroom in “Cathleen Ni Hoolihan” make choices, but their apparently free will is supernaturally influenced. The action is in two worlds. In antique tragedy, too, man is notoriously the puppet of fate; but, though he acts in ignorance of the end to which destiny is shaping his deed, he acts with vigorous self-determination. There is nothing dreamlike about Orestes or Oedipus or Antigone.

It is said that the plays of another Irishman, Oscar Wilde, are now great favorites in Germany: “Salome,” in particular, and “Lady Windermere’s Fan” and “A Woman of No Importance” (“Eine unbedeutende Frau”). This is rather surprising in the case of the last two, which are society dramas with little action and an excess of cynical wit in the dialogue. It is hard to understand how the unremitting fire of repartee, paradox, and “reversed epigram” in such a piece as “Lady Windermere’s Fan,” the nearest recent equivalent of Congreve comedy—can survive translation or please the German public.

This “new drama” is very new indeed. In 1882, William Archer, the translator of Ibsen, published his book, “English Dramatists of To-day,” in the introduction to which he acknowledged that the English literary drama did not exist. “I should like to see in England,” he wrote, “a body of playwrights whose works are not only acted, but printed and read.” Nine years later, Henry Arthur Jones, in the preface to his printed play, “Saints and Sinners,” denied that there was any relation between English literature and the modern English drama. A few years later still, in his introduction to the English translation of M. Filon’s book, “The English Stage” (1897), Mr. Jones is more hopeful. “If any one will take the trouble,” he writes, “to examine the leading English plays of the last ten years, and will compare them with the serious plays of our country during the last three centuries, I shall be mistaken if he will not find evidence of the beginnings of an English drama of greater import and vitality, and of wider aim, than any school of drama the English theatre has known since the Elizabethans.”

In his book on “The Renaissance of the Drama,” and in many other places, Mr. Jones has pleaded for a theatre which should faithfully reflect contemporary life; and in his own plays he has endeavored to furnish examples of what such a drama should be. His first printed piece, “Saints and Sinners” (exhibited in 1884), was hardly literature, and did not stamp its author as a first-class talent. It is a seduction play of the familiar type, with a set of stock characters: the villain; the forsaken maid; the steadfast lover who comes back from Australia with a fortune in the nick of time; the père noble, a country clergyman straight out of “The Vicar of Wakefield”; and a pair of hypocritical deacons in a dissenting chapel—very much overdone, pace Matthew Arnold, who complimented Mr. Jones on those concrete examples of middle-class Philistinism, with its alliterative mixture of business and bethels. Mr. Jones, like Mr. Shaw, is true to the tradition of the stage in being fiercely anti-Puritan, and wastes many words in his prefaces in vindicating the right of the theatre to deal with religious hypocrisy; as if Tartuffe and Tribulation Wholesome had not been familiar comedy heroes for nearly three hundred years!

This dramatist served his apprenticeship in melodrama, as Pinero did in farce; and there are signs of the difference in his greater seriousness, or heaviness. Indeed, an honest feeling and an earnest purpose are among his best qualities. M. Filon thinks him the most English of contemporary writers for the stage. And, as Pinero’s art has gained in depth, Jones’s has gained in lightness. Crude at first, without complexity or shading in his character-drawing, without much art in comic dialogue or much charm and distinction in serious, he has advanced steadily in grasp and skill and sureness of touch, and stands to-day in the front rank of modern British dramatists. “The Crusaders,” “The Case of Rebellious Susan,” “The Masqueraders,” “Judah,” “The Liars,” are all good plays—or, at least plays with good features—and certainly fall within the line which divides literary drama from the mere stage play. “Judah,” for instance, is a solidly built piece, with two or three strong situations. The heroine is a fasting girl and miraculous healer, a subject of a kind which Hawthorne often chose; or reminding one of Mr. Howells’s charlatans in “The Undiscovered Country” and Mr. James’s in “The Bostonians.” The characterization of the leading persons is sound, and there is a brace of very diverting broad comedy figures, a male and a female scientific prig. They are slightly caricatured—Jones is still a little heavy-handed—but the theatre must over-accentuate now and again, just as actresses must rouge.

