produce telling musical effects. In the case of rhyme in poetry, even if we consider the mere matter of sound of the rhyming words aside from the really inseparable matter of significance, the most perfect rhymes offer variations in the preceding consonants combined with the rhyming vowels. The classical French "rich" rhyme seems to the modern mind tiresome because it lacks this variety; yet even here variety is pushed back merely one step fastening upon the sounds preceding the rhyming syllables.

The range of variations, from the least degree perceptible to the point where they threaten to overwhelm all sense of repetition and identity, is very great. In a general way it may be said that modernity, development in all arts, can historically be shown always to have been attended by an increasing freedom of variation, and by, not a weakening, but a relegation to a less obvious, though quite as essential, position, of repetition. Greater freedom, less rigidity of form, the incessant triumphs of Romanticism over Classicism, mean ultimately, not, as is often said, displacement of order by disorder, a futile triumph of formlessness over form, but the development of a keener sense of essential identity delving more deeply through the growing splendors of variation, a greater ability to penetrate to the foundations of things, a more incisive power of synthetic perception. It is true that at the beginning of every great movement there is usually an outbreak of disorder, but the laws of development soon sift the permanent from the transitory. The peculiar character of obsoleteness in forms of art and literature rests in their being too explicit, too "complete," too definite, too limited in complex suggestiveness; attributes all of which spring from too obvious repetitions of fundamental elements, insufficiently relieved, amplified, enriched by significant variation. Too great explicitness produces threadbare monotony of restatement. As art develops, the fundamental elements of it become more plastic, and elaboration takes greater freedom.

Confining ourselves to a consideration of poetry, it is evident that the more comprehensive, complex, and close-knit, the more analogous to the highest forms of biological organization a work

of poetry is-i. e., the more vital and numerous the relations between each part and every other part are-the more significant must be the elements establishing and emphasizing these relations. The most highly organized form of poetry is the drama. Lyrical poetry, though it may be more intense, more penetrating, more subtle, more exquisite, more true in some particular direction, can never achieve the breadth, complexity, pregnancy, comprehensive and vital synthesis, which are the glory of the great drama. Epic poetry, on the other hand, though it may equal the drama in the synthesis of what is essential, "historical," in life, especially in that of the past, yet cannot achieve the directness, the elemental compactness, the supreme fitness, of the texture and organization of the drama. The great drama compared with the great epic is as the best type of a modern ocean steamer, with all its lines trimmed down to greatest power of resistance combined with greatest mobility, with not an inch of space wasted, and with all parts so related to each other as to make possible an instant and most effective response of the whole complex mechanism to the will of the guiding hand; compared with a reconstructed Noah's ark, safe, slow, leisurely, rich in all the treasures, memories, and associations of the patient earth.

It is this combination of greatest complexity and most effective interrelation-i. e., of this synthetic energy and high nervous pressure of its organization which gives to the drama in the highest degree the quality of suspense. Suspense, then, must be the ultimate test of the structure of the drama. Under the head of suspense comes whatever arouses, intensifies, and amplifies one's interest in the progress of the drama. Where it is lacking there is some deficiency, either in the intensity or in the variety of the dramatic action. Whenever a dramatist is in a position to choose between several forms in which he might present his story, he has to take the one producing the greatest suspense, even if by doing so he rejects others of apparently greater intrinsic beauty, as symmetry, balance, moderation, elegance, or smoothness. In German literature some of the most poetic dramas-Goethe's Iphigenia, Tasso, and Faust-are faulty as dramas for the chief reason that the requirement of suspense has been subordinated to that of a

more abstract form of poetic statement. The pure lyric knows no suspense, because it utters a mode of feeling without regard to origin and issue; when suspense enters into a lyrical theme, it produces a romance; when it becomes a prominent part of the poetic effect a ballad results. In epic poetry there is considerable suspense. But it is only one element among others, all serving the chief purpose of giving a broad picture of people in their fundamental relations to their times. There is in the ideal epic always a broad strain of reflection, of the thought of prose, of quiet, comprehensive summing-up of the main forces of life. The very fact that the action is presented as occurring in the past detaches it from our intensest interests; which is still more obvious in the "I" epic, because in this case it is evident on the face of the story that the main person passed through all the vicissitudes of his past, presumably triumphant, overcoming his troubles at least to the extent of weighing and weaving into the fabric of his experience their significance—which is the only real triumph life offers. But the dramatic form is entirely dependent upon suspense. By conforming to the requirements of suspense, by transforming itself in obedience to the dictates of it, the story, the "fable," becomes the dramatic plot, amplified into the drama.

