I have never been able to understand why certain forms of art should be marked off as something debased and trivial.  A comedy is spoken of as ‘degenerating into farce’; it would be fair criticism to speak of it ‘changing into farce’; but as for degenerating into farce, we might equally reasonably speak of it as degenerating into tragedy.  Again, a story is spoken of as ‘melodramatic,’ and the phrase, queerly enough, is not meant as a compliment.  To speak of something as ‘pantomimic’ or ‘sensational’ is innocently supposed to be biting, Heaven knows why, for all works of art are sensations, and a good pantomime (now extinct) is one of the pleasantest sensations of all.  ’This stuff is fit for a detective story,’ is often said, as who should say, ’This stuff is fit for an epic.’

Whatever may be the rights and wrongs of this mode of classification, there can be no doubt about one most practical and disastrous effect of it.  These lighter or wilder forms of art, having no standard set up for them, no gust of generous artistic pride to lift them up, do actually tend to become as bad as they are supposed to be.  Neglected children of the great mother, they grow up in darkness, dirty and unlettered, and when they are right they are right almost by accident, because of the blood in their veins.  The common detective story of mystery and murder seems to the intelligent reader to be little except a strange glimpse of a planet peopled by congenital idiots, who cannot find the end of their own noses or the character of their own wives.  The common pantomime seems like some horrible satiric picture of a world without cause or effect, a mass of ‘jarring atoms,’ a prolonged mental torture of irrelevancy.  The ordinary farce seems a world of almost piteous vulgarity, where a half-witted and stunted creature is afraid when his wife comes home, and amused when she sits down on the doorstep.  All this is, in a sense, true, but it is the fault of nothing in heaven or earth except the attitude and the phrases quoted at the beginning of this article.  We have no doubt in the world that, if the other forms of art had been equally despised, they would have been equally despicable.  If people had spoken of ‘sonnets’ with the same accent with which they speak of ‘music-hall songs,’ a sonnet would have been a thing so fearful and wonderful that we almost regret we cannot have a specimen; a rowdy sonnet is a thing to dream about.  If people had said that epics were only fit for children and nursemaids, ‘Paradise Lost’ might have been an average pantomime:  it might have been called ’Harlequin Satan, or How Adam ’Ad ’em.’  For who would trouble to bring to perfection a work in which even perfection is grotesque?  Why should Shakespeare write ‘Othello’ if even his triumph consisted in the eulogy, ’Mr. Shakespeare is fit for something better than writing tragedies’?