of the Greek Tragedies, has pointed out more than once the “undesigned and unforeseen defect with which, in studying ancient drama, we must perpetually reckon,” namely, the loss of the action and of the equivalent stage directions. It is easy to imagine “what problems Shakespeare would present if he were printed like the Poetæ Scenici Græci,” and not more difficult to realize how many things there would be to puzzle us in Ghosts and The Wild Duck if we possessed nothing but the bare text.
The body of work so carefully conceived, so long maintained, so passionately executed, was far too disturbing in its character to be welcome at first. In the early eighties the name of Ibsen was loathed in Norway, and the attacks on him which filled the press were often of an extravagant character. At the present moment any one conversant with Norwegian society who will ask a priest or a schoolmaster, an officer or a doctor, what has been the effect of Ibsen’s influence, will be surprised at the unanimity of the reply. Opinions may differ as to the attractiveness of the poet’s art or of its skill, but there is an almost universal admission of its beneficial tendency. Scarcely will a voice be found to demur to the statement that Ibsen let fresh air and light into the national life, that he roughly but thor-
