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</head>
<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 63809 ***</div>
<div class="frontmatter chapter">
<h1 class="title">
<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>
</h1>
<p class="subt">
<em>Literature Drama Music Art</em>
</p>
<p class="ed">
<span class="line1">MARGARET C. ANDERSON</span><br />
<span class="line2">EDITOR</span>
</p>
<p class="issue">
JUNE, 1914
</p>
<div class="table">
<table class="tocn" summary="TOC">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#INCENSE_AND_SPLENDOR">“Incense and Splendor”</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>The Editor</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#A_KALEIDOSCOPE">A Kaleidoscope</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Nicholas Vachel Lindsay</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#FUTURISM_AND_PSEUDO-FUTURISM">Futurism and Pseudo-Futurism</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Alexander S. Kaun</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#A_WONDER-CHILD_VIOLINIST">A Wonder-Child Violinist</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Margaret C. Anderson</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#THE_NEW_PAGANISM">The New Paganism</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>DeWitt C. Wing</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#GLORIA_MUNDI">Gloria Mundi</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Eunice Tietjens</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#THE_WILL_TO_LIVE">The Will to Live</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>George Burman Foster</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#KEATS_AND_FANNY_BRAWNE">Keats and Fanny Brawne</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Charlotte Wilson</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#A_NEW_WOMAN_FROM_DENMARK">A New Woman from Denmark</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Marguerite Swawite</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#EDITORIALS">Editorials</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#NEW_YORK_LETTER">New York Letter</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>George Soule</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#CORRESPONDENCE">Correspondence:</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#MISS_COLUMBIA_AN_OLD-FASHIONED_GIRL">Miss Columbia: An Old-Fashioned Girl</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#POETRY_TO_THE_UTTERMOST">Poetry to the Uttermost</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#REFLECTIONS_OF_A_DILETTANTE">Reflections of a Dilettante</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#THE_IMMORTALITY_OF_THE_SOUL">The Immortality of the Soul</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#BOOK_DISCUSSION">Book Discussion:</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#DOSTOEVSKYPESSIMIST">Dostoevsky—Pessimist?</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#THE_SALVATION_OF_THE_WORLD_Y_LA_WELLS">The Salvation of the World à la Wells</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#THE_UNIQUE_JAMES_FAMILY">The Unique James Family</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#THE_IMMIGRANTS_PURSUIT_OF_HAPPINESS">The Immigrant’s Pursuit of Happiness</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#DE_MORGANS_LATEST">De Morgan’s Latest</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</div>
<div class="table">
<div class="footer">
<p class="pricel">
25 cents a copy
</p>
<p class="pub">
MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher<br />
Fine Arts Building<br />
CHICAGO
</p>
<p class="pricer">
$2.50 a year
</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="frontmatter chapter">
<p class="tit">
<a id="page-1" class="pagenum" title="1"></a>
<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>
</p>
<div class="table">
<div class="issue">
<p class="vol">
Vol. I
</p>
<p class="issue">
JUNE, 1914
</p>
<p class="number">
No. 4
</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="cop">
Copyright, 1914, by Margaret C. Anderson.
</p>
</div>
<h2 class="article1" id="INCENSE_AND_SPLENDOR">
“Incense and Splendor”
</h2>
<p class="aut">
<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span>
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">A</span> young American novelist stated
the other day that the American
woman is oversexed; that present-day
modes of dress are all designed to emphasize
sex; and that it is high time
for a reaction against sex discussions, sex
stories, and sex plays.
</p>
<p>
But I think she’s entirely mistaken.
The American woman, speaking broadly,
is pathetically undersexed, just as she is
undersensitive and underintelligent. The
last adjective will be disputed or resented;
but it’s interesting once in a
while to hear the thoughtful foreigner’s
opinion of our intelligence. Tagore,
for instance, said that he was agreeably
surprised in regard to the American
man and astonished at the stupidity of
the American woman. As for our fiction
and drama—we’ve had much about sex
in the last few years, some of it intensely
valuable, much of it intensely foolish;
but it’s quite too early to predict the
reaction. The really constructive work
on the subject is yet to be done.
</p>
<p>
And the pity of the whole thing is that
the critics who keep lecturing us on our
oversexedness don’t realize that what
they’re really trying to get at is our
poverty of spirit, our emotional incapacities,
our vanities, our pettinesses—any
number of qualities which spring
from anything but too much sex. Nothing
is safer than to say that the man or
woman of strong sex equipment is rarely
vain or petty or mean or unintelligent.
But as a result of all this vague bickering,
“sex” continues to shoulder the
blame for all kinds of shortcomings, and
the real root of the trouble goes untreated—even
undiagnosed. One thing
is certain: until we become conscious
that there’s something very wrong with
our attitude toward sex, we’ll never get
rid of the hard, tight, anæmic, metallic
woman who flourishes in America as nowhere
else in the world.
</p>
<p>
This doesn’t mean the old Puritan
type, to whom sex was a rotten, unmentionable
thing; nor does it mean the
Victorian, who recognizes the sex impulse
only as a means to an end. They
belong to the past too definitely to be
harmful. It means two newer types than
these: the woman who looks upon sex as
something to be endured and forgiven,
and the woman who doesn’t feel at all.
</p>
<p>
The first type has a great (and by no
means a secret) pride in her spiritual
superiority to the coarse creature she
married, and a never-dying hope that she
can lead him up to her level. She talks
a lot about spirituality; she has her
standards, and she knows how to classify
what she calls “sensuality”; she’s convinced
that she has married the best man
in the world, but—well, all men have
this failing in common, and the only
<a id="page-2" class="pagenum" title="2"></a>
thing one can do is to rise above it magnificently,
with that air of spiritual isolation
which is her most effective weapon.
Shaw has hit her off on occasion, but he
ought to devote a whole three acts to her
undoing; or perhaps an Ibsen would do
it better, because tragedy follows her
path like some sinister shadow, as inevitably
as those other “ghosts” of his. The
second type has no more capacity for
love or sex than she has for music or
poetry—which is none at all. Like a
polished glass vase, empty and beautiful,
she lures the man who loves her to a kind
of supreme nothingness. She will always
tell you that marriage is “wonderful”;
and she urges all her friends to
marry as quickly as possible, for that’s
the only way to be perfectly happy.
