e is a hard hitter and dearly loves a fight--a Hibernian trait--and
his pen was soon transformed into a club, with which he rained blows
on the ribs of his adversaries. That he was a fanatical moralist was
something not even the broadest-minded among them suspected; they only
knew that he meddled with a subject that was hitherto considered
tacenda, and with dire results. Nowadays the thesis of Spring's
Awakening is not so novel. In England Mr. H. G. Wells was considerably
exercised over the problem when he wrote in The New Machiavelli such a
startling sentence as "Multitudes of us are trying to run this
complex, modern community on a basis of 'hush,' without explaining to
our children or discussing with them anything about love or marriage."

I find in Spring's Awakening a certain delicate poetic texture that
the poet never succeeded in recapturing. His maiden is a dewy
creature; she is also the saddest little wretch that was ever wept
over in modern fiction. Her cry when she confesses the worst to her
dazed mother is of a poignancy. As for the boys, they are interesting.
Evidently, the piece is an authentic document, but early as it was
composed it displayed the principal characteristics of its author:
Freakishness, an abnormal sense of the grotesque--witness that
unearthly last scene, which must be taken as an hallucination--and its
swift movement; also a vivid sense of caricature--consider the trial
scene in the school; but created by a young poet of potential gifts.
The seduction scene is well managed at the Kammerspielhaus. We are not
shown the room, but a curtain slightly divided allows the voices of
the youthful lovers to be overheard. A truly moving effect is thereby
produced. Since the performance of this play, the world all over has
seen a great light. Aside from the prefaces of Mr. Shaw on the subject
of children and their education, plays, pamphlets, even legislation
have dealt with the theme. A reaction was bound to follow, and we do
not hear so much now about "sex initiation" and coeducation. Suffice
it to say that Frank Wedekind was the first man to put the question
plumply before us in dramatic shape.

A favourite one-act piece is Der Kammersaenger (1899), which might be
translated as The Wagner Singer, for therein is laid bare the soul of
the Wagnerian tenor, Gerardo, whose one week visit to a certain city
results in both comedy and tragedy. He has concluded a brilliantly
successful Gastspiel, singing