ribed in detail, the plot sets forth the story of
Alice Arden's illicit love for Mosbie, her determination to win liberty
by the murder of her husband, the many unsuccessful attempts to bring
about that end, and the final act which brought death upon them all.

The art of sensationalism in drama, as in anything else, is not a great
one; it is not to be measured by its effect upon the mind, for the
crudest appeal to our instinctive dread of death will often suffice to
hold our attention spellbound. It deals in uncertainty, darkness,
unsuspecting innocence, hair-breadth escapes, and an ever-impending but
still delayed ruin. None of these are wanting to this play; in this
respect the dramatist was fortunate in his subject. No less than seven
times the spectator--for the effect upon the reader is naturally much
less--feels his nerves tingle, his pulse beat faster, as he waits in
instant expectation of seeing murder committed. The realism of everyday
scenery, the street, the high road, the ferry, the inn, the breakfast
room, cry out with telling emphasis that it is fact, hard deadly fact,
which is being shown, not the idle invention of an overheated brain. But
while these features impress the action upon our memory, they do not
raise it to the level of great drama. For this the supreme requirement
is truth to human nature. It is not enough that the actors arrest our
attention by their appearance, their speeches and their deeds. Freaks
and lunatics might do that. They must be human as we are, moved by
impulses common, in some degree, to us all. Generally speaking,
abnormality is weakness. It needs to be strongly built upon a foundation
of natural qualities to achieve success. Especially is this so when the
surrounding conditions are such as belong to ordinary existence. The
application of this principle reveals the essential weakness of _Arden
of Feversham_. Carefully, almost minutely, the details of everyday life
are gathered together. The merchant sees to the unloading of his goods
at the quay, the boatman urges his ferry to and fro, the apprentice
takes down his shutters, the groom makes love to the serving-maid,
travellers meeting on the road halt for a chat and part with no more
serious word spoken than a hearty invitation to dine; on all sides life
is seen flowing in the ordinary current, with nothing worse than a piece
of malicious tittle-tattle to disturb the calmness of the surface. Into
this setting the author places