Marriage is “wonderful” to her just as
birth is “wonderful” in Charlotte Perkins
Gilman’s satire:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Birth comes. Birth—</p>
<p class="verse">The breathing re-creation of the earth!</p>
<p class="verse">All earth, all sky, all God, life’s sweet deep whole,</p>
<p class="verse">Newborn again to each new soul!</p>
<p class="verse">“Oh, are you? What a shame! Too bad, my dear!</p>
<p class="verse">How will you stand it, too. It’s very queer</p>
<p class="verse">The dreadful trials women have to carry;</p>
<p class="verse">But you can’t always help it when you marry.</p>
<p class="verse">Oh, what a sweet layette! What lovely socks!</p>
<p class="verse">What an exquisite puff and powder box!</p>
<p class="verse">Who is your doctor? Yes, his skill’s immense—</p>
<p class="verse">But it’s a dreadful danger and expense!”</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
It’s all a powder-puff matter: marriage
means new clothes, gifts, and a
house to play with. It gives her another
chance to get something for nothing—which
is immoral. But the beauty of
the situation is that the immorality
(thanks to our habits of not thinking
straight) is so perfectly concealed: it
even appears that she is the one who
does the giving. As for any bother
about sex, she’ll soon put an end to that.
And so she goes on her pirate ways,
luring for the sake of the lure, adding
her voice to the already swelled chorus
which proclaims that truth and beauty
lodge in things as they are, not in things
as they might or should be.
</p>
<p>
But, to return to the novelist’s argument
about clothes, the present fashion
for low necks and slit skirts has nothing
to do with sex necessarily. Its origin is
in vanity—which may or may not have
a bearing upon sex. And of course it
usually hasn’t; for vanity is an attribute
of small natures, and sex is an attribute
of great ones.
</p>
<p>
There has never been a time when
women had such an opportunity to be
beautiful physically. And they are taking
advantage of it. Watch any modern
matinée or concert or shopping crowd
carefully. There’s something about the
new style that points to a finer naturalness,
just as it is more natural for men
to wear clothes that follow the lines of
their bodies than to pad their shoulders
and use twice too much cloth in
their trouser legs. The move of muscles
through a close-fitting suit gives an
effect of strength and efficiency and animal
grace that is superbly healthy. And
it is so with women, too. With the
exception of the foolish and unnecessary
restrictions in walking women have such
a splendid chance to look straight, unhampered,
direct, lithe. I don’t know
just why, but I want to use the word
“true” about the new clothes. They’re
so much less dishonest than the old
padded ways—the strange, perverted,
<em>muffled</em> methods. The old plan was
built on the theory that the suppression
of nature is civilization; the new plan
seems to be that a recognition of nature is
common sense. We may become Greek
yet. By all of which I’ll probably be
credited with supporting the silly indecencies
<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a>
we see every day on the street—ridiculous,
unintelligent manifestations
of the new freedom—instead of merely
seeing in its wise expression a bigger
hope of truth. I think the preachers
who are filling the newspapers with hysterical
protests about women’s dress had
better look a little more closely at the
real issue and stop confusing a fine impulse
with its inevitable abuses.
</p>
<p>
But after all there’s only one important
thing to be said about sex in its
relation to a full life. Some day we’re
going to have a tremendous revaluation
of the thing known as feeling. We’re
going to realize that the only person who
doesn’t <em>err in relation to values</em> is the
artist; and since the bigger part of the
artist’s equipment is simply the capacity
to <em>feel</em>, we’re going to begin training a
race of men toward a new ideal. It shall
be this: that nothing shall qualify as
fundamentally “immoral” except denial—the
failure of imagination, of understanding,
of appreciation, of quickening
to beauty in every form, of perceiving
beauty where custom or convention has
dwarfed its original stature; the failure
to put one’s self in the other person’s
place; the great, ghastly failure of life
which allows one to look but not to see,
to listen but not to hear—to touch but
not to feel.
</p>
<p>
The other night I heard Schumann’s
<em>Des Abends</em>—that summer-night elegy
of a thousand, thousand cadences—played
near a place where trees were
stirring softly and grass smelling warm
and cool; some one said afterward that
it was pretty.... The other day I
heard a violin played so throbbingly that
it was like “what the sea has striven to
say”; and through it all a group of
people talked, as though no miracle were
happening. Not very long after these
two —— (I can’t find a noun), I talked
with some one who tried to convince me
that the biggest and most valiant person
I know was—“well, not the sort one can
afford to be friends with.” Somehow all
three episodes immediately linked themselves
together in my mind. Each was
a failure of the same type—a failure of
imagination, of feeling; the last one, at
least, was tragedy; and it will become
impossible for people to fail that way
only when they stop failing in the first
two ways.
</p>
<p>
Not long ago I went into a music
store and bought Tschaikowsky’s <em>Les
Larmes</em>. It cost twenty-eight cents. I
walked out so under the spell of the immense
adventure of living that I realized
later how imbecile I must have looked and
why the clerk gazed at me so suspiciously.
But I had a song which had
cost a man who knows what sorrow to
write—a thing of such richness that it
meant <em>experience</em> to any one who could
own it. One of the world’s big things
for twenty-eight cents! And such things
happen every day!
</p>
<p>
Sex is simply the quintessence of this
type of feeling, plus a deeper thing for
which no words have been made. But we
reach the wonder of the utmost realization
in just one way: by having felt
greatly at every step.
</p>
<p>
“American artists know everything,”
said a young foreign sculptor lately;
“they know that much” (throwing out
his arms wide), “but they only feel <em>that</em>
much!” (measuring an inch with his
fingers). How can we produce the great
audiences that Whitman knew we needed
in order to have great poets, if we don’t
train the new generations to feel? How
can we prevent these crimes against love
and sex—how put a stop to human
waste in all its hideous forms—if we
don’t recognize the new idealism which
means not to deny?
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="A_KALEIDOSCOPE">
<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a>
A Kaleidoscope
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
<span class="smallcaps">Nicholas Vachel Lindsay</span>
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="BLANCHE_SWEETMOVING-PICTURE_ACTRESS">
Blanche Sweet—Moving-Picture Actress
</h3>
<p class="subt">
[After seeing the reel called <em>Oil and Water</em>.]
