Mr. and Mrs. Herne by Hamlin Garland
MR. AND MRS. JAS. A. HERNE.
In May last, in a small hall in Boston, on a stage of planking, hung
with drapery, was produced one of the most radical plays from a native
author ever performed in America. Mr. and Mrs. James A. Herne, unable
to obtain a hearing in the theatres for their play, which had been
endorsed by some of the best known literary men of the day, were
forced to hire a hall, and produce Margaret Fleming bare of all
mechanical illusion, and shorn of all its scenic and atmospheric
effects. Everybody, even their friends, prophesied disaster. In such
surroundings failure seemed certain. But a few who knew the play and
its authors better, felt confident that there was a public for them.
It was a notable event, and the fame of Margaret Fleming is still on
its travels across the dramatic world.
There were two reasons for this result, the magnificent art of Mrs.
Herne, which “created illusion by its utter simplicity and absolute
truth to life,” and second, because the play was, in fact, as one
critic said, “an epoch-marking play.” It could afford to dispense with
canvas, bunch-lights, machinery, as it dispensed with conventional
plot and epithet, and as its actors discarded declamation and mere
The phenomenal success of Mr. and Mrs. Herne brought them prominently
before the literary public. Interest became very strong in them as
persons as well as artists, and from an intimate personal acquaintance
with them both, I have been asked to give this brief sketch of their
work previous to Margaret Fleming, for epoch-marking as it was, it
was only a logical latest outcome of the work the Hernes have been
doing for the last ten years.
Mr. Herne is a man of large experience, having been on the stage for
thirty years. He has been through all the legitimate lines. He has
been a member of a stock company, manager of theatres, and author and
manager of several plays of his own, previous to the writing of
Margaret Fleming. His first real attempt at writing was Hearts
of Oak. The home scenes, and notably the famous dinner scene, which
became such a feature, showed the direction of his power. This play,
produced about twelve years ago with Mrs. Herne as “Crystal,” was
their first attempt to handle humble American life, and was very
Mr. Herne’s next venture was an ambitious one. It was the writing of a
play based upon the American Revolution. In the spring of ‘86 he
produced at the Boston Theatre The Minute Men, where it was received
with immense enthusiasm. It was somewhat conventional in plot, but in
all its scenes of home life was true and fine. The central figures
were Reuben (a backwoodsman), and Dorothy, his adopted daughter.
Whatever concerned these two characters was keyed to the note of life.
Like all Mr. Herne’s acting, Reuben was utterly unconscious of
himself. He went about as a backwoodsman naturally does, without
posturing or swagger. With the sweetness and quaintness of Sam Lawson,
he had the comfortable aspect of a well-fed Pennsylvania Quaker.
Mrs. Herne’s Dorothy was a fitting companion piece, faultlessly true,
and sweet, and natural. Her spontaneous laugh is as infectiously
gleeful as Joe Jefferson’s chuckle. Those who have never seen her in
this part can hardly realize how fine a comedienne she really is.
Mr. Herne’s next play was simpler, stronger, and better, though less
picturesque. Drifting Apart was based upon the commonest of life’s
tragedies—the home of a drunkard. It is the most effective of
sermons, without one word of preaching. The drifting apart of husband
and wife through the husband’s “failin’” is set forth with unexampled
concreteness, and yet there is no introduction of horror. We
understand it all by the sufferings of the wife, with whom we
alternately hope and despair. I copy here what I wrote of it at the
time when I knew neither Mr. and Mrs. Herne, nor any other of their
The second act in this play for tenderness and truth has not been
surpassed in any American play. A daring thing exquisitely done
was that holiest of confidences between husband and wife. The
vast audience sat hushed as death before that touching, almost
sacred scene, as they do when sitting before some great tragedy.
What does this mean, if not that our dramatists have been too
distrustful of the public? They have gone round the earth in
search of material for plays, not knowing that the most moving
of all life is that which lies closest at hand, after all.
Mrs. Herne’s acting of Mary Miller was my first realization of the
compelling power of truth. It was so utterly opposed to the “tragedy
of the legitimate.” Here was tragedy that appalled and fascinated like
the great fact of living. No noise, no contortions of face or limbs,
yet somehow I was made to feel the dumb, inarticulate, interior agony
of a mother. Never before had such acting faced me across the
footlights. The fourth act was like one of Millet’s paintings, with
that mysterious quality of reserve—the quality of life again.
