ves around, I would garland my brow."
Again, in _Emperor and Galilean_ (Pt. ii. Act 1) where Julian, in the
procession of Dionysus, impersonates the god himself, it is directed
that he shall wear a wreath of vine-leaves. Professor Dietrichson
relates that among the young artists whose society Ibsen frequented
during his first years in Rome, it was customary, at their little
festivals, for the revellers to deck themselves in this fashion. But the
image is so obvious that there is no need to trace it to any personal
experience. The attempt to place Hedda's vine-leaves among Ibsen's
obscurities is an example of the firm resolution not to understand which
animated the criticism of the 'nineties.

Dr. Brandes has dealt very severely with the character of Eilert
Lovborg, alleging that we cannot believe in the genius attributed to
him. But where is he described as a genius? The poet represents him as a
very able student of sociology; but that is quite a different thing from
attributing to him such genius as must necessarily shine forth in every
word he utters. Dr. Brandes, indeed, declines to believe even in his
ability as a sociologist, on the ground that it is idle to write about
the social development of the future. "To our prosaic minds," he says,
"it may seem as if the most sensible utterance on the subject is that of
the fool of the play: 'The future! Good heavens, we know nothing of the
future.'" The best retort to this criticism is that which Eilert himself
makes: "There's a thing or two to be said about it all the same." The
intelligent forecasting of the future (as Mr. H. G. Wells has shown)
is not only clearly distinguishable from fantastic Utopianism, but is
indispensable to any large statesmanship or enlightened social activity.
With very real and very great respect for Dr. Brandes, I cannot think
that he has been fortunate in his treatment of Lovborg's character.
It has been represented as an absurdity that he would think of reading
abstracts from his new book to a man like Tesman, whom he despises. But
though Tesman is a ninny, he is, as Hedda says, a "specialist"--he is a
competent, plodding student of his subject. Lovborg may quite naturally
wish to see how his new method, or his excursion into a new field,
strikes the average scholar of the Tesman type. He is, in fact, "trying
it on the dog"--neither an unreasonable nor an unusual proceeding. There
is, no doubt, a certain improbability in the way in which Lovb