</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Beauty has a throne-room</p>
<p class="verse">In our humorous town,</p>
<p class="verse">Spoiling its hobgoblins,</p>
<p class="verse">Laughing shadows down.</p>
<p class="verse">Dour musicians torture</p>
<p class="verse">Rag-time ballads vile,</p>
<p class="verse">But we walk serenely</p>
<p class="verse">Down the odorous aisle.</p>
<p class="verse">We forgive the squalor,</p>
<p class="verse">And the boom and squeal,</p>
<p class="verse">For the Great Queen flashes</p>
<p class="verse">From the moving reel.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Just a prim blonde stranger</p>
<p class="verse">In her early day,</p>
<p class="verse">Hiding brilliant weapons,</p>
<p class="verse">Too averse to play;</p>
<p class="verse">Then she burst upon us</p>
<p class="verse">Dancing through the night,</p>
<p class="verse">Oh, her maiden radiance,</p>
<p class="verse">Veils and roses white!</p>
<p class="verse">With new powers, yet cautious,</p>
<p class="verse">Not too smart or skilled,</p>
<p class="verse">That first flash of dancing</p>
<p class="verse">Wrought the thing she willed:—</p>
<p class="verse">Mobs of us made noble</p>
<p class="verse">By her strong desire,</p>
<p class="verse">By her white, uplifting</p>
<p class="verse">Royal romance-fire.</p>
<p class="verse">Though the tin piano</p>
<p class="verse">Snarls its tango rude,</p>
<p class="verse">Though the chairs are shaky</p>
<p class="verse">And the drama’s crude,</p>
<p class="verse">Solemn are her motions,</p>
<p class="verse">Stately are her wiles,</p>
<p class="verse">Filling oafs with wisdom,</p>
<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a>
<p class="verse">Saving souls with smiles;</p>
<p class="verse">Mid the restless actors</p>
<p class="verse">She is rich and slow,</p>
<p class="verse">She will stand like marble,</p>
<p class="verse">She will pause and glow,</p>
<p class="verse">Though the film is twitching</p>
<p class="verse">Keep a peaceful reign,</p>
<p class="verse">Ruler of her passion,</p>
<p class="verse">Ruler of our pain!</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="GIRL_YOU_SHALL_MOCK_NO_LONGER">
Girl, You Shall Mock No Longer
</h3>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">You shall not hide forever,</p>
<p class="verse">I shall your path discern;</p>
<p class="verse">I have the key to Heaven,</p>
<p class="verse">Key to the pits that burn.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Saved ones will help me, lost ones</p>
<p class="verse">Spy on your secret way—</p>
<p class="verse">Show me your flying footprints</p>
<p class="verse">On past your death-bed day.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">If by your pride you stumble</p>
<p class="verse">Down to the demon-land,</p>
<p class="verse">I shall be there beside you,</p>
<p class="verse">Chained to your burning hand.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">If, by your choice and pleasure,</p>
<p class="verse">You shall ascend the sky,</p>
<p class="verse">I, too, will mount that stairway,</p>
<p class="verse">You shall not put me by.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">There, ’mid the holy people,</p>
<p class="verse">Healed of your blasting scorn,</p>
<p class="verse">Clasped in these arms that hunger,</p>
<p class="verse">Splendid with dreams reborn,</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">You shall be mastered, lady,</p>
<p class="verse">Knowing, at last, Desire—</p>
<p class="verse">Lifting your face for kisses—</p>
<p class="verse">Kisses of bitter fire.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="THE_AMARANTH">
<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a>
The Amaranth
</h3>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here ...</p>
<p class="verse">Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns</p>
<p class="verse">And the tremendous amaranth descends</p>
<p class="verse">Sweet with glory of ten thousand dawns?</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Does it not mean my God would have me say:—</p>
<p class="verse">“Whether you will or no, oh city young</p>
<p class="verse">Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you,</p>
<p class="verse">Flash and loom greatly, all your marts among?”</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Friends I will not cease hoping, though you weep.</p>
<p class="verse">Such things I see, and some of them shall come</p>
<p class="verse">Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-grey,</p>
<p class="verse">Though now our youths are strident, or are dumb.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town shall rise.</p>
<p class="verse">Naught can delay it. Though it may not be</p>
<p class="verse">Just as I dream, it comes at last, I know</p>
<p class="verse"><em>With streets like channels of an incense-sea</em>!</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="AN_ARGUMENT">
An Argument
</h3>
<h4 class="subsection" id="I._THE_VOICE_OF_THE_MAN_WHO_IS_IMPATIENT_WITH_VISIONS_AND_UTOPIAS.">
I. <em>The voice of the man who is impatient with visions and
Utopias.</em>
</h4>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">We find your soft Utopias as white</p>
<p class="verse">As new-cut bread, as dull as life in cells,</p>
<p class="verse">Oh scribes that dare forget how wild we are,</p>
<p class="verse">How human breasts adore alarum bells.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">You house us in a hive of prigs and saints</p>
<p class="verse">Communal, frugal, clean, and chaste by law.</p>
<p class="verse">I’d rather brood in bloody Elsinore</p>
<p class="verse">Or be Lear’s fool, straw-crowned amid the straw.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Promise us all our share in Agincourt.</p>
<p class="verse">Say that our clerks shall venture scorns and death.</p>
<p class="verse">That future ant-hills will not be too good</p>
<p class="verse">For Henry Fifth, or Hotspur, or Macbeth.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a>
<p class="verse">Promise that through tomorrow’s spirit-war</p>
<p class="verse">Man’s deathless soul will hack and hew its way,</p>
<p class="verse">Each flaunting Cæsar climbing to his fate</p>
<p class="verse">Scorning the utmost steps of yesterday.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">And never a shallow jester any more.</p>
<p class="verse">Let not Jack Falstaff spill the ale in vain.</p>
<p class="verse">Let Touchstone set the fashions for the wise,</p>
<p class="verse">And Ariel wreak his fancies through the rain!</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h4 class="subsection" id="II._THE_RHYMERS_REPLY._INCENSE_AND_SPLENDOR.">
II. <em>The Rhymer’s reply. Incense and Splendor.</em>
</h4>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Incense and splendor haunt me as I go.</p>
<p class="verse">Though my good works have been, alas, too few,</p>
<p class="verse">Though I do naught, High Heaven comes down to me</p>
