Brownie. In the old days when the castle was attacked, or stormed, the master of the castle would hide his treasures down here. Often he was killed and so nobody knew where to find the things again. In time, as you see, my room got pretty full. But excuse me a moment (He goes out.)

Grandfather (Pantomime of being tempted to steal a gift for ROSA. He lifts one dainty after another, the green eyes of the cat balefully following him. He mutters).—Not for myself, never. But for Rosa? (Finally he conquers and turns his back on the treasures. BROWNIE immediately re-enters.)

Grandfather. You weren't afraid I'd steal anything while you were gone?

Brownie. I'd soon have settled anything like that. Listen. (He opens a door at the side of the room and most hideous and unearthly wails are heard.) In there I keep all those who have ever attempted to rob me. So have a care!

Grandfather (In a trembling voice).-Could we go back now? I'm afraid it must be getting late.

(As they go up both floors must be visible at once to the spectator.) Brownie. Yes, yes, I'll just help you up because I hear the guests getting ready to dance already.

Grandfather. Oh my, oh my, I must hurry! Supposing I shouldn't be there to give Rosa away!

Brownie. Oh you'll be there. I promise you that. And do not be sorry that you came with me. (Significantly) all our years of affection. the stairs. ROSA is heard calling.)

Rosa. Grandfather-grandfather!

I'll not forget it, nor (They reach the head of

Oh,

(BROWNIE disappears. Rosa runs into view calling.) Rosa.-Grandfather, where are you? (She sees him.) Grandfather, I've been looking everywhere for you. I was so frightened.

Grandfather. I just took one more look around, dear, to

see that everything was in good shape for Solov.

Rosa.-Well, well, you're safe anyway, and in time after all.

I was afraid you wouldn't be.

Grandfather.-How do I look?

Rosa. You look just as nice as always, Grandfather.
Grandfather. And you look lovelier than usual.

Rosa.-How do you like my crown?

Grandfather. Gold couldn't look better.

Rosa. So Solov said! Here they all come now.

(Enter a throng of gay guests with ropes of ivy and daisieslaughing and dancing. SoLov joins Rosa-GRANDFATHER sits down to watch. The bridal couple dance in the center of the circle of guests. Suddenly the crowd stands stock still and points at Rosa.) One of the Guests.-Look! Look! Rosa has on a golden

crown!

Rosa.-Oh! Oh! Have I? (She puts up her hand to feel.) Solov.-Yes. It's beautiful. Don't touch it for fear it should vanish.

The Guest.-Where do you suppose it came from?

Rosa. I believe it was Grandfather, he must have found it in the castle.

Solov-Are there such things to be found here?

Grandfather. No, no, I had nothing to do with it!

Solov.-I'd have a hunt myself if I thought there was any more such treasure!

Grandfather (Excitedly).-There are nothing but old musty dungeons, I tell you. Nobody has ever found a thing in this castle worth a penny.

Rosa. Never mind, Grandfather, I believe it was fairies heard us talking.

Grandfather. Someone took pity on poor old me!

Rosa.-Let's make Grandfather dance too.

(They drag out the old man and all begin laughing and dancing

again.

(When he is out of breath he cries.)

Grandfather. Stop! Stop!

(They stop reluctantly.)

Grandfather. Now, my dears let me stop and watch you. (They begin to waltz and when he is quite alone, the BROWNIE peeps at him, taking care not to be seen by the others.)

Grandfather (To him).—Oh thank you, thank you!

(BROWNIE puts his finger to his lips, nods gaily, and exits.) Rosa (Noticing her GRANDFATHER'S fixed look and moving lips). Grandfather, do you see fairies?

(All stop a moment and listen.)

Grandfather. Your good fairy, Rosa. I was saying, "Thank you for the crown.

(Gay laughter and signs of taking up the dance again.)

SOME MODERN WAR DRAMAS

By H. G. MONTILLON

"War has corrupted the morals of the people, and has occasioned them to form horrible ideas of virtue. Disraeli.

"A great people assailed by war has not only its frontiers to defend; it has its reason and conscience." M. Romain Rolland.

P

ERHAPS the first thing that strikes us on reading these war dramas is the obsession of idea of their writers. The very choice of a subject of current interest may show vitality of thought or may be mere advertising, mere didacticism. But let us

leave open the question of the province of art to teach-the great play being a powerful teacher, whether or no the author throws the lesson in our face. Schiller said: "The artist may be known rather by what he omits." Bernard Shaw once said: "He who can, does; he who cannot, teaches. And Shaw teaches all the time.

