This concentration and consistency of purpose and of mood may be symbolised by the figure of aiming straight at a predetermined target.  In the years when firearms were less perfected than they are at present, it was necessary, in shooting with a rifle, to aim lower than the mark, in order to allow for an upward kick at the discharge; and, on the other hand, it was necessary, in shooting with heavy ordnance, to aim higher than the mark, in order to allow for a parabolic droop of the cannon-ball in transit.  Many dramatists, in their endeavor to score a hit, still employ these compromising tricks of marksmanship:  some aim lower than the judgment of their auditors, others aim higher than their taste.  But, in view of the fact that under present metropolitan conditions the dramatist may pick his own auditors, this aiming below them or above them seems (to quote Sir Thomas Browne) “a vanity out of date and superannuated piece of folly.”  While granting the dramatist entire liberty to select the level of his mark, the critic may justly demand that he shall aim directly at it, without allowing his hand ever to droop down or flutter upward.  That he should not aim below it is self-evident:  there can be no possible excuse for making the judicious grieve.  But that he should not aim above it is a proposition less likely to be accepted off-hand by the fastidious:  Hamlet spoke with a regretful fondness of that particular play which had proved caviare to the general.  It is, of course, nobler to shoot over the mark than to shoot under it; but it is nobler still to shoot directly at it.  Surely there lies a simple truth beneath this paradox of words:—­it is a higher aim to aim straight than to aim too high.

If a play be so constituted as to please its consciously selected auditors, neither grieving their judgment by striking lower than their level of appreciation, nor leaving them unsatisfied by snobbishly feeding them caviare when they have asked for bread, it must be judged a good play for its purpose.  The one thing needful is that it shall neither insult their intelligence nor trifle with their taste.  In view of the many different theatre-going publics and their various demands, the critic, in order to be just, must be endowed with a sympathetic versatility of approbation.  He should take as his motto those judicious sentences with which the Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table prefaced his remarks upon the seashore and the mountains:—­“No, I am not going to say which is best.  The one where your place is is the best for you.”

V

IMITATION AND SUGGESTION IN THE DRAMA