particularly festive mood, he cries: "Were there vine-leaves around,
I would garland my brow." Again, in _Emperor and Galilean_ (Pt. ii.
Act 1) where Julian, in the procession of Dionysus, impersonates the
god himself, it is directed that he shall wear a wreath of vine-
leaves. Professor Dietrichson relates that among the young artists
whose society Ibsen frequented during his first years in Rome, it
was customary, at their little festivals, for the revellers to deck
themselves in this fashion. But the image is so obvious that there
is no need to trace it to any personal experience. The attempt to
place Hedda's vine-leaves among Ibsen's obscurities is an example of
the firm resolution not to understand which animated the criticism
of the 'nineties.

Dr. Brandes has dealt very severely with the character of Eilert
Lovborg, alleging that we cannot believe in the genius attributed
to him. But where is he described as a genius? The poet represents
him as a very able student of sociology; but that is quite a different
thing from attributing to him such genius as must necessarily shine
forth in every word he utters. Dr. Brandes, indeed, declines to
believe even in his ability as a sociologist, on the ground that it
is idle to write about the social development of the future. "To
our prosaic minds," he says, "it may seem as if the most sensible
utterance on the subject is that of the fool of the play: 'The future!
Good heavens, we know nothing of the future.'" The best retort to
this criticism is that which Eilert himself makes: "There's a thing
or two to be said about it all the same." The intelligent forecasting
of the future (as Mr. H. G. Wells has shown) is not only clearly
distinguishable from fantastic Utopianism, but is indispensable to
any large statesmanship or enlightened social activity. With very
real and very great respect for Dr. Brandes, I cannot think that he