When we come to restrict the dramatic subject any further, we encounter more difficulty. Some might hold that the interest of the subject should depend on either love or death, but we are met at once by instances of plays in which the real interest is almost wholly political, such as "Henry V.," "Richard III.," or moral, such as "Lear." Referring once more to the effect of contrast with the novel for guidance, we find it very difficult to separate subjects proper for dramatic treatment any further than we have done, and almost impossible to lay down any absolute rule to which distinguished exceptions cannot be quoted. It might be said that the interest should turn on a single action, as it does in most plays, and especially in tragedies, but here we are met by "Much Ado About Nothing," "The Honeymoon," and other plays, where two or three plots progress side by side in perfect harmony. It seems, therefore, that any further absolute limitation of the abstract dramatic subject is impracticable, and we must be content with adding a mere recommendation for our fourth canon, much as follows:
IV. The interest of the plot generally turns on either love or death, and generally hinges on a single action or episode.
When we come to speak of the best subjects of dramatic writing, we are really approaching the domain of treatment, which is much wider and better defined. There it becomes a question for judgment and discretion, and much more certainty can be attained. Instead of considering all dramas, we narrow our search to the best only, judging them by the simple tests of success and frequency of acting, and finding what sort of subjects have been taken, and how they have been treated.
Let us then come at once to the question, What is the best method of treating a given subject? Here we are again confronted by a variety of decisions, some of which seem to conflict with others, but which all agree in some common particulars. In the dramas written, down to the time of Boucicault, it seemed to be assumed as a matter of course that every first-class play, comedy or tragedy, must be written in five acts. All of Shakespeare's, Sheridan's, Knowles's, follow this old rule, as inflexible and artificial as some of the French canons, but with the same compensating advantage, that author and audience knew what was expected of each, and troubled themselves little over the structure of their dramas. Of late years another custom has taken the place of the five-act play, and many if not most of the modern dramas, while of the same length as the old ones, are divided into four and even three acts. Especially is this the case with comedies, and those nondescript plays that are variously called "melodramas," "dramas," and "domestic dramas." In the case of three-act plays, the number of scenes in each act is frequently five, sometimes six or seven, but the common modern practice restricts the last act, if possible, to a single scene. The number of scenes must of course depend on how many are absolutely necessary to develop the story. The French system of a single scene to each act has one great advantage. It permits of very much finer scenery being introduced than in a scene which is to be shifted, whether closed in or drawn aside. For instance, when the curtain comes down between each scene, the stage may be crowded with furniture, and those temporary erections called "set pieces." There will always be plenty of time to remove these between the acts, and noise of hammering is of no consequence when the curtain is down. If there is more than one scene in the act, all this is changed. Let us say there are only two scenes. One of these must be a full-depth scene, but all the furniture and set pieces are restricted to that part of the stage which lies behind the two "flats" which make the front scene. In that front scene furniture is inadmissible, without rudely disturbing the illusion. Let us suppose the front scene to be the first, and that any furniture is left on the stage. At the close of the scene the characters leave the stage, but there stands the furniture. The old way to get rid of it is simple. Enter a "supe" in livery, who picks up the one table and two chairs. Exit, amid the howls of the gods in the gallery, who shriek "Soup! soup!" as if they were suddenly stricken with hunger. Of course this spoils the illusion; and the better the scenery, the more perfect the other illusions, the easier they are disturbed by such incongruity. Sometimes the set pieces in front, if there are any, and the furniture, disappear through trap doors. In the large city theatres, such as those where spectacular pieces are constantly produced, this method of changing a scene is common, but such theatres themselves are not common, and it costs a great deal to run them on account of the number of workmen required. Our present inquiry is directed to the ordinary theatre, with its stock company, simple scenery, and few traps. Of this kind of theatre every town furnishes at least one sample. In such theatres at least it will always be best to keep furniture and set pieces out of the front scenes as much as possible, to preserve the illusion. If the front scene come after the full-depth one, the wisdom of this rule becomes still more apparent. A "supe" taking out furniture is not half as ludicrous as one bringing it in, and without a trap such a spectacle is unavoidable. The first canon offered by common sense is obviously sound:
V. Keep furniture and set pieces out of front scenes, if possible.
This rule being followed, will probably reduce the front scenes of a drama to the open air, woods, gardens, halls, streets, church porches, and similar places, where the attention will be concentrated on the actors, not the picture. The scope of a front scene is further restricted by the fact that you must bring your characters on and take them off, being deprived of that valuable ally to illusion, the "tableau." If the scene be the first of the act, a tableau may indeed be discovered, but it cannot close the scene. The most common place for a front scene is between a first and a third full-depth scene, to give time for the change that goes on behind. This change always makes a certain amount of noise, and the use of the front scene is to take off the attention of the audience. This intention must be hidden at any price, for, if perceived, it is fatal to the illusion. To hide it there is only one method always reliable, which is to rivet the attention of the audience on your characters, put in your best writing, and get up an excitement to cover the scene. If you have any brilliant dialogue, any passage of great emotion, any mystery to be revealed, put it in your front scene so that your design may not be suspected, but the scene appear natural. In brief the canon says:
VI. Put the best writing into the front scenes.
The next question that arises as to the front scene relates to the character of incident that should be treated therein. It is obvious that it will not do to put in a crisis or a climax at such a place. At its best a front scene is only a makeshift, a preparation for the full scene. Its employment necessitates a loss of nearly three-quarters of the available space, and the tableau loses all its power, as developed in the full-depth scene. Its use is therefore a disagreeable necessity, so disagreeable that the French discard it entirely. Mechanically it is only an introduction to the full scene, and the more it partakes of the same character intellectually, the less will it weary the audience. The best preparation an audience can have for a scene is to make them eager therefor, and the best way to make them eager is to leave them in suspense, so that they are impatient for the movement of the flats that opens the next picture. A familiar instance of this employment of the front scene is found in the "Shaughraun," by Boucicault, before the Irish wake. The front scene represents the outside of a cottage with a door in the right flat; the peasants and other characters come in, talk about the wake, and enter the house one after another. In this scene it is also explained that the supposed corpse is not dead, but shamming, so that there is no tragic interest associated with the coming scene, but every one is anxious to see it. At last all the characters are off, the flats are drawn aside, and the celebrated Irish wake makes its appearance, taking the whole depth of the stage. The audience is satisfied, and the front scene has answered its end, as expressed in this canon:
VII. Front scenes ought to terminate in a suspense, which the following scene will relieve.
From this canon it follows that the front scene should deal only with explanatory and dependent matters, not the principal action of the drama. Sheridan, in "The Rivals" and the "School for Scandal," opens his first acts with front scenes, which introduce little of the matter of the story. I am inclined to think that he had a reason for this which still prevails, in the noise made by the audience. The beginning of the first act of most plays is distinguished in the auditorium by much shuffling of feet, opening of doors, taking of seats, especially by those who take the reserved seats in front of the house. All this disturbs the audience and makes them lose any fine points at the beginning of a play, unless the actors strain their voices unduly. In a front scene the flats immediately behind the actors serve as a sounding board for the voice, and reduce the volume of space to be filled by the speakers. The advantage gained in this way is balanced by the loss to the eye in losing the full-depth scene, wherefore this method of opening a play is not much in favor; but its use in the cases mentioned leads to a general canon as to the first act of a play, which also recommends itself to common sense: