an introductory
character. Let us conceive, then, that we have passed the vestibule, and
are now to study the principles on which the body of the structure
is reared.

In the first place, is the architectural metaphor a just one? Is there,
or ought there to be, any analogy between a drama and a
finely-proportioned building? The question has already been touched on
in the opening paragraphs of Chapter VIII; but we may now look into it a
little more closely.

What is the characteristic of a fine piece of architecture? Manifestly
an organic relation, a carefully-planned interdependence, between all
its parts. A great building is a complete and rounded whole, just like a
living organism. It is informed by an inner law of harmony and
proportion, and cannot be run up at haphazard, with no definite and
pre-determined design. Can we say the same of a great play?

I think we can. Even in those plays which present a picture rather than
an action, we ought to recognize a principle of selection, proportion,
composition, which, if not absolutely organic, is at any rate the
reverse of haphazard. We may not always be able to define the principle,
to put it clearly in words; but if we feel that the author has been
guided by no principle, that he has proceeded on mere hand-to-mouth
caprice, that there is no "inner law of harmony and proportion" in his
work, then we instinctively relegate it to a low place in our esteem.
Hauptmann's _Weavers_ certainly cannot be called a piece of dramatic
architecture, like _Rosmersholm_ or _Iris_; but that does not mean that
it is a mere rambling series of tableaux. It is not easy to define the
principle of unity in that brilliant comedy _The Madras House_; but we
nevertheless feel that a principle of unity exists; or, if we do not, so
much the worse for the play and its author.

There is, indeed, a large class of plays, often popular, and sometimes
meritorious, in relation to which the architectural metaphor entirely
breaks down. They are what may be called "running fire" plays. We have
all seen children setting a number of wooden blocks on end, at equal
intervals, and then tilting over the first so that it falls against the
second, which in turn falls against the third, and so on, till the whole
row, with a rapid clack-clack-clack, lies flat upon the table. This is
called a "running fire"; and this is the structural principle of a good
many plays. We feel that the playwright is, so to speak, inven