At another time, both before the actual operation and after, he was ready enough to talk about it, and immensely pleased with the importance that the sad condition of his "Louisy" seemed to give him; but for the moment the trouble of his mind was too great to let him think of words to say, or to let him listen to what others said to him. After a time that seemed interminable to those who were waiting below, the doctor's step was heard descending the stairs.

"Well," Miss Carey demanded breathlessly, "was the operation successful?"

"Oh yes, madam, so far as the operation goes it was successful enough," the doctor replied. "Whether the ultimate result will be a success it remains for time to show and largely for Nature to determine."

"Say rather God, Richard," Miss Carey suggested gently.

"I shall not, Amelia," he snapped back quickly. "I shall say whatever I please."

He went through the parlor and out at the street door without courtesy.

"Poor Richard," Miss Carey said to the Vicar. "What a terrible responsibility, to be sure, for him to bear."

The Vicar accepted the remark and acquiesced in it as an apology for the doctor's lapse of manners.

"I do not know," he said, "that we can do any good by waiting further."

"Perhaps not," Miss Carey agreed. "You, at least, have work that I am sure you want to see to. I will wait here till Phoebe comes, so that Mrs. Copman shall not be alone in the house with the poor girl, if anything is wanted."

For the time being the Vicar went away, but he was not able to stay long absent. In a short while he was back again to inquire what progress the pa

tient might be making, and found Dr. Charlton the only occupant of Mrs. Copman's parlor. The doctor was in a meditative mood, gravely regarding the stuffed fox, but thinking, so at least the Vicar presumed, of his patient upstairs. The Vicar inquired how she was doing, only to be met with a brusque reply that at present it was impossible to tell. The tone of the answer suggested that the question was a foolish one. The Vicar, however, was well used by this time to the other's manner. He showed no resentment of the tone employed, but seated himself in the bird-cage-backed armchair which Mrs. Copman commonly occupied in her rare hours of leisure, and disposed himself to the perilous task of yet further interrogating the doctor on his acts and motives. The moment, however, appeared to be not ill-chosen, the doctor accepting a placid discussion with a comparative amiability which was not as usual with him as many of us in Barton might have wished.

"I cannot conceive," the Vicar began hastily, "how you can endure to face death, to look on the face of death I would almost say, with your theories."

Sud

The doctor rubbed his hand over his stiff-growing gray hairs, which stood up almost en brosse, as if by the friction to electrify them into an even more aggressive demeanor. A caustic answer almost certainly was on his lips. denly, according to the subsequent account of the interview given by the Vicar, he appeared to change his mind, and a like change came over his expression.

"I face death, sir," he replied, in a tone of quiet argument, "as one has to face many things in this life that are inevitable-with regret, but without fear. Why should I, with my theories, as you say, fear to face death, which to me (again, as you say) is but another name for annihilation? To me (on

your theory of my views) it is a synonym of sleep-a sleep that has no waking. One may regret, in a busy time, the necessity of a few hours' sleep-a temporary annihilation; but one does not fear it. Why should one fear, much as one may regret, the sleep that is eternal?"

The Vicar shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "It is impossible," he said despairingly, "to argue with you men of science. You will believe in nothing of which you cannot explain the causes and the reasons."

"Oh, pardon me, sir, pardon me," the doctor replied quickly. "There you do me wrong. I throw a stone into the air-I see it fall to the ground owing to a force that we have agreed to call gravity. I believe the fact, but I understand nothing at all of the cause. Show me proofs of a fact, and I will admit it freely, no matter how mysterious are its causes. We live in the midst of mysteries. The greatest of human achievements is to discover truth among these mysteries, and to proclaim it."

"And yet," said the Vicar, with a note of triumph in his voice, as though he rejoiced to have detected the man of science in an inconsistency, "and yet you are content to go about in this parish and never by your arguments, I will not say by your example, have ever tried to turn one of my people (so far as I have ever heard) from their faith in a religion which you believe to be an error and a delusion."

The doctor rose to his feet and rubbed his hand yet again over the aggressive stubble of his scalp in some perplexity. He smiled, as though a certain humor in the situation appealed to him. "And you can say this to mecan upbraid me with this?" he said.

But is it not an inconsistent attitude with the theories you have just pronounced?"

