nough to uncover the kernel of the nut. Whether the
violet come from Russia, from Parma, or from England, matters little.
Close by the Greek temples at Paestum there are violets that seem redder,
and sweeter, than any ever seen--as though they have sprung up out of the
footprints of some old pagan goddess; but under the April sun, in a
Devonshire lane, the little blue scentless violets capture every bit as
much of the spring. And so it is with drama--no matter what its form it
need only be the "real thing," need only have caught some of the precious
fluids, revelation, or delight, and imprisoned them within a chalice to
which we may put our lips and continually drink.

And yet, starting from this last platitude, one may perhaps be suffered
to speculate as to the particular forms that our renascent drama is
likely to assume. For our drama is renascent, and nothing will stop its
growth. It is not renascent because this or that man is writing, but
because of a new spirit. A spirit that is no doubt in part the gradual
outcome of the impact on our home-grown art, of Russian, French, and
Scandinavian influences, but which in the main rises from an awakened
humanity in the conscience of our time.

What, then, are to be the main channels down which the renascent English
drama will float in the coming years? It is more than possible that
these main channels will come to be two in number and situate far apart.

The one will be the broad and clear-cut channel of naturalism, down which
will course a drama poignantly shaped, and inspired with high intention,
but faithful to the seething and multiple life around us, drama such as
some are inclined to term photographic, deceived by a seeming simplicity
into forgetfulness of the old proverb, "Ars est celare artem," and
oblivious of the fact that, to be vital, to grip, such drama is in every
respect as dependent on imagination, construction, selection, and
elimination--the main laws of artistry--as ever was the romantic or
rhapsodic play: The question of naturalistic technique will bear, indeed,
much more study than has yet been given to it. The aim of the dramatist
employing it is obviously to create such an illusion of actual life
passing on the stage as to compel the spectator to pass through an
experience of his own, to think, and talk, and move with the people he
sees thinking, talking, and moving in front of him. A false phrase, a
single word out of tune or time, will des