In this play and in “The Crusaders,” social satire is successfully essayed at the expense of prevailing fads, such as fashionable philanthropy, slumming parties, neighborhood guilds, and the like. There is a woman in “The Crusaders,”—a campaigner, a steamboat, a specimen of the loud, energetic, public, organizing, speech-making, committee and platform, subscription-soliciting woman,—nearly as good as anything in our best fiction. Mr. Joseph Knight, who writes a preface to “Judah” (first put on at the Shaftesbury Theatre, London, 1890), compares its scientific faddists with the women who swarm to chemistry and biology lectures in that favorite Parisian comedy, “Le monde où l’on s’ennuie.” There is capital satire of the downright kind in these plays, but surely it is dangerous to suggest comparison with the gay irony, the courtly grace, the dash and sparkle of Pailleron’s little masterpiece. There are no such winged shafts in any English quiver. Upon the whole, “The Liars” seems to me the best comedy of Mr. Jones’s that I have read,—I have not read them all,—the most evenly sustained at every point of character and incident, a fine piece of work in both invention and construction. The subject, however, is of that disagreeable variety which the English drama has so often borrowed from the French, the rescue of a married woman from a compromising position, by a comic conspiracy in her favor.

The Puritans have always been halfway right in their opposition to the theatre. The drama, in the abstract and as a form of literature, is of an ancient house and a noble. But the professional stage tends naturally to corruption, and taints what it receives. The world pictured in these contemporary society plays—or in many of them—we are unwilling to accept as typical. Its fashion is fast and not seldom vulgar. It is a vicious democracy in which divorces are frequent and the “woman with a past” is the usual heroine; in which rowdy peers mingle oddly with manicurists, clairvoyants, barmaids, adventuresses, comic actresses, faith-healers, etc., and the contact between high life and low-life has commonly disreputable motives. Surely this is not English life, as we know it from the best English fiction. And, if the drama is to take permanent rank with the novel, it must redistribute its emphasis.

WITH the exception of Goldsmith’s comedy, “She Stoops to Conquer,” the only eighteenth century plays that still keep the stage are Sheridan’s three, “The Rivals,” “The Critic,” and “The School for Scandal.” Once in a while, to be sure, a single piece by one or another of Goldsmith’s and Sheridan’s contemporaries makes a brief reappearance in the modern theatre. I have seen Goldsmith’s earlier and inferior comedy, “The Good-natured Man,” as well as Towneley’s farce, “High Life Below Stairs,” both given by amateurs; and I have seen Colman’s “Heir at Law” (1797) acted by professionals. Doubtless other eighteenth century plays, such as Cumberland’s “West Indian” and Holcroft’s “Road to Ruin,” are occasionally revived and run for a few nights. Sometimes this happens even to an earlier piece, such as Farquhar’s “Beaux’ Stratagem” (1707), which retained its popularity all through the eighteenth century. But things of this sort, though listened to with a certain respectful attention, are plainly tolerated as interesting literary survivals, like an old miracle or morality play, say the “Secunda Pastorum” or “Everyman,” revisiting the glimpses of the moon. They do not belong to the repertoire.

Sheridan’s plays, on the other hand, have never lost their popularity as acting dramas. “The School for Scandal” has been played oftener than any other English play outside of Shakespeare; and “The Rivals” is not far behind it. Even “The Critic,” which is a burlesque and depends for its effect not upon plot and character but upon the sheer wit of the dialogue and the absurdity of the situations—even “The Critic” continues to be presented both at private theatricals and upon the public stage, and seldom fails to amuse. There is no better proof of Sheridan’s extraordinary dramatic aptitude than is afforded by a comparison of “The Critic” with its model, Buckingham’s “Rehearsal.” To Boswell’s question why “The Rehearsal” was no longer played, Dr. Johnson answered, “Sir, it had not wit enough to keep it sweet”; then paused and added in good Johnsonese, “it had not vitality sufficient to preserve it from putrefaction.” “The Rehearsal” did have plenty of wit, but it was of the kind which depends for its success upon a knowledge of the tragedies it burlesqued. These are forgotten, and so “The Rehearsal” is dead. But “The Critic” is not only very much brighter, but it satirizes high tragedy in general and not a temporary literary fashion or a particular class of tragedy: and, therefore, nearly a century and a half after its first performance, “The Critic” is still very much alive. The enduring favor which Sheridan’s plays have won must signify one of two things: either that they touch the springs of universal comedy, la comédie humaine—the human comedy, as Balzac calls it: go down to the deep source of laughter, which is also the fountain of tears; or else that, whatever of shallowness or artificiality their picture of life may have, their cleverness and artistic cunning are such that they keep their freshness after one hundred and fifty years. Such is the antiseptic power of art.

