If the tragedies of Shakespeare reveal their principal secret to be the realistic treatment of master passions, what shall we say to such comedies as "Midsummer Night's Dream," "As You Like It," "Much Ado About Nothing," and such? It is very difficult to define in what consists their success, apart from the beauty of their love stories, their dainty language, their charming feminine characters, and a cloud of accessories, none of which can properly be called the main secret. The first two, I think, owe their beauty principally to the dissection of that passion of love which forms the motive of "Romeo and Juliet." The author treats us to nothing but love scenes and scenes in mockery of love, and yet we never tire of them. In "Much Ado About Nothing," to be sure, there is an artificial plot of villany to hinder the love-making, but after all it is Benedick and Beatrice, making fun of love and getting caught in its toils, that make the charm of the piece, and the same device, minute analysis of love, makes "Twelfth Night" what it is. When we come to look below the surface we find, in the comedies as in the tragedies of Shakespeare, that the realistic treatment of some ruling passion forms the ultimate secret on which he works.
To sum up in the aphoristic form the secrets affecting the motives of the greatest dramatic successes of the English stage, we can, I think, partially agree on one more canon:
XV. Variety, suspense, satire, and realistic analysis of human passion are the secrets, so far discovered, of lasting dramatic successes.
The subject of dramatic success, however, has one more very important branch, still to be considered. As an artist cannot work without colors and brushes, so a dramatist cannot work without actors. Good actors cannot permanently lift a bad play out of the mud, but bad actors can murder the best drama ever written, and even the best actor cannot make a hit if his part does not fit him and his physical appearance. I remember once a ludicrous instance of this, with Boucicault's "Flying Scud," which I happened to see in Buffalo. Nat Gosling, the venerable jockey, was there played by a man weighing at least a hundred and eighty pounds, in the dress of an old farmer; and the absurdity was so glaring that the whole play fell as dead as ditchwater, though by no means badly played. The same play in New York was first fitted exactly with Young for its Nat Gosling--a little, dried-up, weazen-faced man, who identified himself so perfectly with the character that the piece became quite a _furore_. It is a very common superstition among actors that a good actor can act anything, and can "make up" to look like anything, and no doubt this is partially, but only partially, true. There are actors, with flat, commonplace faces, figures of medium size, voices of no particular character, who, by dint of a little paint and pomatum, some false hair, some padding, and considerable study, can adapt themselves to play almost any character after a fashion; but it is a significant fact that such men are not to be found among the leaders of their profession, but only in the second rank. _Great_ actors take a line and stick to it, one that exactly suits their individuality, and such find their mark. If they leave it, they deteriorate, if they stick to it, they become identified with it, and no one can rival them in their specialty. They become _real_ "stars." Jefferson found in Rip Van Winkle his _fit_, and has been wise enough never to leave it. Sothern did the same in Lord Dundreary. Lester Wallack has his own recognized line, the _blasé_ man of the world, which he never leaves, save to his misfortune. Edwin Booth keeps his face, figure, and voice the same in all his characters, and people crowd to see him. Why? Because he has a delicately handsome face and figure, a melodious voice, and a clear, intellectual conception of every part. They go to see Booth, not Bertuccio, or Brutus, or Othello, and it is noticeable that his Hamlet is one of his most successful pieces, because in it he is less disguised than anywhere else. The greatest success Barrett ever made was in Cassius, because the part fitted him, and no one has ever come near him in that part, where his face and figure appeared as nature made them. Any one who has ever seen Charles Fisher act Triplet in "Masks and Faces" must have realized the same sense of entire completeness and fitness which attended Barrett's Cassius, Jefferson's Rip Van Winkle, Lester Wallack's Elliott Gray, Sothern's Dundreary, Harry Placide's Monsieur Tourbillon, Booth's Iago and Richard III., Mrs. Scott-Siddons's Viola, Fanny Davenport's Georgette in "Fernande," Mary Gannon's "Little Treasure," Maggie Mitchell's "Fanchon" and "Little Barefoot."