onditionally to the
laws of dramatic truth, so far as you can discover them by honest mental
exertion and observation. Do not mistake any mere defiance of these laws
for originality. You might as well show your originality by defying the
law of gravitation. Keep in mind the historical case of Stephenson. When
a member of the British Parliament asked him, concerning his newfangled
invention, the railroad, whether it would not be very awkward if a cow
were on the track when a train came along, he answered: "Very ark'ard,
indeed--for the cow." When you find yourself standing in the way of
dramatic truth, my young friends--clear the track! If you don't, the
truth can stand it; you can't. Even if you feel sometimes that your
genius--that's always the word in the secret vocabulary of our own
minds--even if your genius seems to be hampered by these dramatic laws,
resign yourself to them at once, with that simple form of Christian
resignation so beautifully illustrated by the poor German woman on her
deathbed. Her husband being asked, afterward, if she were resigned to
her death, responded with that touching and earnest recognition of
eternal law: "Mein Gott, she had to be!"

The story of the play, as first produced in Chicago, may be told as
follows:

Act first--Scene, New York. A young girl and a young man are in love,
and engaged to be married. The striking originality of this idea will
startle any one who has never heard of such a thing before. Lilian
Westbrook and Harold Routledge have a lover's quarrel. Never mind what
the cause of it. To quote a passage from the play itself: "A woman never
quarrels with a man she doesn't love"--that is one of the minor laws of
dramatic construction--"and she is never tired of quarreling with a man
she does love." I dare not announce this as another law of female human
nature; it is merely the opinion of one of my characters--a married man.
Of course, there are women who do not quarrel with any one; and there
are angels; but, as a rule, the women we feel at liberty to fall in love
with do quarrel now and then; and they almost invariably quarrel with
their husbands or lovers first, their other acquaintances must often be
content with their smiles. But, when Lilian announces to Harold
Routledge that their engagement is broken forever, he thinks she means
to imply that she doesn't intend to marry him.

Women are often misunderstood by our more grossly practical sex; we are
too apt to judg