had to deal with the struggle between Richard III. and Henry Tudor, he did not leave us in any doubt as to the proper direction of our sympathies. The result may have been, probably was, exceedingly unfair to Richard Crookback, whom many subsequent historians have tried to whitewash and with no little success. But Shakespeare had the instinct of the theatre and he knew that it would be ruinous for his play if he allowed his audience to wonder which was the hero and which was the villain. It is no good protesting that this is a popular infirmity which ought to be sternly resisted and corrected. It belongs to the whole attitude of the populace towards politics, religion, and life. You must not keep your audience in the dark as to some necessary fact in the intrigue which is being dissected before their very eyes. Nor yet must you allow your audience to vacillate in its interests and sympathies. There can be no question, if we look back over its past history, that drama is the most democratic of the arts, and that when it was at its best, during the Elizabethan period, it involved an appeal to every class and section of the community. Purely intellectual drama, written for superior persons, may have every merit, but sometimes it perilously resembles the so-called literary play, not meant for popular production but only designed for perusal in an armchair. What could have happened to an Elizabethan audience if they had come out of their wooden theatre wondering which of the two, Edmund or Edgar, was right in King Lear, or whether there was not a good deal to be said on behalf of Iago in his duel with Othello? A psychological analysis which proves that there is no such thing as heroes and villains, that we are all more or less alike, that we have no right to judge, may be both philosophic and true. But it does

an

not help the theatre as such, nor yet in the larger sense of the word does it help theatrical art, because artist must select, and, by the mere fact of selecting, becomes a partisan. We touch a deeper note in Mr. Galsworthy's Justice, or rather we are involved in utter and blank despair. Never was so cruel a play written. Hardly any piece that I am aware of is so drenched in an atmosphere of inspissated gloom. The author, of course, is anxious to show us what a ghastly thing solitary confinement in prison is, how ruinous it is to the individual, how hopelessly unjust and unfair. He would hardly affirm that it is so in all cases, and therefore we have to understand that it is in his special case-the case of a sensitive, highly-strung junior clerk in a solicitor's office. Naturally, therefore, the dramatist is forced to cog his dice because he has taken an exceptional case and has to treat it exceptionally. Not for one moment does Mr. Galsworthy relent in his treatment of the story. Falder, who forges a check for a woman's sake, is doomed from the moment of his sin to remorseless punishment. I still remember with a shudder, when the play was performed at the Duke of York's Theatre, the horrible picture of Mr. Dennis Eadie as Falder, pacing backwards and forwards in his cell like a hunted animal, and finally being driven to bang at his door in hopeless impotence. Even when he is at last released, and it looks for a moment as if there might be some chance for him, fate dogs his footsteps and he throws himself down the stone stairs in a vain effort to escape the tyranny of "Justice." One wonders whether such things are going on all round one, and winces at the bare possibility. There is only one figure in the appalling drama which one remembers with a faint sense of gratitude. It is the senior clerk, Coke

well called Jones comes in with him, and when the young man falls to sleep on the sofa, decamps, not only with the purse, but with a silver box conveniently found at his elbow. Jones is the husband of Mrs. Jones, who is charwoman in the Barthwicks' house. Now, without any doubt, the original culprit is young Jack Barthwick, but it is the Jones, husband and wife, who have to stand the racket and bear all the blame. Mrs. Jones loses her job, although, poor woman, she had nothing to do with the whole affair, and Jones gets one month with hard labor. Once more, notice carefully the conclusion. This is Jones's comment: "Call this justice? What about 'im? 'E got drunk, 'E took the purse, but it's his money got him off"-which, parenthetically, is quite true. While Mrs. Jones turns to Barthwick with a humble gesture and with the appealing words, "Oh, Sir!" the magistrate closes the affair: "We will now adjourn for lunch." This is the kind of cynicism which, clearly, appeals to Mr. Galsworthy, for in the more intense The Fortnightly Review.

and vivid form it is to be found both in Strife and in Justice.

In Mr. Galsworthy's case also, as well as in Mr. Hankin, there are other and sounder elements. Let me not forget that Mr. Galsworthy wrote The Little Dream and The Pigeon. He calls the latter piece a fantasy. It is the most delightful of his plays to read. If it did not come out quite so well on the stage at all events it had but little success when produced at the Royalty Theatre-the cause probably lay in the casting of some of the characters, especially, perhaps, the eccentric Frenchman, Ferrand. But it is a charming piece of work just because it is touched with a tender idealism of simple emotions. And perhaps it is not altogether an inept commentary on the modern realistic drama that the most successful plays running at the present moment in the Metropolis should be Mr. Arnold Bennett's The Great Adventure and Milestones, which, though they may have the realistic manner, no one would call realistic dramas.

W. L. Courtney.

CHAPTER III.

The Choice.

They went home to the straggling house in the hollow that held so many memories for them both. There were lights showing from many windows, and from the dining-room on the right a pleasant fire-glow played about the panes.

"Just loyalty," said the Squire, as they went indoors. "It sums up all the decencies of life. Don't part with

a good friend, Roger."

