As Stevenson has said, in his Gossip on Romance, “The pleasure that we take in life is of two sorts,—­the active and the passive.  Now we are conscious of a great command over our destiny; anon we are lifted up by circumstance, as by a breaking wave, and dashed we know not how into the future.”  A good deal of what happens to us is brought upon us by the fact of what we are; the rest is drifted to us, uninvited, undeserved, upon the tides of chance.  When disasters overwhelm us, the fault is sometimes in ourselves, but at other times is merely in our stars.  Because so much of life is casual rather than causal, the theatre (whose purpose is to represent life truly) must always rely on melodrama as the most natural and effective type of art for exhibiting some of its most interesting phases.  There is therefore no logical reason whatsoever that melodrama should be held in disrepute, even by the most fastidious of critics.

But, on the other hand, it is evident that tragedy is inherently a higher type of art.  The melodramatist exhibits merely what may happen; the tragedist exhibits what must happen.  All that we ask of the author of melodrama is a momentary plausibility.  Provided that his plot be not impossible, no limits are imposed on his invention of mere incident:  even his characters will not give him pause, since they themselves have been fashioned to fit the action.  But of the author of tragedy we demand an unquestionable inevitability:  nothing may happen in his play which is not a logical result of the nature of his characters.  Of the melodramatist we require merely the negative virtue that he shall not lie:  of the tragedist we require the positive virtue that he shall reveal some phase of the absolute, eternal Truth.

The vast difference between merely saying something that is true and really saying something that gives a glimpse of the august and all-controlling Truth may be suggested by a verbal illustration.  Suppose that, upon an evening which at sunset has been threatened with a storm, I observe the sky at midnight to be cloudless, and say, “The stars are shining still.”  Assuredly I shall be telling something that is true; but I shall not be giving in any way a revelation of the absolute.  Consider now the aspect of this very same remark, as it occurs in the fourth act of John Webster’s tragedy, The Duchess of Malfi.  The Duchess, overwhelmed with despair, is talking to Bosola: 

Duchess. I’ll go pray;—­
 No, I’ll go curse.

Bosola. O, fie!

Duchess. I could curse the stars.

Bosola. O, fearful.

Duchess. And those three smiling seasons of the year
           Into a Russian winter:  nay, the world
           To its first chaos.

Bosola. Look you, the stars shine still.

This brief sentence, which in the former instance was comparatively meaningless, here suddenly flashes on the awed imagination a vista of irrevocable law.