In this play, as in Hearts of Oak, there was no villain and no plot.
The scene was laid in a fishing village near Gloucester. I can do no
better than to give you a taste of the quaint second act.
It is Christmas eve and Jack and Mary have been married a year. Jack
is preparing to go out. Mary is secretly disturbed over his going but
hides it. “Mother” sits by the fire knitting. Mary is sewing by the
Say, Mary! D’you know, I can shave myself better’n any
barber thet ever honed a razor?
Mary. I always told you you could, Jack, if you’d only try.
Jack. Feel my face now—ain’t it as smooth as any baby’s?
Mary. (Feeling his face.) Yes, Jack, as smooth as any old
Jack. Oh! say, look here now, thet ain’t fair; a feller don’t
know nothin’ till he’s forty, does he, mother? Old baby’s!
(sitting on the arm of Mary’s chair) I ain’t too old to love
you, Mary, that’s one thing. I’ve loved you ever since you was
knee-high to a grasshopper. I rocked you in y’r cradle—I’m
blessed if I didn’t make the cradle you was rocked in, didn’t I,
Mother. Yes, Jack, an’ d’ye remember what yeh made it out of?
Jack. A herrin’ box. (General laugh.)
Mary. (Tenderly.) I married the man I love, Jack.
Jack. (Kissing her.) Then what’n thunder you want to talk
about a feller’s gettin’ old for? Where’s my clean shirt? Say,
mother, don’t you t’ hang up them stockin’s.
Mary. Oh! Jack, what nonsense.
Jack. No nonsense at all about it. Christmas is Christmas. It
only comes once a year an’ I’m goin’ to have th’ stockin’s hung
up. So for fear you’d forgit ‘em I’ll hang ‘em up myself.
. . . . . . . . . .
Mary. Please, Jack, give me those stockings.
Jack. Now it ain’t no use, little woman. Them stockin’s is
a-goin’ up. Mother, you give me three pins.
Mary. Don’t you give him any pins, mother. Suppose the
neighbors should come in and see those stockings hangin’ up.
Jack. Let ‘em come in, I don’t care a continental cuss. Why,
Mary, everybody wears stockin’s nowadays, everybody that can
afford to. I want the neighbors to see ‘em, then they’ll know
we’ve got stockin’s. (Holding up the three stockings.) Got one
Mother. Oh, Jack, Jack! you’ll never be anything but a great
overgrown boy, if you live to be a hundred (goes off).
Mary. (Tenderly.) Jack!
Mary. (Putting her arms about his neck.) Did you never think
that perhaps next Christmas there might be another stocking, just
a tiny one, to hang in the chimney corner?
Jack. Why, Mary, there’s tears in your eyes. (Goes to wipe her
eyes with the work she has in her hands; it is a baby’s dress.)
Bless my soul! What’s this, Mary?
Mary. (Falteringly.) Do you remember Bella and John in “Our
Mutual Friend” that I read to you?
Jack. Yes. Warn’t they glorious?
Mary. Well, these are sails, Jack, sails for the little ship
that’s coming across the water for you and me.
Mr. Herne as Reuben Foxglove in "The Minute Men." See page
I quote a few lines from another scene.
Christmas morning. Hester and Silas, some young friends, have
come in to take breakfast. All are seated at the table with much
bustle and laughter. Lish Mead, Mary’s foster father, pokes his
head in the door.
Lish Mead. Wish you Merry Christmas.
All. (Hilariously.) Merry Christmas! Come in.
Lish. Can’t less some on ye hol’s th’ door open.
Silas. I’ll hold it, Lish. (Lish enters, hauling a warehouse
truck on which is a barrel of flour and a large hamper.)
Lish. Mister Seward wanted I should hand ye these with his
Mary. Oh, how kind of Mr. Seward, and how good of you to bring
Jack. Set down here, Lish, and have a bite o’ breakfast.
Lish. (Taking off mittens, cap, comforter, etc.) Whatcher
got? Chicking? Waal, that’s good ‘nough. (Seats himself at
table.) Say, Jack, d’ you know, you left a goose a-layin’ on Jim
Adamses bar las’ night? I was goin’ to fetch it along but Jim
said you gin it to him, swore you made him a present on it.
Mother. Jack Hepburn, did you give that goose—
Mary. (Interrupting her.) Have a cup of coffee, mother.
