me containing the translation of "There Are Crimes and
Crimes" had barely reached the public when word came across the
ocean that August Strindberg had ended his long fight with life.
His family had long suspected some serious organic trouble. Early
in the year, when lie had just recovered from an illness of
temporary character, their worst fears became confirmed. An
examination disclosed a case of cancer in the stomach, and the
disease progressed so rapidly that soon all hope of recovery was
out of the question. On May 14, 1912, Strindberg died.

With his death peace came in more senses than one. All the fear and
hatred which he had incurred by what was best as well as worst in
him seemed to be laid at rest with his own worn-out body. The love
and the admiration which he had son in far greater measure were
granted unchecked expression. His burial, otherwise as simple as he
himself had prescribed, was a truly national event. At the grave of
the arch-rebel appeared a royal prince as official representative
of the reigning house, the entire cabinet, and numerous members of
the Riksdag. Thousands of men and women representing the best of
Sweden's intellectual and artistic life went to the cemetery,
though the hour of the funeral was eight o'clock in the morning. It
was an event in which the masses and the classes shared a common
sorrow, the standards of student organizations mingling with the
banners of labour unions. And not only the capital, but the whole
country, observed the day as one of mourning.

A thought frequently recurring in the comment passed on Strindberg's
death by the European press was that, in some mysterious manner,
he, more than any other writer, appeared to be the incarnation of
the past century, with its nervous striving after truth, its fear
of being duped, and its fretting dread that evolution and progress
might prove antagonistic terms. And at that simple grave in
Stockholm more than one bareheaded spectator must have heard the
gravel rattle on the coffin-lid with a feeling that not only a
great individual, but a whole human period--great in spite of all
its weaknesses--was being laid away for ever.

Among more than half a hundred plays produced by Strindberg during
his lifetime, none has won such widespread attention as "Miss
Julia," both on account of its masterful construction and its
gripping theme. Whether liking or disliking it, critics have
repeatedly compared it with Ibsen's "Ghosts,"