observation that human nature loves a fight, whether it be with clubs or with swords, with tongues or with brains.  One of the earliest forms of mediaeval drama was the “estrif” or “flyting”—­the scolding-match between husband and wife, or between two rustic gossips.  This motive is glorified in the quarrel between Brutus and Cassius, degraded in the patter of two “knockabout comedians.”  Certainly there is nothing more telling in drama than a piece of “cut-and-thrust” dialogue after the fashion of the ancient “stichomythia.”  When a whole theme involving conflict, or even a single scene of the nature described as a “passage-at-arms,” comes naturally in the playwright’s way, by all means let him seize the opportunity.  But do not let him reject a theme or scene as undramatic merely because it has no room for a clash of warring wills.

There is a variant of the “conflict” theory which underlines the word “obstacles” in the above-quoted dictum of Brunetiere, and lays down the rule:  “No obstacle, no drama.”  Though far from being universally valid, this form of the theory has a certain practical usefulness, and may well be borne in mind.  Many a play would have remained unwritten if the author had asked himself, “Is there a sufficient obstacle between my two lovers?” or, in more general terms, “between my characters and the realization of their will?” There is nothing more futile than a play in which we feel that there is no real obstacle to the inevitable happy ending, and that the curtain might just as well fall in the middle of the first act as at the end of the third.  Comedies abound (though they reach the stage only by accident) in which the obstacle between Corydon and Phyllis, between Lord Edwin and Lady Angelina, is not even a defect or peculiarity of character, but simply some trumpery misunderstanding[2] which can be kept afoot only so long as every one concerned holds his or her common sense in studious abeyance.  “Pyramus and Thisbe without the wall” may be taken as the formula for the whole type of play.  But even in plays of a much higher type, the author might often ask himself with advantage whether he could not strengthen his obstacle, and so accentuate the struggle which forms the matter of his play.  Though conflict may not be essential to drama, yet, when you set forth to portray a struggle, you may as well make it as real and intense as possible.

It seems to me that in the late William Vaughn Moody’s drama, The Great Divide, the body of the play, after the stirring first act, is weakened by our sense that the happy ending is only being postponed by a violent effort.  We have been assured from the very first—­even before Ruth Jordan has set eyes on Stephen Ghent—­that just such a rough diamond is the ideal of her dreams.  It is true that, after their marriage, the rough diamond seriously misconducts himself towards her; and we have then to consider the rather unattractive question whether a single act of brutality on the part of a drunken