The latter, I think, is Sheridan’s case. His quality was not genius, but talent, yet talent raised to a very high power. His comedy lacks the depth and mellowness of the very greatest comedy. His place is not among the supreme creative humorists, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Aristophanes, Molière. Taine says that in Sheridan all is brilliant, but that the metal is not his own, nor is it always of the best quality. Yet he acknowledges the wonderful vivacity of the dialogue, and the animated movement of every scene and of the play as a whole. Sheridan, in truth, was inventive rather than original. His art was eclectic, derivative, but his skill in putting together his materials was unfailing. He wrote the comedy of manners: not the comedy of character. In the greatest comedy, in “The Merchant of Venice,” or “Le Misanthrope,” or “Peer Gynt” there is poetry, or at least there is seriousness. But in the comedy of manners, or in what is called classical comedy, i.e., pure, unmixed comedy, the purpose is merely to amuse.

He never drives his plowshare through the crust of good society into the substratum of universal ideas. We are not to look in the comedy of manners for wisdom and far-reaching thoughts; nor yet for profound, vital, subtle studies of human nature. Sheridan’s comedies are the sparkling foam on the crest of the wave: the bright, consummate flower of high life: finished specimens of the playwright’s art: not great dramatic works.

Yet when all deductions have been made, Sheridan’s is a most dazzling figure. The brilliancy and versatility of his talents were indeed amazing. Byron said: “Whatsoever Sheridan has done, or chosen to do, has been par excellence always the best of its kind. He has written the best comedy, the best drama, the best farce and the best address; and, to crown all, delivered the very best oration ever conceived or heard in this country.” By the best comedy Byron means “The School for Scandal”; the best drama was “The Duenna,” an opera or music drama; the best address was the monologue on Garrick; and the best oration was the famous speech on the Begums of Oude in the impeachment proceedings against Warren Hastings: a speech which held the attention of the House of Commons for over five hours at a stretch, and was universally acknowledged to have outdone the most eloquent efforts of Burke and Pitt and Fox.

Sheridan came naturally by his aptitude for the theatre. His father was an actor and declamation master and had been manager of the Theatre Royal in Dublin. His mother had written novels and plays. Her unfinished comedy, “A Journey to Bath,” furnished a few hints towards “The Rivals,” the scene of which, you will remember, is at Bath, the fashionable watering place which figures so largely in eighteenth century letters: in Smollett’s novel, “Humphrey Clinker,” in Horace Walpole’s correspondence, in Anstey’s satire, “The New Bath Guide,” and in Goldsmith’s life of Beau Nash, the King of the Pumproom. Histrionic and even dramatic ability has been constantly inherited. There are families of actors, like the Kembles and the Booths; and it is noteworthy how large a proportion of our dramatic authors have been actors, or in practical touch with the stage: Marlowe, Greene, Jonson, Shakespeare, Otway, Lee, Cibber, the Colmans, father and son, Macklin, Garrick, Foote, Knowles, Boucicault, Robertson, Tom Taylor, Pinero, Stephen Phillips. These names by no means exhaust the list of those who have both written and acted plays. Sheridan’s career was full of adventure. He eloped from Bath with a beautiful girl of eighteen, a concert singer, daughter of Linley, the musical composer, and was married to her in France. In the course of this affair he fought two duels, in one of which he was dangerously wounded. Now what can be more romantic than a duel and an elopement? Yet notice how the identical adventures which romance uses in one way, classical comedy uses in quite another. These personal experiences doubtless suggested some of the incidents in “The Rivals”; but in that comedy the projected duel and the projected elopement end in farce, and common sense carries it over romance, which it is the whole object of the play to make fun of, as it is embodied in the person of Miss Lydia Languish.

