The Robertsonian way is often spoken of as a “return to nature.” It is, in fact, a common eulogy of most reactions in art. “Don Quixote” was a return to nature, compared with the romances of chivalry, and “Tom Jones” was a return to nature, compared with “Don Quixote.” The world gradually changes its point of view and sees the facts of life in a new light. Artists change with the rest of the world, and give expression to the new vision. They are hailed as reformers until the next reformation; they seem to have returned to nature, until the world’s view of “nature” again changes. I think, as I have said, that Robertson’s work is to be related to the general anti-romantic reaction that started in France in mid-nineteenth century. But all reactions keep something of what they react against, and Robertson’s reaction retains a good deal of romance. _School_ is as romantic as the German Cinderella-story, on which it was founded. The central situation of _Caste_—the return home of the husband given up for dead—is essentially romantic, not a jot less romantic than in _La joie fait peur_. The scenes at the “Owl’s Roost” in _Society_, applauded for their daring realism, are realistic presentations of the last stronghold of the romantic Murger tradition, literary “Bohemia.” Robertson’s dialogue was often the high-flown lingo of the old romance. (In dialogue we have “returned to nature” several times over since his day.) But more often it was not. He astonished and delighted his contemporaries by making many of his people speak in the theatre as they spoke out of it. He invented sentimental situations that were charming then and would be charming now—love-passages in London squares and over milk-jugs in the moonlight. He had been an actor and a stage manager and knew how to make the very most of stage resources. Take the scene of George’s return in _Caste_. There is a cry of “milkaow” and a knock at the door. “Come in,” cries Polly to the milkman—and in walks with the milk-can one risen from the dead! This thrilling _coup de théâtre_ is followed, however, by something much better, the pathetic scenes of Polly’s hysterical joy and her tender artifice in breaking the news to Esther. I confess that I cannot read these scenes without tears. There was a quality of freshness and delicate simplicity in Robertson’s work at its best that was a true “return to nature.” No need, is there? to speak of the luck his work had in finding such interpreters as the Bancrofts and their company or of the luck the actors had in finding the work to interpret—the Bancrofts themselves have already told that tale. But it all happened half a century ago and I suppose we are not to expect a future Robertson revival. The past is past. Life is perpetual change. The more reason for not neglecting occasions of pious commemoration. Let us, then, give a friendly thought to “Tom” Robertson to-morrow. VERSATILITY