piece; the scene does not shift—the spectators are to be persuaded that they are looking at a crisis in the affairs of the characters which would naturally reach its catastrophe in the time during which they observe it. Nothing is admitted that does not tend to the development of the plot; every speech is directed to that end. This naturally gives to the whole piece an air of isolation, as if the characters had no other business in life than what they are doing on the stage. What Voltaire's characters say is always effective, the language vigorous, the matter directly to the point; but no picture is given either of manners, or the times, or of human life.
It is not attempted here to decide which method is the better adapted to the stage. There can be no question which gives more pleasure and profit to the reader of a play. The opportunities for such wisdom and wit and poetry as shall be of general application, to be quoted, and remembered, and put by for use, must necessarily be much fewer when the energy of the dramatist is absorbed in the action of the piece, under conditions which tax all his art and ingenuity. The principle of maintaining an elevation above the level of common life excludes a vast range of Shakespearian characters—not only the grave-diggers and clowns and jesters, but many to whom we accord high rank in the serious drama: Shylock, and Cassio, and Kent, and even Lear himself, would all be pronounced unsuitable, even monstrous. But on the other hand, the Voltairian method intensifies the interest—the attention of the audience is focussed upon effective situations leading up to the catastrophe. Want of individuality even might be defended on the ground that, as ready-made suits ought to fit average and not excep-