<p class="verse">And future ages pass in tall review.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I see the years to come as armies vast,</p>
<p class="verse">Stalking tremendous through the fields of time.</p>
<p class="verse">Man is unborn. Tomorrow he is born</p>
<p class="verse">Flamelike to hover o’er the moil and grime;</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Striving, aspiring till the shame is gone,</p>
<p class="verse">Sowing a million flowers where now we mourn—</p>
<p class="verse">Laying new precious pavements with a song,</p>
<p class="verse">Founding new shrines, the good streets to adorn.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I have seen lovers by those new-built walls</p>
<p class="verse">Clothed like the dawn, in orange, gold, and red;</p>
<p class="verse">Eyes flashing forth the glory-light of love</p>
<p class="verse">Under the wreaths that crowned each royal head.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Life was made greater by their sweetheart prayers;</p>
<p class="verse">Passion was turned to civic strength that day—</p>
<p class="verse">Piling the marbles, making fairer domes</p>
<p class="verse">With zeal that else had burned bright youth away.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I have seen priestesses of life go by</p>
<p class="verse">Gliding in Samite through the incense-sea:—</p>
<p class="verse">Innocent children marching with them there,</p>
<p class="verse">Singing in flowered robes—“the Earth is free!”</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a>
<p class="verse">While on the fair deep-carved, unfinished towers</p>
<p class="verse">Sentinels watched in armor night and day—</p>
<p class="verse">Guarding the brazier-fires of hope and dream—</p>
<p class="verse">Wild was their peace, and dawn-bright their array!</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="DARLING_DAUGHTER_OF_BABYLON">
Darling Daughter of Babylon
</h3>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Too soon you wearied of our tears.</p>
<p class="verse">And then you danced with spangled feet,</p>
<p class="verse">Leading Belshazzar’s chattering court</p>
<p class="verse">A-tinkling through the shadowy street.</p>
<p class="verse">With mead they came, with chants of shame,</p>
<p class="verse">Desire’s red flag before them flew.</p>
<p class="verse">And Istar’s music moved your mouth</p>
<p class="verse">And Baal’s deep shames rewoke in you.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Now you could drive the royal car:</p>
<p class="verse">Forget our Nation’s breaking load:—</p>
<p class="verse">Now you could sleep on silver beds—</p>
<p class="verse">(Bitter and dark was our abode).</p>
<p class="verse">And so for many a night you laughed</p>
<p class="verse">And knew not of my hopeless prayer,</p>
<p class="verse">Till God’s own spirit whipped you forth</p>
<p class="verse">From Istar’s shrine, from Istar’s stair.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Darling daughter of Babylon—</p>
<p class="verse">Rose by the black Euphrates flood—</p>
<p class="verse">Again your beauty grew more dear</p>
<p class="verse">Than my slave’s bread, than my heart’s blood.</p>
<p class="verse">We sang of Zion, good to know,</p>
<p class="verse">Where righteousness and peace abide ...</p>
<p class="verse">What of your second sacrilege</p>
<p class="verse">Carousing at Belshazzar’s side?</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Once, by a stream, we clasped tired hands—</p>
<p class="verse">Your paint and henna washed away.</p>
<p class="verse">Your place (you said) was with the slaves</p>
<p class="verse">Who sewed the thick cloth, night and day.</p>
<p class="verse">You were a pale and holy maid</p>
<p class="verse">Toil-bound with us. One night you said:—</p>
<p class="verse">“Your God shall be my God until</p>
<p class="verse">I slumber with the patriarch dead.”</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a>
<p class="verse">Pardon, daughter of Babylon,</p>
<p class="verse">If, on this night remembering</p>
<p class="verse">Our lover walks under the walls</p>
<p class="verse">Of hanging gardens in the spring—</p>
<p class="verse">A venom comes, from broken hope—</p>
<p class="verse">From memories of your comrade-song,</p>
<p class="verse">Until I curse your painted eyes</p>
<p class="verse">And do your flower-mouth too much wrong.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="I_WENT_DOWN_INTO_THE_DESERT">
I Went Down Into the Desert
</h3>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I went down into the desert</p>
<p class="verse">To meet Elijah—</p>
<p class="verse">Or some one like, arisen from the dead.</p>
<p class="verse">I thought to find him in an echoing cave,</p>
<p class="verse"><em>For so my dream had said</em>.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I went down into the desert</p>
<p class="verse">To meet John the Baptist.</p>
<p class="verse">I walked with feet that bled,</p>
<p class="verse">Seeking that prophet, lean and brown and bold.</p>
<p class="verse"><em>I spied foul fiends instead.</em></p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I went down into the desert</p>
<p class="verse">To meet my God,</p>
<p class="verse">By Him be comforted.</p>
<p class="verse">I went down into the desert</p>
<p class="verse">To meet my God</p>
<p class="verse"><em>And I met the Devil in Red</em>.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I went down into the desert</p>
<p class="verse">To meet my God.</p>
<p class="verse">Oh Lord, my God, awaken from the dead!</p>
<p class="verse">I see you there, your thorn-crown on the ground—</p>
<p class="verse">I see you there, half-buried in the sand—</p>
<p class="verse">I see you there, your white bones glistening, bare,</p>
<p class="verse"><em>The carrion birds a-wheeling round your head</em>!</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="ENCOUNTERED_ON_THE_STREETS_OF_THE_CITY">
<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a>
Encountered on the Streets of the City
</h3>
<p class="subt">
<span class="smallcaps">The Church of Vision and Dream</span>
</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Is it for naught that where the tired crowds see</p>
<p class="verse">Only a place for trade, a teeming square,</p>
<p class="verse">Doors of high portent open unto me</p>
<p class="verse">Carved with great eagles, and with Hawthorns rare?</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Doors I proclaim, for there are rooms forgot</p>
<p class="verse">Ripened through æons by the good and wise:</p>
<p class="verse">Walls set with Art’s own pearl and amethyst</p>
<p class="verse">Angel-wrought hangings there, and heaven-hued dyes:—</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Dazzling the eye of faith, the hope-filled heart:—</p>
<p class="verse">Rooms rich in records of old deeds sublime:</p>
<p class="verse">Books that hold garnered harvests of far lands</p>
