We are sentenced to stop and gaze long upon this array of printing in the darkness, just at the moment the tenth wave of glory seems ready to sweep in.

But one hundred words cannot be a photoplay climax.

The climax must be in a tableau that is to the eye as the rising sun itself, that follows the thousand flags of the dawn.
In the New York performance, and presumably in other large cities, there was also an orchestra.

Behold then, one layer of great photoplay, one layer of bad melodrama, one layer of explanation, and a final cement of music.

It is as though in an art museum there should be a man at the door selling would-be masterly short-stories about the paintings, and a man with a violin playing the catalogue.