Chicago’s Little Theatre is the real “Alsatia”—the authentic “Arcanum”—the true “Hesperidean Grove”! And do you ask how it rose, “like an eschalation,” into being—what hands built it—what genius, what magic, still sustains it? What, do you suppose, questioner at the gate, worked this miracle? What, do you surmise, wrought this spell? Have you really no inkling, in this sphere of the raising of Altars, how such things are done? Only in one way! There is only one kind of occult adventure—Goethe tells us that—by means of which these Euphorions of Beauty grow into life! There must be the creative spirit of Man, giving the thing “Form”; and the creative spirit of Woman, giving the thing “Color.” Thus we understand. Thus we unravel the mystery. Thus we learn how the impossible happens! Look, inquisitive Stranger, at the Inscription over the entrance to this enchanted retreat. Read the names written upon the door. Do you catch the trick of it now—do you glimpse the clue? _Two_ names are there—our Faust’s and our Helen’s—and behind those two names lurk the creative genius that _wills_, and the creative genius that gives color to what is _willed_. Thus the miracle is accomplished. And behold—Euphorion! For English “Maurice” and American “Nelly” have that inestimable bond, between the links of which alone can the true Parnassian Hyacinths put forth their “hushed, cool-rooted flowers” for the delight of gods and men;—I mean agreement of “opinion,” with diversity of “temperament.” The supremely happy “chance” of the coming together of these two—why not believe the legend that gives to the very Land of the Muses the spell that achieved it?—resulted in nothing less than that indescribable synthesis of Man’s Intellect and Woman’s Instinct which is the desire of the ages! So ought human beings to be united. So ought their poor mortal “love,” radiating from Zenith to Nadir, to provoke the return of Saturn, the unbinding of Prometheus, the Vita Nuova for which we all pine! It is in fact the presence of our “New Helen” as the guiding, balancing, mellowing, sweetening influence, in this enterprise, which has enabled the austere “Formula” of the Founder to take to itself flesh and blood. For the director of the Little Theatre of Chicago is no Dilettante—no Petit-Maître of a pompous coterie—no bric-à-brac Virtuoso. Stern and high and cold is his Ideal; clear and clean-cut the lines that limit it! To reproduce in the heart of the great mad City—the City of the “Middle-West”—the City of America—that Rhythm and Harmony which Plato felt as the secret of the ultimate spheres, is not such a thing worthy of the gift of a man’s life?