, because the spectator
is left entirely in the dark concerning the character and the motives of
Rebecca West until her confession at the close of the third act, and can
therefore understand the play only on a second seeing. But except for this
important structural defect the drama is a masterpiece of art; and it is
surely unnecessary to dwell upon its many merits. On the other hand, _The
Fair Maid of the West_ is very far from being masterly in art. In structure
it is loose and careless; in characterisation it is inconsistent and
frequently untrue; in style it is uneven and without distinction. Ibsen, in
sheer mastery of dramaturgic means, stands fourth in rank among the world's
great dramatists. Heywood was merely an actor with a gift for telling
stories, who flung together upward of two hundred and twenty plays during
the course of his casual career. And yet _The Fair Maid of the West_ seemed
to me that evening, and seems to me evermore in retrospect, a nobler work
than _Rosmersholm_; for the Norwegian drama gives a doleful exhibition of
unnecessary misery, while the Elizabethan play is fresh and wholesome, and
fragrant with the breath of joy.

Of two plays equally true in content and in treatment, equally accomplished
in structure, in characterisation, and in style, that one is finally the
better which evokes from the audience the healthiest and hopefullest
emotional response. This is the reason why _Oedipus King_ is a better play
than _Ghosts_. The two pieces are not dissimilar in subject and are
strikingly alike in art. Each is a terrible presentment of a revolting
theme; each, like an avalanche, crashes to foredoomed catastrophe. But the
Greek tragedy is nobler in tone, because it leaves us a lofty reverence for
the gods, whereas its modern counterpart disgusts us with the inexorable
laws of life,--which are only the old gods divested of imagined
personality.

Slowly but surely we are growing very tired of dramatists who look upon
life with a wry face instead of with a brave and bracing countenance. In
due time, when (with the help of Mr. Barrie and other healthy-hearted
playmates) we have become again like little children, we shall realise that
plays like _As You Like It_ are better than all the _Magdas_ and the _Hedda
Gablers_ of the contemporary stage. We shall realise that the way to heal
old sores is to let them alone, rather than to rip them open, in the
interest (as we vainly fancy) of medical science. We