anger, grief, or despair, but owes all its grandeur, tenderness, heroism, and grace-every image, in a word, that has helped it to visible form-to the objects and beings that surround it; as, for instance, the beauty and sweetness of a kiss are contained far less in the kiss itself than in the circumstance, hour, and place of its giving. And the same remarks would hold good if we chose to imagine a man of our time to be jealous as Othello was jealous, possessed of Macbeth's ambition, as unhappy as King Lear; or, like Hamlet, wavering and restless, crushed by an impossible, harassing duty. These conditions no longer exist. The adventure of the modern Romeo-to consider only the external events to which it would give rise—would not furnish material enough for a single act. Some will say that a modern poet who desires to put on the stage an analogous poem of youthful love, is perfectly justified in borrowing from days gone by a setting more decorative, more fertile in heroic incident, than is offered by these times of ours. True: and yet what would the result be of such an expedient? Would not the feelings and passions that demand, for their fullest, most perfect development, the atmosphere of to-day-for the modern poet's feelings and passions must, himself notwithstanding, be entirely and exclusively modern-would not these be suddenly thrust into a world where all things prevented their living? They no longer have faith; and yet they are charged with the fear of eternal punishment and the hope of eternal reward. They have learned to cling in their sorrow to a mass of new forces, that at length have grown trustworthy, human, and sure; and behold them placed in a century wherein prayer and the sword decide all. They have profited, it may be unconsciously, by all our moral acquirements; and they are suddenly flung far back into days when the slightest gesture was governed by prejudices that awaken only their terror or smile. In such an atmosphere what can they do how hope that they truly can live there? But we need not dwell any longer on the necessarily artificial poems that spring from the impossible marriage of past and present. Let us consider the drama that actually does represent the reality of our time, as the Greek drama and that of the Renaissance represented the reality of theirs. It is in a modern house, and between men and women of to-day, that this drama unfolds itself. The names of the invisible protagonists-which are the passions and feelings-these are the same, more or less, as of old. We see love, hatred, ambition, jealousy, envy, and greed; the sense of justice and idea of duty; pity, goodness, devotion, piety, apathy, selfishness, vanity, pride, etc., etc., etc. But although the names of these ideal actors have not changed, how great is the modification of their aspect and qualities, their extent, and habits, and influence; not one of their ancient weapons is left them, not one of the marvellous ornaments of days long gone. It is seldom that cries are heard now; and bloodshed is rare, while tears are but seldom seen. It is in a small room, round a table, close to the fireside, that the joys and the sorrows of men are determined. We suffer, or bring suffering to others, we love and we die, there, in our corner, wherever we happen to be; and it were by most singular chance that a window or door would for one instant fly open under the pressure of extraordinary despair or rejoicing. Accidental, adventitious beauty exists no longer; nor is there poetry now in externals.— And what poetry is there-if we choose to probe into the heart of things but borrows nearly all of its charm, nearly all of its ecstasy, from external elements? And, finally, there is no longer a God to widen the sphere of the action, or master it; nor is there an inexorable fate to form a mysterious, solemn, and tragical background for the slightest gesture of man, and enwrap it with a sombre, fecund atmosphere, capable of ennobling even his most contemptible weaknesses, his least excusable crimes. There does yet abide with us, it is true, a terrible unknown; but it is so diverse and evasive, it becomes so arbitrary, uncertain, and contestable the moment we make the slightest attempt to determine it, that it is dangerous indeed to evoke it, and a matter of extreme difficulty loyally to avail ourselves of it in order to heighten the mystery, the gestures, and actions, and words of the men we pass by every day. The endeavour has been made; the formidable, problematic enigma of heredity, the grandiose but improbable enigma of inherent justice, and others besides, have each in their turn been seized on as a substitute for the vast enigma of the Providence or fatality of old. And it is curious to note how these youthful enigmas, born but of yesterday, already seem to be older, more inconsistent, more arbitrary, and more improbable than were those whose places they took in an access of pride. Where shall we look, then, for the grandeur and beauty that can no longer be found in visible action, or in the words that have lost their attractive images-for words are only a species of mirror which reflects the beauty of all that surrounds it, and the beauty of this new world in which we have being does not seem as yet to have reached with its rays these somewhat reluctant mirrors. Where shall we seek this horizon and poetry, that it seems impossible to find in a mystery which still exists, it is true, but evaporates the moment we try to give it a name? All this would appear to have been vaguely realised by the modern drama. Incapable of exterior development, deprived of exterior