It was Sheridan who said that easy writing was sometimes very hard reading. Nevertheless, whatever he did had the air of being dashed off carelessly. All his plays were written before he was thirty. He was a man of the world, who was only incidentally a man of letters. He sat thirty years in the House of Commons, was Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs under Fox, and Secretary to the Treasury under the coalition ministry. He associated intimately with that royal fribble, the Prince Regent, and the whole dynasty of dandies, and became, as Thackeray said of his forerunner, Congreve, a tremendous swell, but on a much slenderer capital. It is one of the puzzles of Sheridan’s biography where he got the money to pay for Drury Lane Theatre, of which he became manager and lessee. He was a shining figure in the world of sport and the world of politics, as well as in the world of literature and the drama. He had the sanguine, improvident temperament, and the irregular, procrastinating habits of work which are popularly associated with genius. The story is told that the fifth act of “The School for Scandal” was still unwritten while the earlier acts were being rehearsed for the first performance; and that Sheridan’s friends locked him up in a room with pen, ink, and paper, and a bottle of claret, and would not let him out till he had finished the play. This anecdote is not, I believe, authentic; but it shows the current impression of his irresponsible ways. His reckless expenses, his betting and gambling debts resulted in his arrest and imprisonment, and writs were served upon him in his last illness. I do not think that Sheridan affected a contempt for the profession of letters; but there was perhaps a touch of affectation in his rather dégagé attitude toward his own performances. It is an attitude not uncommon in literary men who are also—like Congreve—“tremendous swells.” “I hate your authors who are all author,” wrote Byron, who was himself a bit of a snob. When Voltaire called upon Congreve, the latter disclaimed the character of author, and said he was merely a private gentleman, who wrote for his own amusement. “If you were merely a private gentleman,” replied Voltaire, “I would not have thought it worth while to come to see you.”

Dramatic masterpieces are not tossed off lightly from the nib of the pen; and doubtless Sheridan worked harder at his plays than he chose to have the public know and was not really one of that “mob of gentlemen who write with ease” at whom Pope sneers. Byron and many others testify to the coruscating wit of his conversation; and it is well-known that he did not waste his good things, but put them down in his notebooks and worked them up to a high polish in the dialogue of his plays. It is noticeable how thriftily he leads up to his jokes, laying little traps for his speakers to fall into. Thus in “The Rivals,” where Faulkland is complaining to Captain Absolute about Julia’s heartless high spirits in her lover’s absence, he appeals to his friend to mark the contrast:

The Captain could hardly have missed this rejoinder; it was fairly put into his mouth by the wily dramatist.

Again observe how carefully the way is prepared for the repartee in the following bit of dialogue from “The School for Scandal”: Sir Peter Teazle has married a country girl and brought her up to London, where she shows an unexpected zest for the pleasures of the town. He is remonstrating with her about her extravagance and fashionable ways.

Sir Peter: “Madam, I pray had you any of these elegant expenses when you married me?”

Lady Teazle: “Lud, Sir Peter, would you have me be out of the fashion?”

Sir Peter: “The fashion indeed! What had you to do with the fashion before you married me?”

Lady Teazle: “For my part—I should think you would like to have your wife thought a woman of taste.”

Sir Peter: “Aye, there again—Taste! Zounds, Madam, you had no taste when you married me.”

The retort is inevitable and a modern playwriter—say, Shaw or Pinero—would leave the audience to make it, Lady Teazle answering merely with an ironical bow. But Sheridan was not addressing subtle intellects, and he doesn’t let us off from the lady’s answer in good blunt terms: “That’s very true indeed, Sir Peter! After having married you I should never pretend to taste again, I allow.” But why expose these tricks of the trade? All playwrights have them, and Sheridan uses them very cleverly, if rather transparently. Another time-honored stage convention which Sheridan practises is the labelling of his characters. Names like Malaprop, O’Trigger, Absolute, Languish, Acres, etc., are descriptive; and the realist might ask how their owners came by them, if he were pedantic enough to cross-question the innocent old comedy tradition, which is of course unnatural and indefensible enough if we choose to take such things seriously.

About the comparative merits of Sheridan’s two best plays, tastes have differed. “The Rivals” has more of humor; “The School for Scandal” more of wit; but both have plenty of each. On its first appearance, January 17, 1775, “The Rivals” was a failure, owing partly to its excessive length, partly to bad acting, partly to a number of outrageous puns and similar witticisms which the author afterwards cut out, and partly to the offense given by the supposed caricature of an Irish gentleman in the person of Sir Lucius O’Trigger. Sheridan withdrew the play and revised it thoroughly, shortening the acting time by an hour and redistributing the parts among the members of the Covent Garden Theatre company. At its second performance, eleven days later, it proved a complete success, and has remained so ever since. It has always been a favorite play with the actors, because it offers so many fine rôles to an all-star company. It affords at least four first-class parts to the comic artist: Sir Anthony Absolute, Mrs. Malaprop, Bob Acres, and Sir Lucius O’Trigger: while it has an unusually spirited jeune premier, a charming though utterly unreasonable heroine, a good soubrette in Lucy, and entertaining minor characters in Fag and David.

