A false phrase, a single word out of tune or time, will destroy that illusion and spoil the surface as surely as a stone heaved into a still pool shatters the image seen there.  But this is only the beginning of the reason why the naturalistic is the most exacting and difficult of all techniques.  It is easy enough to reproduce the exact conversation and movements of persons in a room; it is desperately hard to produce the perfectly natural conversation and movements of those persons, when each natural phrase spoken and each natural movement made has not only to contribute toward the growth and perfection of a drama’s soul, but also to be a revelation, phrase by phrase, movement by movement, of essential traits of character.  To put it another way, naturalistic art, when alive, indeed to be alive at all, is simply the art of manipulating a procession of most delicate symbols.  Its service is the swaying and focussing of men’s feelings and thoughts in the various departments of human life.  It will be like a steady lamp, held up from time to time, in whose light things will be seen for a space clearly and in due proportion, freed from the mists of prejudice and partisanship.  And the other of these two main channels will, I think, be a twisting and delicious stream, which will bear on its breast new barques of poetry, shaped, it may be, like prose, but a prose incarnating through its fantasy and symbolism all the deeper aspirations, yearning, doubts, and mysterious stirrings of the human spirit; a poetic prose-drama, emotionalising us by its diversity and purity of form and invention, and whose province will be to disclose the elemental soul of man and the forces of Nature, not perhaps as the old tragedies disclosed them, not necessarily in the epic mood, but always with beauty and in the spirit of discovery.

Such will, I think, be the two vital forms of our drama in the coming generation.  And between these two forms there must be no crude unions; they are too far apart, the cross is too violent.  For, where there is a seeming blend of lyricism and naturalism, it will on examination be found, I think, to exist only in plays whose subjects or settings—­as in Synge’s “Playboy of the Western World,” or in Mr. Masefield’s “Nan”—­are so removed from our ken that we cannot really tell, and therefore do not care, whether an absolute illusion is maintained.  The poetry which may and should exist in naturalistic drama, can only be that of perfect rightness of proportion, rhythm, shape—­the poetry, in fact, that lies in all vital things.  It is the ill-mating of forms that has killed a thousand plays.  We want no more bastard drama; no more attempts to dress out the simple dignity of everyday life in the peacock’s feathers of false lyricism; no more straw-stuffed heroes or heroines; no more rabbits and goldfish from the conjurer’s pockets, nor any limelight.  Let us have starlight, moonlight, sunlight, and the light of our own self-respects. 1909.