It is not a question of what could or could not be said on a public platform; it is a question of what _should_ be said. If the findings of science are not to be made accessible, we must all find ourselves in the position of Rousseau when he said that the renascence of the arts and sciences had not ennobled morals. Isn’t that almost as true now as then? A week ago, as I write, a young man named Roswell Smith was hanged in Chicago for having strangled a four-year-old girl. He had no recollection of the murder, and his father’s testimony brought out the fact that the boy had always been epileptic. Since he must die for his “crime”—oh, the heart-breaking tragedy of his quiet acceptance of that hellish law!—Smith begged that he be allowed to die under the knife, so that at least humanity might benefit by an examination of his brain. But, no—he must be _hanged_: Justice must be done, the public wrath appeased, the penalty held up to other criminals, prevention enforced again by methods which don’t prevent! The governor, unwilling to risk public indignation, salved his conscience by the testimony of one alienist who pronounced Smith “sane.” And so the boy paid the penalty, to the accompaniment of Psalms and readings from the Word—the “_Light_ of the world!” ... And sixty people watched the murder and not a voice was raised in protest. Think of it!—or rather don’t think of it unless you are willing to lose your mind with horror and shame. How far have we _advanced_ when things like this can still happen among us? With us love is just as punishable as murder or robbery. Mrs. Ellis knows the workings of our courts; she knows of boys and girls, men and women, tortured or crucified every day _for their love_—because it is not expressed according to conventional morality. All this was part of her responsibility on February 4th; and this is why I say she failed. The Acrobat ELOISE BRITON Poised like a panther on a bough He swings and leaps. His taut body flashes clear, And in a long blue arc cuts the hushed air Tense as a cry. The keen, sharp wind of Death Blows after like his shadow, and I feel A strange beast stir in me. I almost wish That which I cannot think, A scream, a falling body ... A new thrill! But he shoots onward, arms outstretched To clutch at life as it speeds past. His hands grip vise-like; With a wrench That half uproots his fingers, he has caught, And airily He twists about the bar And comes to rest. Sidewise he sits, and carelessly High up among the winds, His taut body Grown lax and restful. He smiles— As a vain child, pleased with himself, he smiles, While our applause comes up Like incense. He breathes a moment deeply. Then again the supple form grows tense, All wire, all vibrant, Poised for one tingling breath Before another flight.