<p class="verse">Pictures that tableau Man’s triumphant climb:</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Statues so white, so counterfeiting life,</p>
<p class="verse">Bronze so ennobled, so with glory fraught</p>
<p class="verse">That the tired eyes must weep with joy to see,</p>
<p class="verse">And the tired mind in Beauty’s net be caught.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Come, enter there, and meet Tomorrow’s Man,</p>
<p class="verse">Communing with him softly, day by day.</p>
<p class="verse">Ah, the deep vistas he reveals, the dream</p>
<p class="verse">Of Angel-bands in infinite array—</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Bright angel-bands that dance in paths of earth</p>
<p class="verse">When our despairs are gone, long overpast—</p>
<p class="verse">When men and maidens give fair hearts to Christ</p>
<p class="verse">And white streets flame in righteous peace at last!</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="THE_STUBBORN_MOUSE">
The Stubborn Mouse
</h3>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down</p>
<p class="verse">Began his task in early life,</p>
<p class="verse">He kept so busy with his teeth</p>
<p class="verse">He had no time to take a wife.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a>
<p class="verse">He gnawed and gnawed through sun and rain,</p>
<p class="verse">When the ambitious fit was on,</p>
<p class="verse">Then rested in the sawdust till</p>
<p class="verse">A month in idleness had gone.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">He did not move about to hunt</p>
<p class="verse">The coteries of mousie-men;</p>
<p class="verse">He was a snail-paced stupid thing</p>
<p class="verse">Until he cared to gnaw again.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down</p>
<p class="verse">When that tough foe was at his feet—</p>
<p class="verse">Found in the stump no angel-cake</p>
<p class="verse">Nor buttered bread, no cheese, nor meat—</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">The forest-roof let in the sky.</p>
<p class="verse">“This light is worth the work,” said he.</p>
<p class="verse">“I’ll make this ancient swamp more light”—</p>
<p class="verse"><em>And started on another tree</em>!</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="THE_SWORD-PEN_OF_THE_RHYMER">
The Sword-Pen of the Rhymer
</h3>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I’ll haunt this town, though gone the maids and men</p>
<p class="verse">The darling few, my friends and loves today.</p>
<p class="verse">My ghost returns, bearing a great sword-pen</p>
<p class="verse">When far off children of their children play.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">That pen will drip with moonlight and with fire;</p>
<p class="verse">I’ll write upon the church-doors and the walls;</p>
<p class="verse">And reading there, young hearts shall leap the higher</p>
<p class="verse">Though drunk already with their own love-calls.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Still led of love, and arm in arm, strange gold</p>
<p class="verse">Shall find in tracing the far-speeding track</p>
<p class="verse">The dauntless war-cries that my sword-pen bold</p>
<p class="verse">Shall carve on terraces and tree-trunks black—</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">On tree-trunks black, ’mid orchard-blossoms white—</p>
<p class="verse">Just as the phospherent merman, struggling home,</p>
<p class="verse">Jewels his fire-paths in the tides at night</p>
<p class="verse">While hurrying sea-babes follow through the foam.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a>
<p class="verse">And, in the winter, when the leaves are dead</p>
<p class="verse">And the first snow has carpeted the street,</p>
<p class="verse">While young cheeks flush a healthful Christmas red,</p>
<p class="verse">And young eyes glisten with youth’s fervor sweet—</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">My pen will cut in snow my hopes of yore,</p>
<p class="verse">Cries that in channelled glory leap and shine—</p>
<p class="verse">My village gospel—living evermore</p>
<p class="verse">’Mid those rejoicing loyal friends of mine.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="FUTURISM_AND_PSEUDO-FUTURISM">
Futurism and Pseudo-Futurism
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
<span class="smallcaps">Alexander S. Kaun</span>
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">hat</span> Futurism is not a mere fad, a
capricious bubble, is apparent from
the fact that after five years of stormy
existence the movement does not disappear
or abate, but, on the contrary, continually
gains soil and spreads deep and
wide over all fields of European art.
The critics of the new school no longer
find it possible to dismiss it with a contemptuous
smile as a silly joke of over-satiated
modernists, but they either attack
the Futurists with the vehemence
and fury of a losing combatant, or
they discuss the doctrine earnestly and
apprehensively.
</p>
<p>
To set art free of the atavistic fetters
of the old culture and civilization, to imbue
it with the nervous sensitiveness of
our age, have been the negative and positive
aims of Futurism. It is absurd to
abide by the forms of Phydias and
Æschylus in the days of radium and
aeroplanes. The influence of the old
masterpieces is accountable for the fact
that of late humanity ceased to produce
great works of art. It is quite natural
that the protest against the “historical
burden” should have originated in Italy,
a country which, after having served for
centuries as a pillar of light, has so degenerated
that in our times it can boast
only of such names as the saccharine
Verdi and the pretentious D’Annunzio.
It is natural, I should like to add, that in
this country Futurism is still a foreign
plant; for, fortunately or unfortunately,
we have been free of a burdensome heritage,
and an iconoclastic movement would
appear quixotic.
</p>
<p>
Started in Milan in the end of the
year 1909, the movement has swept the
continent and has revolutionized art.
Even conservative England feebly echoes
the battle-cry in the attempts of the
<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a>
Imagists. I do not intend to prognosticate
the future of Futurism; it is still in
its infantile stage, growing and developing
with surprising leaps, continually
taking on new forms; but the present-day
Futurism is abundant with quaint,
grotesque features approaching caricature;
and some of them merit a few
words.
</p>
<p>
The “parent” of Futurism and the
present leader of Futurist poets, Marinetti,
is, to say the least, an unusual personality.
His Boswell, Tullia Pantea,
describes his master’s life in its minutest
nuances and chants dithyrambs to his
wonderful achievements. We learn that
Marinetti was born in Egypt in voluptuous
surroundings, his father being a
millionaire. From his childhood on he
disposed of unlimited sums of money.
