husband ought to be held so unpardonable as to break up a union which otherwise promises to be quite satisfactory.  But the author has taken such pains to emphasize the fact that these two people are really made for each other, that the answer to the question is not for a moment in doubt, and we become rather impatient of the obstinate sulkiness of Ruth’s attitude.  If there had been a real disharmony of character to be overcome, instead of, or in addition to, the sordid misadventure which is in fact the sole barrier between them, the play would certainly have been stronger, and perhaps more permanently popular.

In a play by Mr. James Bernard Fagan, The Prayer of the Sword, we have a much clearer example of an inadequate obstacle.  A youth named Andrea has been brought up in a monastery, and destined for the priesthood; but his tastes and aptitudes are all for a military career.  He is, however, on the verge of taking his priestly vows, when accident calls him forth into the world, and he has the good fortune to quell a threatened revolution in a romantic Duchy, ruled over by a duchess of surpassing loveliness.  With her he naturally falls in love; and the tragedy lies, or ought to lie, in the conflict between this earthly passion and his heavenly calling and election.  But the author has taken pains to make the obstacle between Andrea and Ilaria absolutely unreal.  The fact that Andrea has as yet taken no irrevocable vow is not the essence of the matter.  Vow or no vow, there would have been a tragic conflict if Andrea had felt absolutely certain of his calling to the priesthood, and had defied Heaven, and imperilled his immortal soul, because of his overwhelming passion.  That would have been a tragic situation; but the author had carefully avoided it.  From the very first—­before Andrea had ever seen Ilaria—­it had been impressed upon us that he had no priestly vocation.  There was no struggle in his soul between passion and duty; there was no struggle at all in his soul.  His struggles are all with external forces and influences; wherefore the play, which a real obstacle might have converted into a tragedy, remained a sentimental romance—­and is forgotten.

* * * * *

What, then, is the essence of drama, if conflict be not it?  What is the common quality of themes, scenes, and incidents, which we recognize as specifically dramatic?  Perhaps we shall scarcely come nearer to a helpful definition than if we say that the essence of drama is crisis.  A play is a more or less rapidly-developing crisis in destiny or circumstance, and a dramatic scene is a crisis within a crisis, clearly furthering the ultimate event.  The drama may be called the art of crises, as fiction is the art of gradual developments.  It is the slowness of its processes which differentiates the typical novel from the typical play.  If the novelist does not take advantage of the facilities offered by his form for