ower of passion
in the heart of man. It was indeed a doctrine of fire, and its burden
was the inalienable right of passion to sweep away every obstacle, to
break down every barrier of law and custom, of oath and pledge, which
stood between it and its aim.

A right which Hartmut Rojanow well understood and illustrated in the
exercise of his own unbridled will, which knew no law and no duty, and
to which self-gratification was the highest good.

The awakening of this passion, its mighty growth and final triumph, was
described in words of ravishing eloquence, and depicted in pictures
which seemed drawn, now from the purest heights of ideality, and now
from the depths of the pit. The poet had done wisely to drape his
characters with the veil of an oriental legend, for under this covering
he might express sentiments and present scenes, which otherwise would
scarcely have been forgiven, and he did this now with a boldness which
threw glowing sparks into the souls of those who heard him, and held
them enthralled as if by some infernal spell.

By the close of the second act, the success of Arivana was assured.

The work was presented with a skill and perfection of acting never
surpassed on any stage. The actors in the two principal _roles_ played
their parts with a fire and perfection which could only have come from
genuine enthusiasm. The heroine was no longer called Ada. That name was
borne by a being who stood, strange and alone, in this restless world of
surging passions; one of those half-fabulous creatures with whom the
Indian legends people the icy summits of the Himalayas; cold and pure as
the eternal snows which glisten in those lofty regions. She appeared
only in one scene, and at the decisive moment of the drama, where she
moved through the stormy action as if upon spirits' pinions, warning and
exhorting, and Egon was quite right when he said that the words which
the poet put into her mouth were the most beautiful of the whole play.

Suddenly the pure, white light of heaven breaks through the red glow of
the drama; the scene is beautiful, but short and swift and fleeting as
the zephyr's breath. The chaste form vanished to the snowy heights of
her distant home, while here below from the river's moonlit shore rose
the song of the Hindoo maiden--Marietta's soft and swelling voice; the
cry of warning from above was lost in these sweet seductive tones. In
the last act came the tragic ending, the judgment upon the guil