“At the age of eleven he knew a woman;
at fifteen he edited a literary magazine,
<em>Papyrus</em>, printed on vellum paper; at
seventeen he fought a duel.” We follow
this <em>enfant terrible</em> to Paris where he lavishly
squanders his millions, fights duels,
and faces the court for his pornographic
poems. He is sentenced to an eight
weeks’ imprisonment for an exotic work
which I shall not venture to quote, as it
is too repulsive to the English reader.
Pantea further describes his master’s
kingly palazzo in Milan, where “... at
night in the bed-chamber decorated with
astonishing elegance and with mad
extravagance meet the most beautiful
women of Italy and Europe.”
</p>
<p>
I quote these nauseatic details, for they
help to explain the erotic aroma of Marinetti’s
poems. Their erotism is morbid,
aroused by artificial “convulsions of
sensuality,” “imitation of madness,” “a
cancan of dancing Death.” Yet we cannot
overlook the beauty of the verses,
their devilish rhythm, and enchanting
mysticism. Some of his early poems,
more natural than his latest <em>Words at
Liberty</em>, are intoxicating with their mad
exoticism.
</p>
<p>
The following is one of his best-known
poems, <em>The Banjos of Despair</em>:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Elles chantent, les benjohs hystériques et sauvages,</p>
<p class="verse">comme des chattes énervées par l’odeur de l’orage.</p>
<p class="verse">Ce sont des nègres qui les tiennent</p>
<p class="verse">empoignées violemment, comme on tient</p>
<p class="verse">une amarre que secoue la bourrasque.</p>
<p class="verse">Elles miaulent, les benjohs, sous leurs doigts frénétiques,</p>
<p class="verse">et la mer, en bombant son dos d’hippopotame,</p>
<p class="verse">acclame leurs chansons par des flic-flacs sonores</p>
<p class="verse">et des renâclements.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
The hysteric and savage banjos that
meow like cats maddened by the odor of
the storm; the sea which, swelling its
back of a hippopotamus, applauds their
songs with its sonorous twick-twacks and
snorts—I understand the poet, I believe
him. But, as I said, this is Marinetti’s
early poetry. How far he has “progressed”
you may judge from the following
quotation from his latest <em>Words
at Liberty</em>, as it appears in <em>The London
Times</em>:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="table013">
<div class="centerpic">
<img src="images/table013.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<p class="u center">
INDIFFERENZA<br />
DI 2 ROTONDITA SOSPESE<br />
SOLE + PALLONE<br />
FRENATI
</p>
<div class="table">
<table class="table013" summary="Table-1">
<tbody>
<tr class="v">
<td class="col1"><div>flamme giganti</div></td>
<td class="col2"><div>colonne di fumo</div></td>
<td class="col3"><div>spirali di scintille</div></td>
</tr>
<tr class="c">
<td class="col1">villaggi</td>
<td class="col2">turchi</td>
<td class="col3">incendiati</td>
</tr>
<tr class="c">
<td class="col1" colspan="2">grande <span class="larget">T</span></td>
</tr>
<tr class="l">
<td class="col1" colspan="3">rrrrrzzzonzzzzzzante d’ue monoplano bulgaro<br />+ neve di manifesti.</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
This “poem” is a description of a battle
during the Turco-Bulgarian war; the
<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a>
style is supposed to be “polychromatic,
polymorphous, and polyphonic, that may
not only animalize, vegetalize, electrify,
and liquefy itself, but penetrate and express
the essence and the atomic life of
matter.” This is the <em>dernier cri</em> of Italian
Futurism which originated in a—draff-ditch.
Here is Marinetti’s own “electrified”
description of that memorable
event:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
As usual we spent the night in our favorite
café, which is attended by the most elegant
women. Some one suggested that we take an
automobile ride in the suburbs. We whirled
over the sleepy streets. Out of town. Deep
darkness.... Moment of falling. We are
hurled into an abyss. Ecstasy....
</p>
<p>
Then—we are on the bottom of a ditch filled
with malodorous dregs. We drown in the mud.
Mud covers the face, the body, mud blinds the
eyes, fills the mouth.
</p>
<p>
Finally we succeed in getting out of the filthy
ditch and we go back to the city. But....
</p>
<p>
For a certain time there remained with us
the taste of rottenness; we could not get rid
of the rotten odor that permeated all pores
of our bodies. In the moment of falling into
that ditch the idea of Futurism came into my
head. On the same night before dawn we wrote
the entire first manifesto on Futurism.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Thus the new art was born under peculiar
circumstances—“under the sign
of scandal”—and scandal became the
tactics of Italian Futurists who have professed
their “delight in being hissed”
and their contempt for applause.
</p>
<p>
A few points of that manifesto:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
We shall sing of the love of danger, the habit
of energy and boldness. Literature has hitherto
glorified thoughtful immobility, ecstasy of
sleep; we shall extol aggressive movement, feverish
insomnia, the double quick step, the somersault,
the box on the ear, the fisticuff.
</p>
<p>
There is no more beauty except in strife.
We wish to glorify war—the only purifier of
the world—militarism, patriotism, the destructive
gesture of the anarchist, the beauty of Ideas
that kill, the contempt for women.
</p>
<p>
We wish to destroy the museums, the libraries,
to fight against moralism and feminism, and
all opportunistic and utilitarian meannesses.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
This bombastic program has been heralded
by the Italian Futurists ever since
1909. Fortunately they went no further
than threats, but they strove to attract
attention and in this they gloriously
succeeded.
</p>
<p>
Their attitude toward women was
expressed in the motto: “<em>Méprisez la
femme</em>.” Love for woman is an atavism
and should be discarded into archives.
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
We chant hymns to the new beauty that has
come into the world in our days, a hymn to
<em>swiftness</em>, a doxology to <em>motion</em>.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Woman is justified in her existence inasmuch
as she is a prostitute. Sensuality
for the sake of sensuality is extolled as
the only stimulus in human life,—its
only aim. Otherwise human beings are
of no importance, at best as important
as inanimate objects.