Lish. Jack, have you got the time o’ day? (Chuckles.) Here’s
y’r new Waterbury. The boys wanted I should fetch her ‘round; ye
went off las’ night without her.
Jack. Ye can take her back again; I don’t want her.
Mary. O Jack!
Jack. No, Mary, I don’t. I wish the durned ol’ Waterbury ‘d
never been born.
Mary. The boys meant well, Jack; I wouldn’t send back their
Jack. All right, Mary, if you say so, I’ll take her. There’s
one thing sure, every time I wind her up she’ll put me in mind
how durn near I come to losin’ the best little wife in the whole
This play brought me to know Mr. and Mrs. Herne. It needed but an
hour’s talk to convince me that I had met two of the most intellectual
artists in the dramatic profession, and also to learn how great were
the obstacles which lay in the way of producing a real play, each year
adding to the insuperableness of the barriers. Mr. Herne was at that
time (two years ago) working upon a new play, in some respects,
notably in its theme, finer than Drifting Apart. It was the result
of several summers spent on the coast of Maine, and is called
Shore-Acres. The story is mainly that of two brothers, Nathaniel and
Martin Berry, who own a fine “shore-acre” tract near a booming summer
resort. An enterprising grocer in the little village gets Martin
interested in booms and suggests that they form a company and cut the
shore-acre tract up into lots and sell to summer residents.
Martin comes with the scheme to Nathaniel.
I’d like t’ talk to yeh, an’ I d’ know’s I’ll hev a
Uncle Nat. I d’ know’s yeh will.
Martin. (Hesitates, picks up a stick and whittles.) Mr.
Blake’s ben here.
Uncle Nat. (Picks up a straw and chews it.) Hez ‘e?
Mrs. Herne as Dorothy Foxglove in "The Minute Men." See page
Yes. He ‘lows thet we’d ought to cut the farm up inter
Uncle Nat. Dooze ‘e?
Martin. Yes. He says there’s a boom a-comin’ here, an’ thet the
lan’s too valu’ble to work.
Uncle Nat. I want t’ know ‘f he dooze. Where d’s he talk o’
Martin. Out there at the nothe eend o’ the shore pint?
Uncle Nat. Yeh don’t mean up yander? (Pointing with his thumb
over his shoulder.)
Martin. (Slowly.) Y-e-s.
Uncle Nat. Dooze ‘e calkalate t’ take in the knoll thet looks
out t’ Al’gator Reef?
Martin. I reck’n he dooze.
Uncle Nat. Did yeh tell him thet mother’s berried there?
Martin. He knows thet ‘s well ‘s you do. (Sulkily.)
Uncle Nat. What’s he calkalate t’ do with mother?
Martin. He advises puttin’ her in a cimitry up to Bangor.
Uncle Nat. She’d never sleep comfort’ble in no cimitry, mother
Martin. He says thet’s the choice lot o’ the hull pass’ll.
Uncle Nat. Then who’s got so good a right to it as mother hez?
It was all her’n once. Thet’s the only piece she ast t’ keep. Yeh
don’t begrutch it to her, do yeh, Martin?
Martin. I don’t begrutch her nothin’, only he says folks hain’t
a-goin’ to pay fancy prices ‘thout they hev ther pick.
Uncle Nat. D’ye think any fancy price hed ought to buy mother’s
Mrs. Herne as Mary Miller. "Here was tragedy that
appalled and fascinated like the great fact of living." "Drifting
Apart." Act IV. See page
Yeh seem to kinder shameface me fer thinkin’ o’ partin’
Uncle Nat. Didn’t mean to. Law sakes! who’m I thet I should set
my face agin improvemints, I’d like t’ know? Go ahead, an’ sell,
‘n build, an’ git rich, an’ move t’ Bangor, unly don’t sell thet!
Leave me jes’ thet leetle patch, an’ I’ll stay an’ take keer th’
light, keep the grass cut over yander, an’ sort o’ watch eout fer
Ann. Sakes alive! Martin Berry, bean’t you a-comin’ to your
dinner t’day? Come, Nathan’l, y’r dinner’ll be stun cold. I say
yer dinner’ll be stun cold. ‘T won’t be fit f’r a hawg t’eat.
Little Mildred. (Going to Nat, looks up into his face.) He’s
This estrangement, and the results that flow from it, form the simple
basis of Shore-Acres, a play full of character studies, and
permeated by that peculiar flavor of sea and farm, which the New
England coast abounds with. The theme is the best and truest of all
Mr. Herne’s plays of humble life.
