artist in literature. It is a loose form of hybrid ancestry; it may be
of any length; and it may be told in any manner,--in letters, as an
autobiography or as a narrative. It may win praise by its possession of
the mere externals of literature, by sheer style. It may seek to please
by description of scenery, or by dissection of motive. It may be empty
of action and filled with philosophy. It may be humorously perverse in
its license of digression,--as it was in Sterne's hands, for example. It
may be all things to all men: it is a very chameleon-weathercock. And it
is too varied, too negligent, too lax, to spur its writer to his utmost
effort, to that stern wrestle with technic which is a true artist's
never-failing tonic.

On the other hand, the drama is a rigid form, limited to the two hours'
traffic of the stage. Just as the decorative artist has to fill the
space assigned to him and must respect the dispositions of the
architect, so the playwright must work his will within the requirements
of the theater, turning to advantage the restrictions which he should
not evade. He must always appeal to the eye as well as to the ear, never
forgetting that the drama, while it is in one aspect a department of
literature, in another is a branch of the show-business. He must devise
stage-settings at once novel, ingenious and plausible; and he must
invent reasons for bringing together naturally the personages of his
play in the single place where each of his acts passes. He must set his
characters firm on their feet, each speaking for himself and revealing
himself as he speaks; for they need to have internal vitality as they
cannot be painted from the outside. He must see his creatures as well
as hear them; and he must know always what they are doing and how they
are looking when they are speaking. He cannot comment on them or explain
them, or palliate their misdeeds. He must project them outside of
himself; and he cannot be his own lecturer to point out their motives.