_Q._ Does it move the reader to pity and terror? _A._ Yes, both. Pity for himself, and terror of the next thing of the kind that he may have to read. _Q._ Has it any other of the high qualities of the Greek Tragedy? _A._ It says it has the unities. _Q._ A severe attack? _A._ No, the Norwegian kind; a form of Teutonic measles, painful but transitory. _Q._ Is it heroic? _A._ No, but it is suburban. _Q._ Is the conclusion worthy of a great tragedy? Does it end in a lurid light of whole-souled passion and death? _A._ It ends about 4 A.M. the next day, with a cock crowing. The protagonist has come home intoxicated, and remains so. I regret to add that he pushes the heroine, she having displaced his beverage by breaking the glass. She slaps him upon the face, and eventually loses animation. I do not know how the other two end, because they were not home in time for the curtain. As it was, the Author-publisher nearly spoilt one of the unities through waiting for them. _Q._ All must be well that ends so well. Is there a problem or enigma? _A._ There is always the insoluble riddle--why did he write it? _Q._ Is it full of situations? _A._ Not inconveniently so; but there is a dramatic moment. _Q._ Which? _A._ I do not know. _Q._ Then why do you say there is one? _A._ Because the Author-publisher says so. _Q._ But is it not wasteful to have three acts, and only one dramatic moment? _A._ I should have thought so; but the Author-publisher says he has shown economy. _Q._ Could you give me an idea of the manner? Select a striking incident or a passage where there is subtle characterisation. _A._ One situation impressed me very much. I think it must have been the dramatic moment. I reserve it for my next. (_To be continued._) * * * * * FILIA PULCHRA, MATER PULCHRIOR. I loved a girl, divinely sweet, An unsophisticated creature; I did not scruple to repeat She was divine, you could not meet More charms displayed in form and feature. I loved her youthful grace, her slight And dainty form, an angel's seeming. Crowned by sweet hair, as dark as night, Her face would charm an artist's sight, A poet's thoughts, a lover's dreaming. I loved her dark and lustrous eyes, Which love might light with glowing passion, Her lips, her neck--you will surmise I wrote her rhymes, all tears and sighs In lovesick versifier's fashion. I loved her like a childish pet, I felt I could not love another, Until the day when first I met Her widowed mother, charming yet, And now, instead, I love her mother. I love the woman, for the rose, Full blown, excels the rosebud's beauty, Nor think of girlish charms since those No more inspire my Muse, which shows My Muse is fit for any duty.