Mr. and Mrs. Herne have lived for twelve years in Ashmont, a suburb of
Boston. They have a comfortable and tasteful home, with three
children, Julie, Crystal, and Dorothy [aged ten, eight, and five], to
give them welcome when they come back from their seasons on the road.
Mr. Herne is very domestic and lives a very simple and quiet life. And
he enjoys his pretty home as only a man can whose life is spent so
largely in fatiguing travel. He is fond of the fields which lie near
his home, and very many are the long walks we have taken together. He
is very fond of wild flowers, especially daisies and clover blossoms,
and in their season is never without a bunch of them upon his desk.
Books are all about him. He writes at a flat-top desk in the room he
calls his, but his terrific orders to be left alone are calmly ignored
by the three children who invade this “study,” and throw themselves
upon him at the slightest provocation. He is much tyrannized over by
Dorothy, whose dolls he is forced to mend, no matter what other
apparently important work is going forward.
Mr. and Mrs. Herne in "Drifting Apart." Act II. See page
Mrs. Herne is a woman of extraordinary powers, both of acquired
knowledge and natural insight, and her suggestions and criticisms have
been of the greatest value to her husband in his writing, and she had
large part in the inception as well as in the production of Margaret
Fleming. Her knowledge of life and books, like that of her husband,
is self-acquired, but I have met few people in any walk of life with
the same wide and thorough range of thought. In their home oft-quoted
volumes of Spencer, Darwin, Fiske, Carlyle, Ibsen, Valdes, Howells,
give evidence that they not only keep abreast but ahead of the current
thought of the day. Spencer is their philosopher, and Howells is their
novelist, but Dickens and Scott have large space on their shelves. All
this does not prevent Mr. Herne from being an incorrigible joker, and
a wonderfully funny story-teller. All dialects come instantly and
surely to his tongue. The sources of his power as a dramatist are
evident in his keen observation and retentive memory. Mrs. Herne’s
poet is Sidney Lanier, and she knows his principal poems by heart.
“Sunrise” is her especial delight. But to see her radiant with
intellectual enthusiasm, one has but to start a discussion of the
nebular hypothesis, or to touch upon the atomic theory, or doubt the
inconceivability of matter. She is perfectly oblivious to space and
time if she can get someone to discuss Flammarion’s supersensuous
world of force, Mr. George’s theory of land-holding, or Spencer’s law
Mr. and Mrs. Herne in "Drifting Apart." Act III. See page
Her enthusiasms bear fruit not only in her own phenomenal
development, but in her power over others, both as an artist and
friend. Wherever she goes she carries the magnetic influence of one
who lives and thinks on high planes. Her earnestness is tremendous.
They are both individualists in the sense of being for the highest and
purest type of man, and the elimination of governmental control.
“Truth, Liberty, and Justice,” form the motto over their door. Mr.
Herne has won great distinction as a powerful and ready advocate of
the single tax theory, and they are both personal valued friends of
Mr. George. It is Ibsen’s individualism as well as his truth that
appeals so strongly to both Mr. and Mrs. Herne. They are in deadly
earnest like Ibsen, and Margaret Fleming sprang directly from their
radicalism on the woman question. The home of these extraordinary
people is a charged battery radiating the most advanced thought. As
one friend said: “No one ever leaves this house as he came. We all go
away with something new and vital to think about.”
I give these personal impressions in order that those who saw them in
Margaret Fleming may know that its power was certainly a reflection
of the high thought and purity of moral conviction and life which Mr.
and Mrs. Herne brought to its production and its performance. It
voices their love of truth in art, and freedom in life, and
specifically their position on the woman question.
The story of Margaret Fleming is briefly:—
Philip Fleming is a fairly successful business man in a town near
Boston. He has a devoted wife, a child just reaching its first year’s
birthday. The first scene develops the situation by a conversation
between Fleming and his family physician. Fleming offers a cigar which
Dr. Larkin refuses.
You used to respect my cigars. (Laughing.
Doctor. I used to respect you….
Philip. Why not, for heaven’s sake?
Doctor. Because you’ve no more moral nature than Joe Fletcher
Philip. Oh! come now, Doctor, that’s rather—
Doctor. (Looking sternly at him.) At two o’clock last night,
Lena Schmidt gave birth to a child.