As we have no manuscript of the first draft of “The Rivals,” it is impossible to say exactly what changes the author made in it. But as the text now stands it is hard to understand why Sir Lucius O’Trigger was regarded as an insult to the Irish nation. Sheridan was an Irishman and he protested that he would have been the last man to lampoon his compatriots. Sir Lucius is a fortune hunter, indeed, and he is always spoiling for a fight; but he is a gentleman and a man of courage; and even in his fortune hunting he is sensitive upon the point of honor: he will get Mrs. Malaprop’s consent to his addresses to her niece, and “do everything fairly,” for, as he says very finely, “I am so poor that I can’t afford to do a dirty action.” The comedy Irishman was nothing new in Sheridan’s time. He goes back to Jonson and Shakespeare. In the eighteenth century his name was Teague; in the nineteenth, Pat or Mike. We are familiar with this stock figure of the modern stage, his brogue, his long-skirted coat and knee breeches, the blackthorn shillalah in his fist and the dudeen stuck into his hatband. The Irish naturally resent this grotesque: their history has been tragical and they wish to be taken seriously. We have witnessed of late their protest against one of their own comedies, “The Playboy of the Western World.” But perhaps they have become over touchy. There is not any too much fun in the world, and if we are to lose all the funny national peculiarities from caricature and farce and dialect story, if the stage Irishman has got to go, and also the stage Yankee, Dutchman, Jew, Ole Olsen, John Bull, and the burnt cork artist of the negro minstrel show, this world will be a gloomier place. Be that as it may, Sir Lucius O’Trigger is no caricature: he doesn’t even speak in brogue, and perhaps the nicest stroke in his portrait is that innocent inconsequence which is the essence of an Irish bull. “Hah, my little ambassadress,” he says to Lucy, with whom he has an appointment, “I have been looking for you; I have been on the South Parade this half hour.”

“O gemini!” cries Lucy, “and I have been waiting for your worship on the North.”

“Faith,” answers Sir Lucius, “maybe that was the reason we did not meet.”

A great pleasure in the late sixties and early seventies used to be the annual season of English classical comedy at Wallack’s old playhouse; and not the least pleasant feature of this yearly revival was the performance of “The Rivals,” with John Gilbert cast for the part of Sir Anthony, Mrs. Gilbert as Mrs. Malaprop, and Lester Wallack himself, if I remember rightly, in the rôle of the Captain. But, of course, the comic hero of the piece is Bob Acres; and this, I think, was Jefferson’s great part. I saw him three times in Bob Acres, at intervals of years, and it was a masterpiece of high comedy acting: so natural, so utterly without consciousness of the presence of spectators, that it was less like acting than like the thing itself. The interpretation of the character, too, was so genial and sympathetic that one was left with a feeling of great friendliness toward the unwarlike Bob, and his cowardice excited not contempt but only amusement. The last time that I saw Joe Jefferson in “The Rivals,” he was a very old man, and there was a pathetic impression of fatigue about his performance, though the refinement and the warm-heartedness with which he carried the part had lost nothing with age.

Historically Sheridan’s plays represent a reaction against sentimental comedy, which had held the stage for a number of years, beginning, perhaps, with Steele’s “Tender Husband” (1703) and numbering, among its triumphs, pieces like Moore’s “Foundling” (1748), Kelly’s “False Delicacy,” and several of Cumberland’s plays. Cumberland, by the way, who was intensely jealous of Sheridan, was the original of Sir Fretful Plagiary in “The Critic,” Sheridan’s only condescension to personal satire. He was seemingly a vain and pompous person, and well deserved his castigation. The story is told of Cumberland that he took his children to see “The School for Scandal” and when they laughed rebuked them, saying that he saw nothing to laugh at in this comedy. When this was reported to Sheridan, his comment was, “I think that confoundedly ungrateful, for I went to see Cumberland’s last tragedy and laughed heartily at it all the way through.”

