e" of the room is a
commonplace recognized by all. If we ourselves are never in the habit of
communicating the contents of our letters, as we write, to a doubtless
appreciative atmosphere, we never cavil at such an act on the stage. The
stage whisper and aside, too, we accept with benevolent indulgence; but it
is worth noting that in the attempted verisimilitude of the modern
"legitimate" drama, the aside has well nigh vanished. As we go down the
scale through light comedy and broad farce these conventions multiply
rapidly.

With the introduction of music come further absurdities. Melodious voicing
of our thoughts is in itself essentially unnatural, to say the least.
Grand opera, great art form as it may be, is hopelessly artificial.
Indeed, so far is it removed from the plane of every day existence that we
are rudely jolted by the introduction of too commonplace a thought, as
when Sharpless in the English version of "Madame Butterfly" warbles
mellifluously: "Highball or straight?" And when we reach musical comedy
and vaudeville, all thought of drama, technically speaking, is abandoned
in watching the capers of the "merry-merry" or the outrageous "Dutch"
comedian wielding his deadly newspaper.

It is important for our immediate purposes to note: first, (as aforesaid),
that the amount of license allowed author and actor increases immeasurably
as we go down the scale; second, that the degree of familiarity with the
audience and cognizance of the spectator's existence varies inversely as
the degree of dramatic value. Thus, at one end of the scale we have, for
instance, Mrs. Fiske, whose fondness for playing to the centre of the
stage and ignoring the audience is commented upon as a mannerism; at the
other, the low comedian who says his say or sings his song directly at the
audience and converses gaily with them as his boon companions. Now it will
be shown that familiar address of the audience and the singing of monodies
to musical accompaniment are essential features of Plautus' style, and
many other implements of the lower types of modern drama are among his
favorite devices. If then we can place Plautus toward the bottom of the
scale, we relieve him vastly of responsibility as a dramatist and of the
necessity of adherence to verisimilitude. Where does he actually belong?
The answer must be sought in a detailed consideration of his methods of
producing his effects and in an endeavor to ascertain how far the audience
and