oblivion into which it had fallen, and replaced it in the series of his
writings. This is enough to indicate to us that he regarded it as of
relative importance, and imperfect as it is, and unlike his later plays,
it demands some critical examination. I not know whether any one ever
happened to ask Ibsen whether he had been aware that Alexandre Dumas
produced in Paris a five-act drama of _Catiline_ at the very moment
(October, 1848) when Ibsen started the composition of his. It is quite
possible that the young Norwegian saw this fact noted in a newspaper,
and immediately determined to try what he could make of the same
subject. In Dumas' play Catiline is presented merely as a demagogue; he
is the red Flag personified, and the political situation in France is
discussed under a slight veil of Roman history. Catiline is simply a
sort of Robespierre brought up to date. There is no trace of all this in
Ibsen.

Oddly enough, though the paradox is easily explained, we find much more
similarity when we compare the Norwegian drama with that tragedy of
_Catiline_ which Ben Jonson published in 1611. Needless to state, Ibsen
had never read the old English play; it would be safe to lay a wager
that, when he died, Ibsen had never heard or seen the name of Ben
Jonson. Yet there is an odd sort of resemblance, founded on the fact
that each poet keeps very close to the incidents recorded by the Latins.
Neither of them takes Sallust's presentment of the character of Catiline
as if it were gospel, but, while holding exact touch with the narrative,
each contrives to add a native grandeur to the character of the arch-
conspirator, such as his original detractors denied him. In both poems,
Ben Jonson's and Ibsen's, Catiline is--

Armed with a glory high as his despair.