The moralists howled long and loud.

"Has Ibsen no ideals? Does the accursed Midas-touch of his mind dissolve
everything, one very Holy of Holies, into the ashes of nothing?"

Thus spoke self-sufficient arrogance.

But can one read "Brand" or "Peer Gynt" and ask such questions? No heart
so overflowed with human yearning, no soul ever breathed grander, nobler
ideals than Henrik Ibsen. True, he did not prostrate himself before the
idols of the conventional mob, nor did his sacrificial fires burn on the
altar of mediocrity and cretinism. He did not bow the proud head before
the craven images that the State and Church have created for the
subjugation of the masses. To Ibsen's free soul the morality of slaves
was a nightmare.

His ideal was Individuality, the development of character. He loved the
man that was brave enough to be himself. He immeasurably hated all that
was false; he abhorred all that was petty and small. He loved that true
naturalness which, when most real, requires no effort.

The most severe critic of Ibsen and his art was Ibsen himself. His
attitude towards himself in his last work, "When We Dead Awaken," is
that of the most unprejudiced judge.

What is the result?

We long for life; yet we are eternally chasing will-o'-the-wisps. We
sacrifice ourselves for things which rob us of our Self. The castles we
build prove houses made of cards, upon the first touch falling down.
Instead of living, we philosophize. Our life is an esthetic counterfeit.

A mind of great depth, a soul of prophetic vision has passed away; yet
not without leaving its powerful impress--for Henrik Ibsen stood upon
the heights, and from their loftiest peaks we beheld, with him, the
heavy fogs of the present, and through the rifts we saw the bright rays
of a new sun, the promise of the dawn of a freer, stronger Humanity.

[Illustration]

OBSERVATIONS AND COMMENTS.

Schopenhauer's advice to ignore fools and knaves and not to speak to
them, as the best method of keeping them at a distance, does not seem
drastic enough in these days of the modern newspaper-reporter nuisance.
One may throw them out of the house, nail all the doors and windows, and
stuff up all key-holes; still he will come; he will slide down through
the chimney, squeeze through the sewer-pipes--which, by the way, is the
real field of activity of the journalistic profession.

We Anarchists are usually poor business men, with a few "happy"
exceptions, of c