Many of the modern war dramas are pure realism and of a most revolting nature—though realism is not synonymous with sewer, as some would have us believe. Others are of a highly "idealistic tendency," if this word may be used in spite of Allen Upward. Of these John Galsworthy's The Mob, though not dealing directly with this war, but oddly enough published the month before its declaration, is far and away the finest drama. Mr. Galsworthy shows an intensely deep insight into modern conditions and a keen recognition of the validity of modern revolt. Establishment does not necessarily imply righteousness. He utters something that cannot be dismissed until answered. Here we have Stephen More, Member of Parliament, resigning his seat and all hope of future position, because he refuses to support his government in declaring war-an unrighteous war-on a weaker nation. He stands his ground absolutely alone-deserted even by his wife-"faithful to his ideals," and to the mob who brand him as a traitor to his country and finally kill him, he says: "My fine friends, I'm not afraid of you. You are the thing that

pelts the weak; kicks women; howls down free speech. This today, and that to-morrow. Brain you have none. Spirit-not the ghost of it. If you're not meanness, there's no such thing. If you're not cowardice, there is no cowardice. Patriotism-there are two kinds-that of our soldiers, and this of mine. You have neither! My country is not yours. Mine is that great country which shall never take toll from the weakness of others. Oh! you can break my head and my windows; but don't think that you can break my faith. You could never break or shake it, if you were a million to one."

And it is this unreasoning mob spirit which is the author of so many crimes of history. How many men have gone to war with it in their hearts. How many plays have been written under its spell! And where do we see a greater evidence of it than in our theatres? I recently saw an audience apparently completely swayed by an admirable production of Katrina Trask's In the Vanguard. You would have thought many recruits had been made for pacificism. But not so, probably The Battle Cry of Peace turned the trick the next night. I do not mean to apply Stephen More's words to a theatre audience-but it is well nigh remarkable how the average audience will respond to the fine sentiments of a play, which sentiments may be quite contrary to all their beliefs, convictions and prejudices. With what absolute unreason they are in in accord with the author-granted, of course, a convincing portrayal-and how little part this fine temporary emotion plays in their after-thoughts.

This play of Katrina Trask's is a very poor reading play, but the acting version is much changed and far superior. There is not the same silly scene where the young ladies play "ringaround-the-rosy" on the village green, and later changes such as the scene in the enemy's country where the demented wife asks for her husband who has been shot that morning, add much to the dramatic effect. There is one very powerful and convincing scene on the battlefield between two men of the opposing armies, where the dying enemy thinks for himself for the first time-the mob spirit no longer swaying him. The first principle of the code is, that the army is a unit. They have killed ten thousand men and he is going to his mother's God-in whom he never before believed with the blood of ten thousand men upon his soul. And he cries out: "Man is thy brother, thou shalt not kill!" And the satire of the words: "Blow a man to pieces in the name of Patriotism and offer him a drink of water in the name of

Humanity." The other man refuses to listen at first, but finally the truth and logic of the dying man's words are brought home to him. He resigns his command in the army and goes home, disgraced, to exercise what influence he can against war. He will not succeed-but he is in the vanguard of the new generation.

In The Spoon River Anthology we have the story of the boy who enlisted in the American army and went to the Philippines. He had the exalted idea of the glory of war. He tells of the horrors of camp life and of his death of swamp fever. Over his head they carved the words "Pro Patria," and he says: "What does it mean anyway?" Then there is the disillusioned Greek poet in Alfred Noyes's The Wine Press:

"Why don't you understand

What war is? For a port to export prunes,

For Christ, my boy, and for the Fatherland!"

Mr. Noyes's drama A Belgian Christmas Eve is nowhere. near so fine as his poem, nor is it so dramatic. Surely Mr. Noyes is a "master of the sentiment of pity" and this pillaged Belgian home where the mother shoots herself and her daughter in protection from the assault of the German soldiers is most pathetic. But I doubt if I would thrill to the strains of "Adeste Fideles" on a gramophone as the curtain fell. And the use of the demented old man is neither skillful nor original. He adds pathos, of course, but no dramatist uses a cripple without making him work overtime. He must use his crippled faculties and you have him on your mind until he delivers the goods he was put in to deliver. He virtually says: "I am thus a sufferer; watch me at the climax of this play."

Marion Craig Wentworth's War Brides quite justifies its dramatic form—though it is far from flawless. Hedwig has to thank Mme. Nazimova for making her so compelling a character. She really is not so very interesting. Her protest: "If we breed the men for you, why don't you let us say what is to become of them?" is not quite sound, though naturally we are moved by it. When the last son, Arno, is called to his regiment and the "little grey mother" breaks down completely, Hedwig in fine temper, says: "And this is war-to tear our hearts out like this!" Again we are moved, but the tension is at once snapped as she adds: "Make mother some tea, Amelia, can't you?" Amelia makes the tea but the mother does not drink it. We did not expect she