But for the rest—! Hyperborean morbidities technically adjusted to bourgeois drawing-rooms with snow-avalanches muttering at the window, are indeed enough to make unlaid troublesome ghosts of the great psychological names of Ibsen and Strindberg. But psychology, whether it dissect the old Bourgeois Family or the New Feminist Lure, is, after all, only a transitory analysis of ephemeral situations. It does not spring from what, in the relations between Man and Woman, is eternal and unchangeable. It does not turn into dramatic poetry the long cry of our common fate. The pathological “macabrism” of Ibsen and Strindberg dissolves like mephitic scum when the eternal constellations, under which Job and David and Sophocles wrote, mount up through the deep hushed air. Mr. Browne has an artist’s and an Irishman’s passion for Synge—but he knows better than we could tell him that gaelic Mythology is not classical Mythology and gaelic poetry is not Universal poetry. And so we return to the one old Path—the one undying Tradition. We _literally_ return to it. For, after all their lovely and alluring experiments in a hundred directions, the great work of The Little Theatre—until Mr. Browne writes his own epoch-making Poetic Play—is, as we all confess, the revival of Euripides. It is here and only here that The Little Theatre of Chicago rouses itself, through every nerve and vein of its corporate body, to grand and undistracted reciprocity. And here we are in the presence of a true Renaissance: a Renaissance as authentic and deep as that which the fifteenth century stumbled upon. The truth of what I am saying will be sealed, for the few who understand this “open secret,” by the fact of the instinctive preference displayed, not only by the director but by the whole company, for _The Trojan Women_, over the less universal, the less classical, the more modern _Medea_. No one who has a real insight into what Poetic Drama means—Poetic Drama the highest of all human Arts—can hesitate for a moment as to where The Little Theatre rises to a permanent and tradition-making height. It rises to such a height in its performance of _The Trojan Women_. And it does so because here and here alone, by reason of the universal nature of the subject—nothing less in fact than the incarnation of World’s Sorrow—every member of the company is touched and attuned and compelled and transfigured to the same ultimate Pity. It is not only of “Ilion” we think, it is not only for “Ilion” we weep, in those world-deep choruses; we weep for all the sons and daughters of men, doomed by the same doom, who “must endure”—with Argive Helen—“their going hence, even as their coming hither.” The magical Irish “plummet” of Synge does not, cannot, sound much depth;—and before the bowed figures of those world-mourners, carved as if by the chisel of Pheidias, our pathological Hyperborean Phantoms go squeaking, bat-like, to oblivion.