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A DRAMATIC CRITIC
That Robertson's comedies should be
the last to succumb to this remorseless
rule of death is interesting. Their texture
is of the flimsiness of gossamer; their wit
usually consists of quaint equivoque ; their
wisdom is trite; their humor, often de-
licious in flavor, trickles in a thin and
narrow stream; their passion, except for
a few minutes in Caste, has neither depth
nor blaze. But they showed the work of
a deft hand in their eflfective situations;
they had a grace and charm of their own,
which made them cling to the memory as
tenaciously as the fragrance of lavender
clings to gloves and laces ; and they were
often in touch with life, though the touch
never became a grasp. Again, a special
word is to be said for Caste, which dealt
finely, if not profoundly, with the never
ceasing strain between the freedom of
man as an individual and his bondage as
a member of society. Nearly all these
plays, also, displayed, after a fashion pe-
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