With Goldsmith and Sheridan gayety came back to the English stage. In their prefaces and prologues both of them complain that the comic muse is dying and is being succeeded by “a mawkish drab of spurious breed who deals in sentimentals,” genteel comedy, to wit, who comes from France where comedy has now become so very elevated and sentimental that it has not only banished humor and Molière from the stage, but it has banished all spectators too. Goldsmith laments the disgusting solemnity that had lately infected literature and sneers at the moralizing comedies that deal with the virtues and distresses of private life instead of ridiculing its faults. Joseph Surface in “The School for Scandal” is Sheridan’s portrait of the sentimental, moralizing hypocrite, whose catchword is “the man of sentiment”; and whose habit of uttering lofty moralities is so ingrained that he vents them even when no one is present who can be deceived by them.

Surface: “The man who does not share in the distresses of a brother—even though merited by his own misconduct—deserves—”

“O Lud,” interrupts Lady Sneerwell, “you are going to be moral, and forget that you are among friends.”

“Egad, that’s true,” rejoins Joseph, “I’ll keep that sentiment till I see Sir Peter.”

“The Critic” has a slap or two at sentimental comedy. A manuscript play has been submitted to Mr. Dangle, who reads this stage direction, “Bursts into tears and exit,” and naturally asks, “What is this, a tragedy?” “No,” explains Mr. Sneer, “that’s a genteel comedy, not a translation—only taken from the French: it is written in a style which they have lately tried to run down; the true sentimental and nothing ridiculous in it from the beginning to the end. . . . The theatre, in proper hands, might certainly be made the school of morality; but now, I am sorry to say it, people seem to go there principally for their entertainment.” Another of these moral comedies is entitled “ ‘The Reformed Housebreaker’ where, by the mere force of humour, housebreaking is put in so ridiculous a light, that if the piece has its proper run . . . bolts and bars will be entirely useless by the end of the season.”

Sheridan has often been called the English Beaumarchais. The comedies of Beaumarchais, “The Barber of Seville” and “The Marriage of Figaro” were precisely contemporaneous with Sheridan’s, and, like the latter, they were a reaction against sentimentalism, against the so-called comédie larmoyante or tearful comedies of La Chaussée and other French dramatists. With Beaumarchais laughter and mirth returned once more to the French stage. He goes back for a model to Molière, as Sheridan goes back to English Restoration comedy, and particularly to Congreve, whom he resembles in the wit of his dialogue and the vivacity of his character painting, but whom he greatly excels in the invention of plot and situation. Congreve’s plots are intricate and hard to follow, highly improbable and destitute of climaxes. On the other hand, Sheridan is a master of plot. The duel scene in “The Rivals,” the auction scene and the famous screen scene in “The School for Scandal” are three of the most skilfully managed situations in English comedy. Congreve’s best play, “The Way of the World” (1700), was a failure on the stage. But whatever Sheridan’s shortcomings, a want of practical effectiveness, of acting quality, was never one of them. Sheridan revived society drama, what Lamb called the artificial comedy of the seventeenth century. Lydia Languish, with her romantic notions, and Mrs. Malaprop with her “nice derangement of epitaphs” are artificial characters. Bob Acres is for the most part delightfully natural, but his system of referential or sentimental swearing—“Odds blushes and blooms” and the like—is an artificial touch. The weakest feature of “The Rivals” is the underplot, the love affairs of Faulkland and Julia. Faulkland’s particular variety of jealousy is a “humor” of the Ben Jonsonian sort, a sentimental alloy, as Charles Lamb pronounced it, and anyway infinitely tiresome. In modern acting versions this business is usually abridged. As Jefferson played it, Julia’s part was cut out altogether, and Faulkland makes only one appearance (Act II, Scene I), where his presence is necessary for the going on of the main action.

There is one particular in which Congreve and Sheridan sin alike. They make all the characters witty. “Tell me if Congreve’s fools are fools indeed,” wrote Pope. And Sheridan can never resist the temptation of putting clever sayings into the mouths of simpletons. The romantic Miss Languish is nearly as witty as the very unromantic Lady Teazle. I need not quote the good things that Fag and Lucy say, but Thomas the coachman, and the stupid old family servant David say things equally good. It is David, e.g., who, when his master remarks that if he is killed in the duel his honor will follow him to the grave, rejoins, “Now that’s just the place where I could make shift to do without it.” Sir Anthony is witty, Bob Acres himself is witty, and even Mrs. Malaprop—foolish old woman—delivers repartees. Mrs. Malaprop’s verbal blunders, by the way, are a good instance of that artificial high polish so characteristic of Sheridan’s art. There are people in earlier comedies who make ludicrous misapplications of words—Shakespeare’s Dogberry, e.g., or Dame Quickly, but they do it naturally and occasionally. Sheridan reduces these accidents to a system—a science. No one in real life was ever so perseveringly and so brilliantly wrong as Mrs. Malaprop.