I

"It is inconsistent, sir; I admit it," the doctor replied at length, with the air of one who confesses a truth reluctantly. "Man is but human, which is as much as to say that he is inconsistent. Often and often I have put to myself the question that you are practically putting to me now, whether it were not my duty to preach to your people the truth that is in me, even as you preach to them the truth that is in you-that all this religion in which they trust is nothing but a delusion; I will not say a snare. No, it is because I cannot say that it is a snare that I do not preach to them that doctrine. perceive the comfort that it is to them in their lives, and in their deaths. I perceive even that it makes for the decent conduct and morality, as well as for the happiness, of their lives, and I say to myself, is it my duty to take away from them, even for the noble sake of truth, a delusion that works for so much good? I cannot convince myself, sir, I admit it, what my answer ought to be to my question, and until I see my answer more clearly I am content to let the people go, to say no word to turn them from a delusion which works for SO much Does that explain my position to you?"

good.

"Thank you, sir," said the doctor, as be showed him out. "I may say that the better understanding is mutual." Then with a returning access of his caustic humor, which for the life of

him he could not help, he added, “I am glad you did not conclude with saying you would pray for me."

He shut the door behind his departing visitor, and then remarked to himself grimly, "But I am sure he will." Horace G. Hutchinson.

On looking at the plays which have recently been produced in France, we notice a remarkable tendency towards idealism, and a great effort to revive the drama. Besides pieces dealing with social matters and mordant comedies, we often find works of a purely literary value. Dainty plays by Porto Riche, who reminds one of the classical theatre, but with quite modern characteristics, depict the everlasting strength of love which nothing can resist. To the same sentiment, after long wandering, the talented modern dramatist, Maurice Donnay, has also come back in his last comedy L'Escalade. Camille de Saint-Croix sings in its honor in Arminde, which, one may say, is the eruption of love. In those works the subject is love, not degrading or vicious, of which there is plenty in French literature, but a sentiment that ennobles the heroes. The same tendency may be seen in Renarde's comedies; and there is no lack also of successful attempts to return to classical themes. Such is Jules Bois's Hypolite, the author of which has not feared to take up a subject twice treated in tragedies by great masters; and he has come out victorious by creating a character, a little modernized, but thoroughly original and more comprehensible by us. Such a play, again, is Cinthia, by a Provençal poet, Meunier, a work of remarkable value, enchanting us by its harmonious poetry and full of the warmth of the South. Such, finally, is Casquet's Dionysius, a religious and symbolic drama, built up on the back

ground of the old myth of King Pen-theus.

The opinion of the critics as to this revival is divided, vacillating and often contradictory. Charles Méré, in his very interesting, although not too lucid essay, La tragédie contemporaine, speaks of the modern effort to revive tragedy, and tries to forecast the principal characteristics of the drama of the future. He shows the progressive development of tragedy from the most remote times, and its congruity with the milieu. As the tragedies of Corneilleor Racine depicted their contemporaries with their aspirations, so the tragedy of the present day is the picture of the people of to-day, whatever the characters it represents. There are some people for whom the classical theatre is alpha and omega; for such the alliance of the two words "modern" and "tragedy" is a heresy and nonsense; but such people are lacking in the historical sense, for every tragedy in its turn was something new; it was the expression of the aspirations and sentiments of the new epoch in which it was written. Consequently tragedy has a large field for its creative power, but its axis is the conflict between the will of an individual and destiny, no matter whether we call it the ancient fate or divine Providence, or social order, or the implacable law of heredity; always the collision of those two moral powers in man's soul is the indispensable condition of the tragic. The moment however, we substitute for that conflict the struggle for an idea, philo

sophical reasoning, or literary and scientific quarrels, in that moment we are dealing with a work which, however interesting and eloquent, cannot be called tragedy. Consequently neither Lavedan's Le Duel, nor Fabre's Les Ventres dorés, nor Maeterlinck's plays, nor Ibsen's, nor any of the dramatic productions which we are accustomed to call modern tragedy, deserve that great title.

Modern tragedy is in decadence; but there are many writers who have understood its evolutionary tendency, and, instead of harking back to old forms, which is almost impossible, depict in their works the modern struggles of man with instincts and other unknown factors which direct our lives. To such a type of tragedies belong Hervieux's La Course du Flambeau; Daudet's L'Arlésienne also reproduces wonderfully well that mystic feeling which is necessary for tragic awe. The tragedy of the future will show us proud and rebellious man, tormented by doubts or passive in misfortune, struggling with internal and external impulses that make up his destiny. Metaphysical and moral tendencies, as well as social, the whole network of invisible factors limit his will. It is not an individual, but a symbol of human kind, base or heroic, in contact with the unknown.