Jabe o' the Barns was proving his gospel true to-night. He had stood, after Cicely and Roger left him,

heather-stems

for

as the wind does, with the big moor for fiddle the and strings.

Roger got up at last, went to the kennels and unchained his favorite dog. He did not know, nor care, which way he took, so long as it led him uphill instead of down. He needed to be nearer to the sky.

Dawn was near, and the wonder of the new day crept like a miracle, fresh from God's hand, over the frosty pastures. Man, with his ugliness and love of money, would be astir below in an hour or two; the mills would vomit smoke, and thin trails of it, if the wind happened to lie that way, would drift across the heather. For the present, there was the wind's sweetness and the lone note of the curlew sounding out across the wilderness.

Suddenly, over the crest of the heather, the sun sent out messengers of fire to herald his good coming. Full daylight has no beauty-of red, and gold, and purple-such as dawn has when it spreads a carpet for the feet of the coming day. And at that hour there are queer scents abroad; and live things rustle through the heather; and the hill-world stretches itself, just as a hale man does at waking, glad of the stress ahead, in stood the Roger knee-deep bracken, looking out at the wonder of it all. And then he yawned, because the body of him was hungry and needed sleep; and he asked himself, in the old lazy way, what had brought him out on this fool's errand. Presently a little wind got up, stirring the bracken-stems; he followed the track of it, for lack of better occupation, and found himself by and by in the flat hollow known as Eller Beck Mead. No compulsion had been used to bring him here; it seemed that a child's hand had guided him-the hand of a child who knew his indolent good-nature and asked him to come out and play.

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Roger did not yar forgot his healthy appear by the keen air. His figna stirred. He recallens Oldroyd's offer for this be a po pros If they accepted, the Squire

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they could save many farms to spe dear to them-pastures and many of that were bone of their bone buṛ time could keep tenants whoшny os their rents to a house they love stead of to an alien landlord who no wit to distinguish between seasons and bad. The temptation of obvious was and Immedi Roger felt the keenest edge of it, why a he thought of the tenants who wo suffer if Oldroyd's offer were declined Two of them had been on their farm for seven generations, and partings dч that sort go hard when a landlord is pшв compelled to sell the roof that cover H many bygone charities, forbearances sser and quarrels, resulting at the end ofƏW all in quiet good comradeship. He pu cared for these farmers, with a caringжəx taught him by long intimacies; and it led seemed that he was selling them, for the sake of obstinacy and sentiment, if he ou refused Oldroyd's offer. Let Oldroyd p build his mill here. It was better to yield to the on-coming power of steam than to sell good farms and let old friends go under the harrow of landlords new to the way of the country heart. Undoubtedly he must persuade the Squire to accept Oldroyd's offer. Good feeling and good common-sense alike made it the one obvious way.

Temptation plied him hard, as the

well called Jones comes in with him, and when the young man falls to sleep on the sofa, decamps, not only with the purse, but with a silver box conveniently found at his elbow. Jones is the husband of Mrs. Jones, who is charwoman in the Barthwicks' house. Now, without any doubt, the original culprit is young Jack Barthwick, but it is the Jones, husband and wife, who have to stand the racket and bear all the blame. Mrs. Jones loses her job, although, poor woman, she had nothing to do with the whole affair, and Jones gets one month with hard labor. Once more, notice carefully the conclusion. This is Jones's comment: "Call this justice? What about 'im? 'E got drunk, 'E took the purse, but it's his money got him off"-which, parenthetically, is quite true. While Mrs. Jones turns to Barthwick with a humble gesture and with the appealing words, "Oh, Sir!" the magistrate closes the affair: "We will now adjourn for lunch." This is the kind of cynicism which, clearly, appeals to Mr. Galsworthy, for in the more intense The Fortnightly Review.

and vivid form it is to be found both in Strife and in Justice.

In Mr. Galsworthy's case also, as well as in Mr. Hankin, there are other and sounder elements. Let me not forget that Mr. Galsworthy wrote The Little Dream and The Pigeon. He calls the latter piece a fantasy. It is the most delightful of his plays to read. If it did not come out quite so well on the stage at all events it had but little success when produced at the Royalty Theatre-the cause probably lay in the casting of some of the characters, especially, perhaps, the eccentric Frenchman, Ferrand. But it is a charming piece of work just because it is touched with a tender idealism of simple emotions. And perhaps it is not altogether an inept commentary on the modern realistic drama that the most successful plays running at the present moment in the Metropolis should be Mr. Arnold Bennett's The Great Adventure and Milestones, which, though they may have the realistic manner, no one would call realistic dramas.

W. L. Courtney.

CHAPTER III.

The Choice.

They went home to the straggling house in the hollow that held so many memories for them both. There were lights showing from many windows, and from the dining-room on the right a pleasant fire-glow played about the panes.

"Just loyalty," said the Squire, as they went indoors. "It sums up all the decencies of life. Don't part with

a good friend, Roger." Jabe o' the Barns was proving his gospel true to-night. He had stood, after Cicely and Roger left him,