Dramatically this is out of character and is, therefore, a fault, though a fault easy to forgive since it results in so much clever talk. It is a fault, as I have said, which Congreve shares with Sheridan, his heir and continuator. Perhaps the lines of character are not cut quite so deep in Sheridan as in Congreve nor has his dialogue the elder dramatist’s condensed, epigrammatic solidity. But on the whole, “The Rivals” and “The School for Scandal” are better plays than Congreve ever wrote.

THE spirit of the seventeenth century Cavaliers has been made familiar to us by historians and romancers, but it did not find very adequate expression in contemporary verse. There are two perfect songs by Lovelace, “To Althea from Prison” and “To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars.” But if we look into collections like Charles Mackay’s “Songs of the Cavaliers,” we are disappointed. These consist mainly of political campaign songs little removed from doggerel, satires by Butler and Cleveland, and rollicking ballad choruses by Alexander Brome, Sir Roger L’Estrange, Sir Richard Fanshawe, who was Prince Rupert’s secretary; or haply by that gallant royalist gentleman, Arthur Lord Capel, executed, though a prisoner of war, after the surrender of Colchester. You may remember Milton’s sonnet “To the Lord General Fairfax at the Siege of Colchester.” These were the marks of a Cavalier ballad: to abuse the Roundheads, to be convivial and profane, to profess a reckless daring in fight, devotion to the ladies, and loyalty to church and king. The gay courage of the Cavalier contrasted itself with the grim and stubborn valor of the Roundhead. The bitterest drop in the cup of the defeated kingsmen was that they were beaten by their social inferiors, by muckers and religious fanatics who cropped their hair, wore narrow bands instead of lace collars, and droned long prayers through their noses; people like the butcher Harrison and the leather-seller, Praise-God Barebones, and the brewers, cobblers, grocers and like mechanical trades who figured as the preachers in Cromwell’s New Model army. The usual commonplaces of anti-Puritan satire, the alleged greed and hypocrisy of the despised but victorious faction, their ridiculous solemnity, their illiteracy, contentiousness, superstition, and hatred of all liberal arts, are duly set forth in such pieces as “The Anarchie,” “The Geneva Ballad,” and “Hey then, up go we.” The most popular of all these was the famous song, “When the King enjoys his own again,” which Ritson indeed calls—but surely with much exaggeration—the most famous song of any time or country.

But somehow the finer essence of the Cavalier spirit escapes us in these careless verses. Better are the recorded sayings in prose of many gallant gentlemen in the King’s service. There, for instance, was Sir Edmund Verney, the royal standard bearer who was killed at Edgehill. He was offered his life by a throng of his enemies if he would deliver the standard. He answered that his life was his own, but the standard was his and their sovereign’s and he would not deliver it while he lived. At the outbreak of the war he had said to Hyde: “I have eaten his [the King’s] bread and served him near thirty years, and will not do so base a thing as to forsake him; I choose rather to lose my life—which I am sure to do—to preserve and defend those things which are against my conscience to preserve and defend; for I will deal freely with you: I have no reverence for bishops for whom this quarrel subsists.”

And there was that high-hearted nobleman, the Marquis of Winchester, whose fortress of Basing House, with its garrison of five hundred men and their families, held out for years against the Parliament. It was continuously besieged from July, 1643, to November, 1645, and at one time Sir William Waller attacked it in vain, with a force of seven thousand. At last Cromwell took it by storm, whereupon the Marquis, made prisoner, “broke out and said that if the King had no more ground in England but Basing House, he would adventure as he did, and so maintain it to the uttermost; comforting himself in this disaster that Basing House was called Loyalty.” The sack of this great stronghold yielded over 200,000 pounds, and Clarendon says that on its every windowpane was written with a diamond point “Aimez Loyauté.”

The Cavalier spirit prolonged itself down into the Jacobite songs of the eighteenth century which centre about the two attempts of the Stuarts to regain their crown—in 1715 and in “the Forty-five.”

