e to a stiff and
symmetrical formalism. The conception of a play as the exhaustive
demonstration of a thesis has never taken a strong hold on the
Anglo-Saxon mind; and, though some of M. Brieux's plays are much more
than mere dramatic arguments, we need not, in the main, envy the French
their logician-dramatists.

But, though the presence of logic should never be forced upon the
spectator's attention, still less should he be disturbed and baffled by
its conspicuous absence. If the playwright announces a theme at all: if
he lets it be seen that some general idea underlies his work: he is
bound to present and develop that idea in a logical fashion, not to
shift his ground, whether inadvertently or insidiously, and not to
wander off into irrelevant side-issues. He must face his problem
squarely. If he sets forth to prove anything at all, he must prove that
thing and not some totally different thing. He must beware of the
red-herring across the trail.

For a clear example of defective logic, I turn to a French
play--Sardou's _Spiritisme_. Both from internal and from external
evidence, it is certain that M. Sardou was a believer in
spiritualism--in the existence of disembodied intelligences, and their
power of communicating with the living. Yet he had not the courage to
assign to them an essential part in his drama. The spirits hover round
the outskirts of the action, but do not really or effectually intervene
in it. The hero's _belief_ in them, indeed, helps to bring about the
conclusion; but the apparition which so potently works upon him is an
admitted imposture, a pious fraud. Earlier in the play, two or three
trivial and unnecessary miracles are introduced--just enough to hint at
the author's faith without decisively affirming it. For instance:
towards the close of Act I Madame d'Aubenas has gone off, nominally to
take the night train for Poitiers, in reality to pay a visit to her
lover, M. de Stoudza. When she has gone, her husband and his guests
arrange a seance and evoke a spirit. No sooner have preliminaries been
settled than the spirit spells out the word "O-u-v-r-e-z." They open the
window, and behold! the sky is red with a glare which proves to proceed
from the burning of the train in which Madame d'Aubenas is supposed to
have started. The incident is effective enough, and a little creepy; but
its effect is quite incommensurate with the strain upon our powers of
belief. The thing is supposed to be a miracle, of