y, fruitful years for Emma Lazarus, who worked, not with
the pen alone, but in the field of practical and beneficent activity.
For there was an immense task to accomplish. The tide of immigration had
set in, and ship after ship came laden with hunted human beings flying
from their fellow-men, while all the time, like a tocsin, rang the
terrible story of cruelty and persecution,--horrors that the pen refuses
to dwell upon. By the hundreds and thousands they flocked upon our
shores,--helpless, innocent victims of injustice and oppression,
panic-stricken in the midst of strange and utterly new surroundings.

Emma Lazarus came into personal contact with these people, and visited
them in their refuge on Ward Island. While under the influence of all
the emotions aroused by this great crisis in the history of her race,
she wrote the "Dance of Death," a drama of persecution of the twelfth
century, founded upon the authentic records,--unquestionably her finest
work in grasp and scope, and, above all, in moral elevation and purport.
The scene is laid in Nordhausen, a free city in Thuringia, where the
Jews, living, as the deemed, in absolute security and peace, were caught
up in the wave of persecution that swept over Europe at that time.
Accused of poisoning the wells and causing the pestilence, or black
death, as it was called, they were condemned to be burned.

We do not here intend to enter upon a critical or literary analysis of
the play, or to point out dramatic merits or defects, but we should
like to make its readers feel with us the holy ardor and impulse of
the writer and the spiritual import of the work. The action is without
surprise, the doom fixed from the first; but so glowing is the canvas
with local and historic color, so vital and intense the movement, so
resistless, the "internal evidence," if we may call it thus, penetrating
its very substance and form, that we are swept along as by a wave of
human sympathy and grief. In contrast with "The Spagnoletto," how large
is the theme and how all-embracing the catastrophe! In place of the
personal we have the drama of the universal. Love is only a flash
now,--a dream caught sight of and at once renounced at a higher claim.

"Have you no smile to welcome love with, Liebhaid?
Why should you tremble?
Prince, I am afraid!
Afraid of my own heart, my unfathomed joy,
A blasphemy against my father's grief,
My people's ag