A Greek dramatist would probably have had recourse to a long and elaborately worked-up “messenger-speech,” a pathetic recitation.  That was the method best suited to the conditions, and to what may be called the prevailing tempo, of the Greek theatre.  I am far from saying that it was a bad method:  no method is bad which holds and moves an audience.  But in this case it would have had the disadvantage of concentrating attention on the narrator instead of on the child’s parents, on the mere event instead of on the emotions it engendered.  In the modern theatre, with greater facilities for reproducing the actual movement of life, the dramatist naturally aims at conveying to the audience the growing anxiety, the suspense and the final horror, of the father and mother.  The most commonplace playwright would have seen this opportunity and tried to make the most of it.  Every one can think of a dozen commonplace ways in which the scene could be arranged and written; and some of them might be quite effective.  The great invention by which Ibsen snatches the scene out of the domain of the commonplace, and raises it to the height of dramatic poetry, consists in leaving it doubtful to the father and mother what is the meaning of the excitement on the beach and the confused cries which reach their ears, until one cry comes home to them with terrible distinctness, “The crutch is floating!” It would be hard to name any single phrase in literature in which more dramatic effect is concentrated than in these four words—­they are only two words in the original.  However dissimilar in its nature and circumstances, this incident is comparable with the death of Othello, inasmuch as in each case the poet, by a supreme felicity of invention, has succeeded in doing a given thing in absolutely the most dramatic method conceivable.  Here we recognize in a consummate degree what has been called the “fingering of the dramatist”; and I know not how better to express the common quality of the two incidents than in saying that each is touched with extraordinary crispness, so as to give to what in both cases has for some time been expected and foreseen a sudden thrill of novelty and unexpectedness.  That is how to do a thing dramatically.[6]

And now, after all this discussion of the “dramatic” in theme and incident, it remains to be said that the tendency of recent theory, and of some recent practice, has been to widen the meaning of the word, until it bursts the bonds of all definition.  Plays have been written, and have found some acceptance, in which the endeavour of the dramatist has been to depict life, not in moments of crisis, but in its most level and humdrum phases, and to avoid any crispness of touch in the presentation of individual incidents.  “Dramatic,” in the eyes of writers of this school, has become a term of reproach, synonymous with “theatrical.”  They take their cue from Maeterlinck’s famous essay on “The Tragic in Daily Life,” in which he lays it down