ds of
technic, the stage must, from its very nature, indicate the emotions of
human beings by objective, concrete bodily reaction. The Greek word for
drama means _doing_. To exhibit feeling is to do something.

Or let us take a more composite group: that which is seen in a drawing
room, with various knots of people talking together just before dinner
is announced. A shift in the groups, besides effecting the double
purpose of pleasing the eye and allowing certain portions of the
dialogue to come forward and get the ear of the audience, also
incidentally tells the truth: these groups in reality would shift and
change more or less by the law of social convenience. The general
greetings of such an occasion would call for it. In a word, then, the
stage is, among other things, a plastic representation of life, forever
making an appeal to the eye. The application of this to the climax shows
how vastly important its pictorial side may be.

The climax that is prolonged is always in danger. Lead up to it slowly
and surely, secure the effect, and then get away from it instantly by
lowering the curtain. Do not fumble with it, or succumb to the
insinuating temptation of clinging to what is so effective. The
dramatist here is like a fond father loath to say _farewell_ to his
favorite child. But say the parting word he must, if he would have his
offspring prosper and not, like many a father ere this, keep the child
with him to its detriment. A second too much, and the whole thing will
he imperiled. At the _denouement_, every syllable must be weighed, nor
found wanting; every extraneous word ruthlessly cut out, the feats of
fine language so welcome in other forms of literary composition shunned
as an arch enemy. Colloquialism, instead of literary speech, even bad
grammar where more formal book-speech seems to dampen the fire, must be
instinctively sought. And whenever the action itself, backed by the
scenery, can convey what is aimed at, silence is best of all; for then,
if ever, silence is indeed golden. All this the spectator will quietly
note, sitting in his seat of judgment, ready to show his pleasure or
displeasure, according to what is done.

A difficulty that blocks the path of every dramatist in proportion as
its removal improves his piece, is that of graduating his earlier
curtains so that the climax (third act or fourth, as it may) is
obviously the outstanding, over-powering effect of the whole play. The
curtain of the fi