The Hanoverians have been good enough constitutional monarchs but without much appeal to the imagination. “I never can think of that German fellow as King of England,” says Harry Warrington in “The Virginians,” who has just been snubbed by George II, the sovereign who hated “boetry and bainting.” The Stuarts were bad kings, but they managed to inspire a passionate loyalty in their adherents, a devotion which went proudly into battle, into exile, and onto the scaffold: which followed them through their misfortunes and survived their final downfall. They were a native, or at least a Scottish dynasty; and Scotland, though upon the whole Presbyterian in religion and Whiggish in politics, was most tenacious of the Jacobite tradition. Consider the loss to British romance if the Stuarts had never reigned and sinned and suffered! Half of the Waverley novels and all the royalist songs, from Lovelace toasting in prison “the sweetness, mercy, majesty, and glories of his King,” down to Burns’s “Lament for Culloden” and the secret healths to “Charlie over the water.” Three centuries divide Chastelard, dying for Mary Stuart, from Walter Scott, paralytic, moribund, standing by the tomb of the Young Pretender in St. Peter’s and murmuring to himself of “Charlie and his men.” Nay, is there not even to-day a White Rose Society which celebrates yearly the birthday of St. Charles, the martyr: some few score gentlemen with their committees, organs, propaganda, still bent on dethroning the Hanoverians and bringing in some remote collateral descendant? thinnest ghost of legitimism, walking in the broad sunlight of the twentieth century, under the nose of crown and parliament, disregarded of all men except, here and there, a writer of humorous paragraphs for the newspapers?

For the passion of loyalty is extinct—extinct as the dodo. It was not patriotism, as we know it; nor was it the personal homage paid to great men, to the Cromwells, Washingtons, Bonapartes, and Bismarcks. It was a loyalty to the king as king, to a symbol, a fetich whom divinity doth hedge. In the political creed of the Stuarts, such homage was a prerogative of the crown, and right royally did they exact it, accepting all sacrifices and repaying them with neglect, ingratitude, and betrayal. Yes, loyalty is obsolete, and the Stuarts were unworthy of it. But no matter, it was a fine old passion.

After all, one of the finest things ever said of Charles I was said by a political opponent, the poet Andrew Marvell, Milton’s assistant in the secretaryship for foreign tongues, when speaking of the King’s dignified behavior upon the scaffold, he wrote:—

The Cavalier stood for the church as well as for the king, but he was not commonly a deeply religions man. The church poetry of that generation is often sweetly or fervently devout, but it was written mostly by clergymen, like George Herbert or Herrick—a rather worldly parson: now and then by a college recluse, like Crashaw—who became a Roman Catholic priest; or sometimes by a layman like Vaughan—who was a doctor; or Francis Quarles, whose gloomy religious verses have little to distinguish them from Puritan poetry. These poets were royalists but hardly Cavaliers. The real Cavaliers, the courtly and secular poets like Suckling, Lovelace, Cleveland, and the rest, stood for the church for social reasons. It was the church of their class, ancient, conservative, aristocratic. Carlyle, of Scotch Presbyterian antecedents, speaks disrespectfully of the English Church, “with its singular old rubrics and its four surplices at All-hallowtide,” and describes the Hampton Court Conference of 1604 as “decent ceremonialism facing awful, devout Puritanism.” Charles II tried to persuade the Scotch Earl of Lauderdale to become an Episcopalian, assuring him that Presbyterianism was no religion for a gentleman. Says the spirit in Dipsychus:—

The Cavalier was the inheritor of the mediaeval knight and the forerunner of the modern gentleman. To the stern Puritan conscience he opposed, as his guiding motive, the knightly sense of honor, a sort of artificial or aristocratic conscience. The Puritan looked upon himself as an instrument of the divine will. He acted as ever in his great taskmaster’s eye: his sword was the sword of the Lord and of Gideon. Hence his sturdy, sublime courage. You cannot lick a Calvinist who knows that God is with him. But honor is not so much a regard for God as for oneself—a finer kind of self-respect. Inferior in momentum to the Puritan’s sense of duty, there is something gallant and chivalrous about it. The Cavalier spirit was not so grave as the knight’s. Though he fought for church and king, there was lacking the vow of knighthood, the religious dedication of oneself to the service of the cross and of one’s feudal suzerain. But you notice how the Cavalier, like the knight, relates his honor to the service of his lady. Lovelace’s famous lines:—