ornament, no longer venturing to make serious appeal to a special fatality or divinity, it has fallen back on itself, and endeavoured to discover, in the regions of moral life and in those of psychology, the equivalent of all that it once possessed in the decorative, expansive life of former days. It has penetrated further into human consciousness; but here it has encountered strange and unexpected difficulties. It is legitimate, and easy for the thinker, the moralist, historian, novelist, even for the lyric poet, to open up new ground in the consciousness of man; but at no price whatever may the dramatic poet be an inactive observer or philosopher. Do what we will, and whatever the marvels we may some day imagine, it is always action that will be the sovereign law, the essential demand, of the theatre. It would seem as though the rise of the curtain brought about a sudden transformation in the lofty intellectual thought we bring with us; as though the thinker, psychologist, mystic, or moralist in us makes way for the mere instinctive spectator, who wants to see something happen? This transformation or substitution is incontestable, however strange it may seem, and is due perhaps to the influence of the crowd, to an inherent faculty of the human soul, that appears to possess a special sense, primitive and scarcely susceptible of improvement, by virtue of which men think, and enjoy, and feel, en masse. And there are no words so admirable, profound, and noble but they will soon weary us if they leave the situation unchanged, if they lead to no action, bring about no decisive conflict, or hasten no definite solution. But whence is it that action arises in the consciousness of man? In its lowest form it will spring from the struggle between diverse conflicting passions. But no sooner has it risen somewhat-and a closer inspection will show that this is true of the lower forms also than it would seem to arise only from the conflict between a passion and a moral law, between a desire and a duty. And the modern drama has flung itself with delight into all the problems of contemporary morality, and it is fair to assert that at this moment it confines itself almost exclusively to the discussion of these different problems. This movement was initiated by the dramas of Alexandre Dumas fils, dramas which brought the most elementary of moral conflicts on to the stage; dramas, indeed, whose entire existence was based on problems such as the spectator, who must always be assumed to be an ideal moralist, would never put to himself in the course of his whole spiritual existence, so evident is their solution. Should the faithless husband or wife be forgiven? Is it well to revenge infidelity by infidelity? Has the illegitimate child any rights? Is the marriage of inclination preferable to the marriage for money? Have parents the right to oppose a marriage which has love for its basis? Is divorce permissible when a child is born of the union? Is the sin of the adulterous wife greater than that of the adulterous husband? etc., etc., etc. And it may here be said that the entire French theatre of to-day, and a considerable portion of the foreign theatre, which is only its echo, exist solely on questions of this kind and the entirely superfluous answers provided to them. But, on the other hand, the loftiest point of human conscious Björnson, of Hauptmann, and, ness is reached by the dramas of above all, by the dramas of Ibsen. resources of modern dramaturgy. For, in truth, the further we go into the consciousness of man, the less struggle do we find. We cannot penetrate far into any consciousness unless that consciousness be very enlightened; for it matters not whether the steps we take in the depths of the soul that is plunged in darkness be one or a thousand, we shall find therein naught that is new, that we have not expected; for darkness everywhere will be like unto itself. Whereas a consciousness that is truly enlightened possesses passions and desires that are infinitely less exacting, more peaceful and patient, more salutary, abstract, and general than are those that have their abode in the ordinary consciousness. And therefore it follows that we shall come across far less struggle, or that at least the struggle will be far less violent, between these passions that have been enhanced and ennobled by the mere fact of their having become loftier and vaster; for if there be nothing more savage, destructive, and turbulent than a dammed-up stream, there is nothing more tranquil, beneficent, and silent than the river whose banks ever widen. And, again, this enlightened consciousness will bow down before infinitely fewer laws, will admit infinitely fewer duties that are doubtful or harmful. It may be said that there is scarcely a falsehood or error, a prejudice, half-truth, or convention that is not capable of assuming-that does not really assume, when the occasion presents itself—the form of a duty in an incomplete consciousness. Of such is honour in the chivalrous, conjugal sense of the word (I refer to the honour of the husband, which is supposed to depend on the wife's fidelity); of such are revenge, and kind of morbid prudishness and chastity; of such are pride, vanity, piety to the gods, and a thousand other illusions, all of which have been, and are still, the unquenchable source of a multitude of duties which are looked upon as absolutely sacred and inviolable by a vast number of inferior consciousnesses. And these so-called duties are the pivots of almost all the dramas of the Romantic period, as of most of those of to-day. But none of these sombre, blind, and |