Philip. (His eyes meet those of the Doctor, then drop to the
floor.) How in God’s name did they come to send for you?
. . . . . . . . .
Doctor. I don’t believe she’ll ever leave that bed alive.
Philip. Well, I’ve done all I can to—
Doctor. Yeh have, eh?
Philip. She’s had all the money she needed…. If she’d a’ done
as I wanted her to, this never’d a’ happened. I tried to get her
away six months ago, but she wouldn’t go. She was as obstinate as
Doctor. Strange that she should want to be near you, aint it?
If she’d got tired of you and wanted to go, you wouldn’t have let
Philip. (With a sickly smile.) You must think I’m—
Doctor. I don’t think anything about it. I know just what
such animals as you are.
Philip. Why, I haven’t seen her for a—
Doctor. Haven’ t yeh! well, then, suppose you go and see her
Philip. (Alarmed.) No, I won’t. I can’t do that!
Doctor. You will do just that.
Philip. (Showing temper.) I won’t go near her.
Doctor. (Quietly.) Yes, you will. She sha’n’t lie there and
die like a dog.
Philip. You wouldn’t dare—to tell—
Doctor. I want you to go and see this girl! (They face each
other.) Will yeh or won’t yeh?
Philip. (After a pause subdued.) What d’ ye want me to say to
Fleming had been unfaithful to his wife at the time when he should
have been most devoted. The next two scenes show us Margaret in her
lovely home with the baby crowing about her. Fleming, with the easy
shift of such natures, has thrown off his depression, and is in good
spirits the following morning. Dr. Larkin calls to warn Fleming that
he had better take Margaret away at once. She has trouble with her
eyes which a nervous shock might intensify. He promises to do so, but
the act closes with Margaret’s departure to visit Lena Schmidt, who
has sent for her. The third act takes place in Mrs. Burton’s cottage,
where the girl is dying. Dr. Larkin enters, finds Mrs. Burton holding
the babe in her arms. I quote the conversation as a fine example of
its truth and suggestion.
Mr. Herne as Joe Fletcher in "Margaret Fleming." Act I.
"Can't I sell ye a bath sponge?" See page
O Doctor! I didn’t hear ye knawk. Did I keep y’
Doctor. No. How’re the sick folks?
Mrs. Burton. Haven’t y’ seen Dr. Taylor! Didn’t he tell yeh?
Doctor. Haven’t seen him. I suppose you mean—
Mrs. Burton. Yes.
Doctor. Humph! When’d she die?
Mrs. B. ‘Bout half an hour ago.
Doctor. I had two calls on my way here. When did the change
Mrs. B. Ther’ wa’n’t no change t’ speak ‘f. About two hours
ago, she et a nice cup o’ grule, and asked me to fix the pillers
so’s her head ‘d be higher. I done it. Then she asked f’r a
pensul ‘n paper, an’ she writ f’r quite some time. After that she
shet her eyes an’ I thought she was asleep. She never moved till
the Doctor come, then she opened her eyes ‘n smiled at him. He
asked how she felt, an’ she gave a l-o-n-g sigh—an’ that was all
there was to it.
. . . . . . . . .
Mrs Herne as Margaret Fleming. Act II. See page
Margaret comes in and Dr. Larkin, horrified, tries in vain to get her
to return. Maria, the dead girl’s sister, comes out of the bedroom,
with a letter in her hand, and with barbaric ferocity turns upon
Margaret. A scene of great dramatic power follows, and under the
stress of her suffering, Margaret goes blind. It all ends in the
flight of Fleming, and the destruction of their home. Several years
later a chain of events brings wife and husband together in the office
of the Boston Inspector of Police. Joe Fletcher, a street pedler, and
husband of Maria, the sister of Lena Schmidt, was the means of
bringing them together again. Fleming runs across Joe on the Common,
and Joe takes him to see Maria. Margaret has found Maria and her
child, which Maria had taken. Philip’s altercation with Maria brings
them into the police office. After explanations, the inspector turns
to the husband and wife, and voicing conventional morality, advises
them to patch it up. “When you want me, ring that bell,” he says, and
leaves them alone. There is a hush of suspense, and then Fleming,
seeing the work he had wrought in the blind face before him, speaks.
Philip. This is terrible
Marg. You heard the inspector. He calls it a “common case.”
