It is a grave defect of logic to state, or hint at, a problem, and then illustrate it in such terms of character that it is solved in advance.  In The Liars, by Mr. Henry Arthur Jones, there is an evident suggestion of the problem whether a man is ever justified in rescuing a woman, by means of the Divorce Court, from marital bondage which her soul abhors.  The sententious Sir Christopher Deering argues the matter at great length:  but all the time we are hungering for him to say the one thing demanded by the logic of the situation:  to wit:  “Whatever the abstract rights and wrongs of the case, this man would be an imbecile to elope with this woman, who is an empty-headed, empty-hearted creature, incapable either of the passion or of the loathing which alone could lend any semblance of reason to a breach of social law.”  Similarly, in The Profligate, Sir Arthur Pinero no doubt intended us to reflect upon the question whether, in entering upon marriage, a woman has a right to assume in her husband the same purity of antecedent conduct which he demands of her.  That is an arguable question, and it has been argued often enough; but in this play it does not really arise, for the husband presented to us is no ordinary loose-liver, but (it would seem—­for the case is not clearly stated) a particularly base and heartless seducer, whom it is evidently a misfortune for any woman to have married.  The authors of these two plays have committed an identical error of logic:  namely, that of suggesting a broad issue, and then stating such a set of circumstances that the issue does not really arise.  In other words, they have from the outset begged the question.  The plays, it may be said, were both successful in their day.  Yes; but had they been logical their day might have lasted a century.  A somewhat similar defect of logic constitutes a fatal blemish in The Ideal Husband, by Oscar Wilde.  Intentionally or otherwise, the question suggested is whether a single flaw of conduct (the betrayal to financiers of a state secret) ought to blast a political career.  Here, again, is an arguable point, on the assumption that the statesman is penitent and determined never to repeat his misdeed; but when we find that this particular statesman is prepared to go on betraying his country indefinitely, in order to save his own skin, the question falls to the ground—­the answer is too obvious.

It happened some years ago that two plays satirizing “yellow journalism” were produced almost simultaneously in London—­The Earth by Mr. James B. Fagan, and What the Public Wants by Mr. Arnold Bennett.  In point of intellectual grasp, or power of characterization, there could be no comparison between the two writers; yet I hold that, from the point of view of dramatic composition, The Earth was the better play of the two, simply because it dealt logically with the theme announced, instead of wandering away into all sorts of irrelevances.