stiff and
lifeless; each movement was forced and strained. The old fate and hero
drama did not spring from within Man and the things about him; it was
merely manufactured. Most remarkable incidents, unheard of situations
had to be invented, if only to produce, externally, an appearance of
coinciding cause and effect; and not a single plot could be without
secret doors and vaults, terrible oaths and perjury. If Ibsen, Gorky,
Hauptmann, Gabrielle D'Annunzio and others had brought us nothing else
but liberation from such grotesque ballast, from such impossibilities as
destroy every illusion as to the life import of a play, they would still
be entitled to our gratitude and the gratitude of posterity. But they
have done more. Out of the confusion of trap doors, secret passages,
folding screens, they have led us into the light of day, of undisguised
events, with their simple distinct outlines. In this light, the man of
the heap gains in life force, importance and depth. The stage no longer
offers a place for impossible deeds and the endless monologues of the
hero, the important feature is harmonious concert of action. The hero,
on a stage that conscientiously stands for real art and aims to produce
life, is about as superfluous as the clown who amused the audience
between the acts. After all the spectacle of one star display, one
cannot help but hail the refreshing contrast, shown in the "Man of
Destiny," by the clever Bernard Shaw, where he presents the legend-hero,
Napoleon, as a petty intriguer, with all the inner fear and uneasiness
of a plotter. In these days of concerted energy, of the co-operation of
numerous hands and brains; in the days when the most far-reaching effect
can only be accomplished through the summons of a manifold physical and
mental endeavor, the existence of these loud heroes is circumscribed
within rather limited lines.

Previous generations could never have grasped the deep tragedy in that
famous painting of Millet that inspired Edwin Markham to write his "Man
with the Hoe." Our generation, however, is thrilled by it. And is there
not something terribly tragic about the lives of the great masses who
pierced the colossal stone cliffs of the Simplon, or who are building
the Panama Canal? They have and are performing a task that may safely be
compared with the extraordinary achievements of Hercules; works which,
according to human conception, will last into eternity. The names and
the characters of the