In general, it should be frankly understood by students of the theatre that an audience is not capable of hearing whether the dialogue of a play is well or badly written.  Such a critical discrimination would require an extraordinary nicety of ear, and might easily be led astray, in one direction or the other, by the reading of the actors.  The rhetoric of Massinger must have sounded like poetry to an Elizabethan audience that had heard the same performers, the afternoon before, speaking lines of Shakespeare’s.  If Mr. Forbes-Robertson is reading a poorly-written part, it is hard to hear that the lines are, in themselves, not musical.  Literary style is, even for accomplished critics, very difficult to judge in the theatre.  Some years ago, Mrs. Fiske presented in New York an English adaptation of Paul Heyse’s Mary of Magdala.  After the first performance—­at which I did not happen to be present—­I asked several cultivated people who had heard the play whether the English version was written in verse or in prose; and though these people were themselves actors and men of letters, not one of them could tell me.  Yet, as appeared later, when the play was published, the English dialogue was written in blank verse by no less a poet than Mr. William Winter.  If such an elementary distinction as that between verse and prose was in this case inaudible to cultivated ears, how much harder must it be for the average audience to distinguish between a good phrase and a bad!  The fact is that literary style is, for the most part, wasted on an audience.  The average auditor is moved mainly by the emotional content of a sentence spoken on the stage, and pays very little attention to the form of words in which the meaning is set forth.  At Hamlet’s line, “Absent thee from felicity a while”—­which Matthew Arnold, with impeccable taste, selected as one of his touchstones of literary style—­the thing that really moves the audience in the theatre is not the perfectness of the phrase but the pathos of Hamlet’s plea for his best friend to outlive him and explain his motives to a world grown harsh.

That the content rather than the literary turn of dialogue is the thing that counts most in the theatre will be felt emphatically if we compare the mere writing of Moliere with that of his successor and imitator, Regnard.  Moliere is certainly a great writer, in the sense that he expresses clearly and precisely the thing he has to say; his verse, as well as his prose, is admirably lucid and eminently speakable.  But assuredly, in the sense in which the word is generally used, Moliere is not a poet; and it may fairly be said that, in the usual connotation of the term, he has no style.  Regnard, on the other hand, is more nearly a poet, and, from the standpoint of style, writes vastly better verse.  He has a lilting fluency that flowers every now and then into a phrase of golden melody.  Yet Moliere is so immeasurably his superior as a playwright that most critics instinctively set Regnard far below him even as a writer.  There can be no question that M. Rostand writes better verse than Emile Augier; but there can be no question, also, that Augier is the greater dramatist.  Oscar Wilde probably wrote more clever and witty lines than any other author in the whole history of English comedy; but no one would think of setting him in the class with Congreve and Sheridan.