"funny," but it is not
dramatic. It reminds one of the most forced passages of Artemas Ward's
generally fresh and unforced humor. But perhaps the worst instance in
all Robertson's play of this pitiful sacrifice of situation and
character to a petty "joke" is found in _Caste_. Sam Gerridge, a
gas-fitter and plumber, desiring to marry Polly, the daughter of
Eccles, a drunken old brute, tells him so, casually mentioning that to
prove his affection he will do anything he can in "the way of
spirituous liquor or tobacco." This captivates the heart of old
Eccles, who joins the hands of the young couple, saying with a drunken
leer, "Samuel Gerridge, she is thine. Samuel Gerridge, you shall be
'er 'usband! I don't know a gas_fitter_ man!" (The italics are in the
original).

These are but minor errors, however. The great fault in Robertson's
comedies is the lack of strong dramatic interest. There is no human
passion. There is no exhibition of human strength and human weakness.
There is little of that clash of character against character from
which results true comedy. But even if his characters are mere
empty-headed automata, even if his plays have not the literary value
of Mr. W.S. Gilbert's, even if his pieces have not the situations of
Sardou or the wit of Sheridan, he has a simple sweetness all his own.
And perhaps, after all, the greatest objection to him is the weakness
of his imitators. Success is always a schoolmaster. But it is not just
to hold Robertson responsible for the faults of Alberry or the
failings of the tea-cup-and-saucer school of comedy-writers.

J.B.M.

THE LETTERS OF A PRINCESS.

It is the fashion to decry French memoirs of court-life, and,
considering the quaint freedom of style which characterizes much of
this voluminous literature, it is not strange. Many of these memoirs,
original letters, etc. are exceedingly interesting, because of their
merciless unmasking of some of the sublime figure-heads of history;
notably the letters of Madame Charlotte Elizabeth of Bavaria, widow of
Monsieur, the only brother of Louis XIV. She always hated the French
manners, and longed for her native _sauer-kraut_ and sausages, which
to her taste were finer than all the luxuries and dainties of the
French cuisine. She was counted a severe moralist, and her tongue was
more dreaded than a bayonet-charge. To be sure, her enemies more than
hinted that her extraordinary virtue was trebly guarded by her
ugliness. On