Philip. Yes. I was wondering whether he meant that or only said
Marg. I guess he meant it, Philip. We’ll be crowded out of his
thoughts before he goes to bed to-night.
. . . . . . . . .
Marg. Ah, well, it’s done now, and—
Philip. Yes, it’s done. For four years I’ve been like an
escaped prisoner that wanted to give himself up and dreaded the
punishment. I’m captured at last, and without hope or fear,—I
was going to say without shame,—I ask you, my judge, to
pronounce my sentence.
Marg. That’s a terrible thing to ask me to do, Philip…. (She
Philip. Of course you’ll get a divorce?
Marg. Don’t let us have any more ceremonies, Philip…. I gave
myself to you when you asked me to. We were married in my
mother’s little home. Do you remember what a bright, beautiful
morning it was?
Marg. That was seven years ago. To-day we’re here!…
. . . . . . . . .
I am calm. My eyes have simply been turned in upon myself for
four years. I see clearer than I used to.
Philip. Suppose I could come to you some day and say, Margaret,
I’m now an honest man. Would you live with me again?
Marg. The wife-heart has gone out of me, Philip.
Philip. I’ll wait, Margaret. Perhaps it may come back again.
. . . . . . . . .
Philip. Is it degrading to forgive?
Marg. No; but it is to condone. Suppose I had broken faith
Philip. Ah, Margaret!
Marg. I know! But suppose I had? Why should a wife bear the
whole stigma of infidelity? Isn’t it just as revolting in a
. . . . . . . . .
Then can’t you see that it is simply impossible for me to live
with you again? Philip. That’s my sentence…. We’ll be
Marg. Yes, friends. We’ll respect each other as friends. We
never could as man and wife.
As they clasp hands, something latent, organic rushes over her.
She masters it, puts his hand aside: “Ring that bell!”
Mr. Herne and his daughter Dorothy as Joe and little
Lena on the Common. See page
Played as Mrs. Herne plays it, this act is the supreme climax toward
which the action moves from the first. It is her knowledge of its
significance, her belief in its justice, and her faith in its
beneficence that makes her reading so intellectually powerful and
penetrating. She seems to be all of the woman, and something of the
seer, as she stands there as Margaret whose blindness has somehow
given her inward light, and conviction, and strength. She seemed to be
speaking for all womankind, whose sorrowful history we are only just
beginning to read truthfully. It is no wonder that Mrs. Herne appealed
with such power to the thinking women of Boston. Never before has
their case been so stated in America.
One of the most noticeable and gratifying results of Mr. and Mrs.
Herne’s performance was the forced abandonment by the critics of
conventional standards of criticism. Every thoughtful word, even by
those most severe, was made from the realist’s standpoint. It forced a
comparison with life and that was a distinct gain.
Margaret. Act V. "It is simply impossible for me to
live with you again…. Ring that bell." See page
The critics got at last the point of view of those who praise an
imperfect play simply for its honesty of purpose, and its tendency.
My own criticism of Margaret Fleming is that it lacks the simplicity
of life. It has too much of plot. Things converge too much, and here
and there things happen. Measured by the standard of truth it fails at
two or three points in its construction, though its treatment is
markedly direct and honest. Measured by any play on the American
stage, it stands above them all in purpose, in execution, in power,
and is worthy to stand for the new drama. It was exposed to the
severest test, and came out of it triumphantly. What the effect will
be upon the American drama, it would be hard to say. Certainly whether
great or small, that influence will be toward progress, an influence
that is altogether good.
Already it has precipitated the discussion of an independent American
theatre, where plays of advanced thought and native atmosphere can be
produced. It has given courage to many who (being in the minority) had
given up the idea of ever having a play after their ideal. It has
cleared the air and showed the way out of the cul de sac into which
monopoly seemed to have driven plays and players. It demonstrated that
a small theatre makes the production of literary plays possible, and
the whole field is opening to the American dramatist. The fact that
the lovers of truth and art are in the minority, no longer cuts a
figure. The small theatre makes a theatre for the minority not only
possible, but inevitable.
In the immediate advance in truth, both in acting and play-writing,
Mr. and Mrs. Herne are likely to have large part. The work which they
have already done entitles them not only to respect, but to gratitude.
They have been working for many years to discredit effectism in
acting, and to bring truth into the American drama. They have set a
high mark, as all will testify who saw the work in Chickering Hall.
Now let who can, go higher.