The conclusion might be drawn from this that the melodrama must be the highest form of drama, for its purpose surely is to produce the most lurid forms of suspense. But luridness represents strength only to crude minds prone to measure strength by explosive violence of outburst, and not yet trained to the deeper though soberer test of the quality of endurance. True dramatic suspense is not a mere superadded external sensational effect stage trick, as it were-but an integral part of the very warp and woof of the dramatic subject.

FOUR CLASSES OF REPETITION IN THE DRAMA

a

Repetition in the drama may be related to the poetic form, to the manner and forms in which ideas are expressed, and to the dramatic action itself. In most cases there is no real distinction between the last two heads, the second properly being dependent on the third; yet this division will presently justify itself by

assisting us in defining our problem. In addition to these functions, repetition serves as a signal to the spectator.

1. Repetition as poetic form.-Under the head of poetic form belong all the repetitions, regular or not, called rhyme, rhythm, meter, alliteration; and those involved in formal symmetry or balance. Being common to all forms of poetry, they cannot have specifically dramatic functions, and are therefore negligible.

The same is not the case with those infinite subtleties of repetition of sounds called sound symbolism. Although they have been exploited principally in lyrical poetry, especially of the lastcentury, their purpose being that of creating "atmosphere" (Stimmung), yet we shall see that through this same function they fulfil a very important office in creating suspense in a certain class of dramas.

2. Repetition for the purpose of rhetorical emphasis.-Under the second head, that of forms of expression, belong a very great number of cases of repetition of words or phrases serving the purpose of emphasis, which yet produce no dramatic suspense because they have no important bearing' on the dramatic action. These are the cases, usually called rhetorical, occurring in great numbers in the dramas of the early stages of the rebirth of German literature, chiefly those of Lessing, the "Storm-and-Stress," including Goethe's and Schiller's early dramas, and again in Grillparzer's, Hebbel's, and Otto Ludwig's dramas. They are accounted for by the purpose of vivacity of dialogue, vividness of expression, or any stylistic peculiarity incident to speech and conversation in general; or characteristic, not of a particular dramatic character, situation, or action, but of the general style or manner of a poet, or of a "school" of poetry which in these instances is obviously Shakespearean. The term "rhetorical" is here used with a reservation, because rhetorical utterance in its true sense should refer in the drama to all forms of expression conveying in the most impressive and adequate manner the emotions, ideas, and general conception of events, situations, and characters which the dramatist has in mind. Dramatic technique, and the problem of suspense, should therefore properly be regarded as parts of rhetoric.

Two examples from Lessing's Emilia Galotti representing this form of repetition will show that, being common to all forms of

utterance, it has no specific and organic relations to the dramatic form. In Act I, scene 6, Marinelli's invariable answer to the anxious inquiries of the prince regarding the identity of Emilia Galotti with the obscure woman who is to be married to Count Appiani the same day, is: "Eben die." Finally, in desperation, the prince breaks out: "Sprich dein verdammtes 'Eben die' noch einmal, und stoss mir den Dolch ins Herz." Whereupon Marinelli answers: "Eben die." In Act I, scene 4, Conti, who painted the picture of Emilia, says:

Wie viel geht da verloren!— Aber, wie ich sage, dass ich es weiss, was hier verloren gegangen, und wie es verloren gegangen und warum es verloren gehen müssen: darauf bin ich ebenso stolz, und stolzer, als ich auf alles das bin, was ich nicht verloren gehen lassen.

In the latter case the painter repeats the word "verloren" because he is excited, just as anyone in the same state of mind and situation would do. It is true there is a relation between the painter's state of mind, and the beauty of Emilia Galotti which is the cause of the subsequent tragedy, but the connection between his repeated utterance of the word "verloren" and the tragic result of the train of events started by her beauty is too remote and indirect to present itself with any degree of clearness to our minds. Our interest is naïvely centered on a naturalness and vivacity of utterance which does not stop to hunt up synonyms to introduce variety. There is no suspense in this repetition.

3. Repetition as an element of dramatic structure.-It is therefore only the repetitions classed under the third head, those related to the structure of the drama, which hold the nucleus of our problem. The problem thus resolves itself into the relations between repetitions of certain parts of the drama and dramatic motivation.' Dramatic motivation, however, is governed by the laws of association of ideas.

ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS IN THE DRAMA

Association of ideas is impossible without some form of repetition. Thought consists in connecting different data of experi

1 The next study in this series on Romanticism, to be published presently, will be a detailed study of the peculiarities of Romantic motivation. I have to limit myself in this. paper to a brief statement of the general forms of association.