With regard to the external form, verse is not absolutely necessary for tragedy; rhythmical prose may possess all the qualities of true poetry. With this view Paul Souchon, a young poet, who has written the tragedy Phyllis, does not agree; in his opinion verse alone is able to conjure sublime sentiments into immortal form, but it does not follow that we must return to the æsthetics of Racine or Victor Hugo. Neither classical tragedy nor romantic drama corresponds with our modern tone of thought. The struggle between love and duty, the conflict between the

heart and the circumstances, the imitation of old writers, solemn dialogue, all that was so fascinating for the courtiers of the seventeenth century has little interest for us. Exaggerated rhetoric and the pompous tirades of romantic heroes do not move us. Modern tragedy will be different; poetry, the light of which illuminates men and things, will supply it. The poetry of man in nature; the echoes that resound in his soul; seasons and landscapes; the contrast of the serene sky and the stormy soul; impressions of day, dusk and night; inspirations produced by a hurricane, by the sun and stars, all that is sung in lyrical poetry; but there is no dramatic work that a haussé jusqu'à la vie et l'action:· So says the poet I have mentioned in the Mercure de France.

But the poetry of man in society, which he himself has created, his joys and sorrows, his delights and weariness, his feelings and the changes he undergoes under the influence of fate and circumstance, all this has hitherto been dealt with in the novel; but only poetical drama can give it beauty and make it last. Poetry of his own thoughts, ideas and reminiscences, doubts and faith; hereditary impulses and tortures of the mind, conflict of instincts and thoughts, flights of genius and inspiration, miseries of frenzy and agonies of memory, all these scenes we read in philosophical and medical essays; but once personified on the stage they will act on us with a startling force of truth.

Therefore the atmosphere of the new drama will be poetry-that is to say, the very essence of all beings, living or resuscitated, of all factors, visible or hidden, and not of a few privileged sentiments only, as was the case in the epoch of classicism, or of a few exceptional situations, as was the case when romanticism prevailed. A poetdramatist will endeavor to bring forth

from his subject the whole of its beauty. It is his concern to make choice of the material afforded him by legends, history, the experience of life and imagination. He has unlimited freedom, provided his work is poetical and beautiful. That time is coming. and it will show a glorious bloom of poetical drama.

Jules Bois expressed the same hope in his essay, La littérature contemporaine; and many literary productions show that we are entering on a new period of literary activity, the result of artistic culture, affecting larger and larger circles of people, who now willingly patronize classical as well as poetical plays because they find in them wholesome spiritual nourishment.

Those ideas, which one may regard as a kind of manifesto of the younger play writer, will describe one of the tendencies of the modern French theatre. It cannot be denied that this movement, if not originated, was at least strengthened, by Cyrano de Bergerac. The then youthful poet raised great hopes in all who had had enough of materialistic drama and of the comedy of manners with its everlasting trio: husband, wife and friend. A new era was pompously announced, and when the prediction was not realized they began to belittle M. Rostand unjustly. It is true that Cyrano de Bergerac has not started a new epoch, but I cannot agree with those critics who deny him any influence and maintain that his play has nothing in common with contemporary drama. That is another extreme view, reached by the adherents of the social drama. The seeds sown by Rostand were not lost, and if they have not so far produced a work as good as Cyrano de Bergerac, the fault is not with the direction indicated by its author and stigmatized by

his adversaries as false and antiquated, the fault lies in the lack of creative talent, and of ideals, of a faith which would arouse the sentiments now overpowered by the influence of materialism.

Enthusiasm, however, once aroused, grows from more to more; and there is now an almost feverish animation in the field of drama: a whole pleiad of young dramatists, who write in verse, is grouped round Armand Bour. Thanks to the energetic efforts of a few enthusiasts for art, thanks to such poets as Catulle Mendès, François de Ninon and the Countess de Noailles, a company of actors, under the direction of Armand Bour, have succeeded in producing purely poetical works. First, in the Trianon, a new small theatre in Montmartre, and then in a beautiful building called the Bouffes Parisiens, Armand Bour began a series of representations, not with the aim of winning the applause of the public, but of producing the works of able but unknown writers. It is a similar effort to that of Antoine, who twenty years ago started the Théâtre Libre with the object of opening the door to realism on the stage.

Among the most talented writers of that group I may mention Jacques Richepin-not to be confused with Jean Richepin-who has met with success in his Cadet Roussel and Falstaff. The subject of the latter play he naturally took from Shakespeare, from whom he has appropriated episodes of the adventurous life of the hero; but he has managed to find some new scenes and to combine them very cleverly. In his technique and verse one may perceive Rostand's influence, but, notwithstanding that, both plays show that the author of them has talent of his own.

Rabelais, a humorous poem in three acts, is something like Cyrano de Ber