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
The suffering of a man is of the same interest
to us as the suffering of an electric lamp,
which, with spasmodic starts, shrieks out the
most heart-rending expressions of color.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
These aphorisms belong to the pen of
Marinetti or to those of his disciples,
who are but pigmies in comparison with
their leader. They greeted the war with
Turkey in Tripolitania enthusiastically,
and Marinetti joyously witnessed the
splendor of “bayonets piercing human
bodies” and similar features of the great
“health-giver”—war. At that time he
began the cycle of his pictorial poems recently
published in the <em>Words at Liberty</em>.
Here is one of his early descriptions:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
A stream. A bridge. Plus artillery. Plus
infantry. Plus trenches. Plus cadavers. Dzang-bah-bakh.
Cannon. Kha-kh-kha. Mitrailleuse.
Tr-r-r. Sh-sh-sh-sh. S-s-s-s-s-s. Bullets. Chill.
Blood. Smoke.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a>
To complete the character of Marinetti
I shall quote his article in <em>The London
Daily Mail</em> in which he states his
“profound disgust for the contemporary
stage because it stupidly fluctuates
between historic reconstruction (pasticcio
or plagiarism) and a minute, wearying,
photographic reproduction of actuality.”
</p>
<p>
His ideal is the smoking concert, circus,
cabaret, and night-club as “the only
theatrical entertainment worthy of the
true Futurist spirit.” “The variety theater
is the only kind of theater where the
public does not remain static and stupidly
passive, but participates noisily in
action.” The variety show “brutally
strips woman of all her veils, of the romantic
phrases, sighs, and sobs which
mark and deform her. On the other
hand, it shows up all the most admirable
animal qualities of woman, her powers of
attack and of seduction, of treachery,
and of resistance.”
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
The variety theater is, of course, antiacademical,
primitive, and ingenuous, and therefore
all the more significant by reason of the unforeseen
nature of all its fumbling efforts....
The variety theater destroys all that is solemn,
sacred, earnest, and pure in Art—with a big
A. It collaborates with Futurism in the destruction
of the immortal masterpieces by plagiarizing
them, parodying them, and by retailing
them without style, apparatus, or pity.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
At this point I am ready to agree with
the Russian critic, A. Lunacharsky, who
thus defines Marinetti:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
He combines in his personality the exoticism
of an East-African with the cynical <em>blaguerie</em>
of a Parisian and the clownishness of a Neapolitan.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
In connection with the foregoing it is
curious to observe the pranks of Marinetti’s
colleagues in the land of eternal
contradictions—Russia. The Russian
Futurists, Ego-futurists, and Acmeists,
vie with the Italians in noisiness and eccentricity,
and they have aroused an extensive
pro and con polemic. In the last
issue of <em>Russkaja Mysl</em> there is an interesting
criticism of the Futurist poetry
written by Valery Brusov. This foremost
poet, known on the continent as the
Russian Verhaeren, began his literary career
some fifteen years ago with the one-line
“poem”: “Oh, conceal thy pallid
legs.” This extremist is now ranked by
the Futurists among the reactionaries.
Brusov is not hostile to Futurism, although
he opposes the contemporary
bearers of its banner. In a dialogue supposedly
carried on between a Symbolist
and a Futurist Brusov makes the latter
say:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
Tell me, what is poetry? The art of words,
is it not? In what else does it differ from
music, from painting? The poet is the artist
of words: they are for him what colors are for
the painter or marble for your sculptors. We
have determined to be artists of words, and
only of words, which means to fulfill the true
vocation of the poet. You, what have you done
with the word? You have transformed it into
a slave, into a hireling, to serve your so-called
ideas! You have debased the word to a
subservient rôle. All of you, the realists as
well as the symbolists, have used words just as
the “Academicians” have used colors. Those
understood not that the essence of painting is
in the combination of colors and lines, and they
have strived to express through colors and lines
some meager ideas absolutely useless for commonly
known. You likewise have not understood
that the essence of poetry lies in the combination
of words, and you have mutilated them
by forcing them to express your thoughts borrowed
from the philosophers. The futurists are
the first to proclaim the true poetry, the free,
the real freedom of words.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
And so, since words have become enslaved
and carry, unfortunately, within
them the ballast of established notions
and conceptions, the Futurists experiment
in liberating the words of their accepted
meanings by creating new words,
weird combinations of syllables, skilful
<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a>
arrangements of sounds which defy translation.
For the benefit of that part of
mankind which does not understand Russian
the Futurists invented a “universal
tongue” which consists exclusively of
single vowels. Here is a specimen under
the title <em>Heights</em>. I give the original letters
and their English transliteration.
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="table">
<table class="table016" summary="Table-1">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td class="col1">е у ю</td>
<td class="col2">—</td>
<td class="col3">yeh oo you</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1">и а о</td>
<td class="col2">—</td>
<td class="col3">ee ah oh</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1">о а</td>
<td class="col2">—</td>
<td class="col3">oh ah</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1">о а е е и е я</td>
<td class="col2">—</td>
<td class="col3">oh ah yeh yeh ee yeh yah</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1">о а</td>
<td class="col2">—</td>
<td class="col3">oh ah</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1">е у и е у</td>
<td class="col2">—</td>
<td class="col3">yeh oo ee yeh oo</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1">и е е</td>
<td class="col2">—</td>
<td class="col3">ee yeh yeh</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1">и и ы и е и и ы</td>
<td class="col2">—</td>
<td class="col3">ee ee ēh ee yeh ee ee ēh</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Do you feel the heights? The poet does,
however, and he proclaims in his defense:
“The more subjective is truth, the more
objective is the subjective objectivity.”
</p>
<p class="tb">
</p>
<p>
Brusov’s point of view is expressed in
the impassioned words of the historian of
literature who appears at the end of the
above-mentioned dialogue:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
In the new poetry, that is, in the poetry of
the last centuries, one observes a definite shifting
of two currents. One school puts forward
the primary importance of the <em>content</em>, the
other—that of <em>form</em>; later the same tendencies
are repeated in the two successive schools.
Pseudo-Classicism, as a school, placed above all
form not the “what” but the “how.” The
content they borrowed from the ancients and
then performed the task most important in their
eyes—the elaboration of that material. The
Romanticists, in contra-distinction to the
Pseudo-Classicists, insisted first of all on the
content. They admired the middle ages, their
yearning for an ideal, their religious aspirations.
