ingenious in arrangement than we remembered it to be.

We come, now, to another point that must not be overlooked. It needs no
subtle introspection to assure us that we, the audience, do our own
little bit of acting, and instinctively place ourselves at the point of
view of a spectator before whose eyes the drama is unrolling itself for
the first time. If the play has any richness of texture, we have many
sensations that he cannot have. We are conscious of ironies and
subtleties which necessarily escape him, or which he can but dimly
divine. But in regard to the actual development of the story, we imagine
ourselves back into his condition of ignorance, with this difference,
that we can more fully appreciate the dramatist's skill, and more
clearly resent his clumsiness or slovenliness. Our sensations, in short,
are not simply conditioned by our knowledge or ignorance of what is to
come. The mood of dramatic receptivity is a complex one. We
instinctively and without any effort remember that the dramatist is
bound by the rules of the game, or, in other words, by the inherent
conditions of his craft, to unfold his tale before an audience to which
it is unknown; and it is with implicit reference to these conditions
that we enjoy and appreciate his skill. Even the most unsophisticated
audience realizes in some measure that the playwright is an artist
presenting a picture of life under such-and-such assumptions and
limitations, and appraises his skill by its own vague and instinctive
standards. As our culture increases, we more and more consistently adopt
this attitude, and take pleasure in a playwright's marshalling of
material in proportion to its absolute skill, even if that skill no
longer produces its direct and pristine effect upon us. In many cases,
indeed, our pleasure consists of a delicate blending of surprise with
realized anticipation. We foresaw, and are pleased to recognize, the art
of the whole achievement, while details which had grown dim to us give
us each its little thrill of fresh admiration. Regarded in this aspect,
a great play is like a great piece of music: we can hear it again and
again with ever-new realization of its subtle beauties, its complex
harmonies, and with unfailing interest in the merits and demerits of
each particular rendering.

But we must look deeper than this if we would fully understand the true
nature of dramatic interest. The last paragraph has brought us to the
verge of the inmos