<a id="misslin1"></a>Of course, the Romanticists contributed their
<a id="misslin2"></a>did this, so to speak, casually, while actually
they neglected the form of their verses; recall, if
you will, the frolics of Musset or the carelessness
of the poems of Novalis. The Parnassians once
more proclaimed the primariness of form. “Reproachless
verse” became their motto. It was
they who declared that in poetry not the
“what” was important, but the “how,” and
it was none other than Théophile Gautier who
invented the formula “art for the sake of
art.” The Symbolistic school again revived the
content. All this was in reality not so simple,
schematic, rectilineal, as I expressed it. To be
sure, all true poets have endeavored to bring
into harmony both content and form, but I
have in view the prevailing tendency of the
poetic school as a whole. If my point of view
is correct, then it is natural to expect that
there is to come a new school, replacing the
Symbolists, which will once more consider form
of primary importance. At the appearance
of a new school the doctrine of the old corresponding
school becomes more subtle, more
poignant, more extreme. The Parnassians
went further than their progenitors, the Pseudo-Classicists.
It is natural then to foresee that
the new coming school will in its cult of form
go further than the Parnassians. As such a
school, destined to take the place of Symbolism,
I consider Futurism. Its historic rôle is
to establish the absolute predominance of form
in poetry, and to repudiate any content in it.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
The weak point of Futurism appears
to be, as is the case with every revolutionary
movement, the fact that alongside
with the true fighters for new horizons
straggle parasitic marauders, that
on the heels of the sincere searchers of
artistic truth tread nonchalantly buffoons
and charlatans. The number of the latter
is so great that the true prophets
drown in the vast slough, and the public
sees but the caricature side of the movement.
Take for instance, the Post-Impressionist
and the Futurist painters.
Any unbiased and open-minded observer
will admit that many of them, like Odilon
Redon, Duchamp, Picasso, Chabaud,
even Matisse, have created works which,
whether you like them or not, possess the
sure criterion of art: they stir you,
arouse your thoughts and emotions. Yet
how easy it is to smuggle into their
midst colossal nonsense and counterfeit
can be judged from the following
episode:
</p>
<p>
<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a>
A group of young painters in Paris
decided to arouse public opinion against
the unrestricted accessibility of the Independent
Salon by proving that among
the exponents of the exhibition such an
“independent” artist as a donkey could
find a place. The editors of <em>Fantasio</em>
undertook to assist them in carrying out
their plan. A manifesto was issued of
which I quote a few pearls:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="addr017">
<span class="line1">To art-critics:</span><br />
<span class="line2">To painters:</span><br />
<span class="line3">To the public:</span>
</p>
<p>
A manifesto of the school of the Excessivists.
Hurrah! Brother-Excessivists, hurrah!
Masters splendid and renascent, we are on the
eve of various exhibitions of banal and stereotypical
paintings. Let us smash, then, the
palettes of our forefathers; let us set fire of
Joy to the pseudo-masterpieces, and let us establish
great canons destined to rule art henceforward.
</p>
<p>
The <a id="corr-4"></a>canon is contained in one word: <em>L’excessivisme</em>.
</p>
<p>
“Excess in everything is a defect,” once
said a certain ass. We proclaim the reverse:
excess at all times, in everything, is the absolute
power. The sun can never be too ardent,
the sky too blue, the sea-perspective too ruby,
darkness too black, as there can never be heroes
too valiant or flowers too fragrant.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Down with contours, down with half-tones,
down with craft! Instead—dazzling
and resplendent colors! And so
on. Bombastic phrases borrowed from
Marinetti and his colleagues. The
manifesto is signed Joachim Raphael
Boronali. Boronali is the anagram of
Aliboron—the French word for donkey.
The jesters later explained that they intended
by the euphony of an Italian
name “to arouse with more certainty the
admiration of the crowd.”
</p>
<p>
The next step was to procure the services
of Lolo, an old donkey well known
to the artists on Montmartre, as its stable
is at the cabaret Lapin Agile. The following
procedure is immortalized in an
official protocol, the most unique document
in the annals of art:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
Protocol (<em>Procès-verbal de constat</em>). On the
8th of March, before me, Paul Henri Brionne,
magistrate of the civil court of Paris, in my
office on <em>rue du Faubourg Montmartre</em>, 33, appeared
M. ——,<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-1" id="fnote-1">[1]</a> of the periodical <em>Fantasio</em>,
whose residence is in Paris, boulevard Poissonière,
14, and declared:
</p>
<p>
“Every year there takes place an exhibition
of various works of drawing, painting, and
sculpture under the name of the Salon of the
Independent Artists;
</p>
<p>
“This exhibition is open for all painters,
and unfortunately, alongside with productions
of high value there figure ridiculous works that
have no signs of art;
</p>
<p>
“In order to show to what extent any work
can be accepted in that exhibition, to the detriment
of the meritorious productions, he intends
to send there in the name of <em>Fantasio</em>, a
picture the author of which would be a donkey.
The picture will be entered in the catalogue
under the title <em>Et le soleil s’endormit sur
l’Adriatique</em>, and signed <em>J. R. Boronali</em>;
</p>
<p>
“For said reasons he asks me to be present
at the painting of said picture in order to witness
the process and draw an official report
about it.”
</p>
<p>
Having consented to the request, I went in
the company of Messrs. ——, the editors of
<em>Fantasio</em>, to the cabaret du Lapin Agile, where
in front of said establishment Messrs. ——
set up a new canvas on a chair that took the
place of an easel. In my presence they arranged
paints—blue, green, yellow, and red;
to the tail-extremity of the donkey, which belongs
to the owner of the cabaret Lapin Agile,
was tied a paint-brush.
</p>
<p>
Then the donkey was brought to the canvas,
and M. —— upholding the brush and the tail
of the beast allowed her to daub in all directions
taking care only of changing the paints
on the brush.
</p>
<p>
I assured myself that the picture presented
various tones passing from blue into green and
from yellow into red without constituting anything
definite and resembling nothing.
</p>
<p>
When the work had been finished, in my
presence the picture and author were photographed.
</p>
<p>
<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a>
In testimony of the aforesaid I have written
and issued this protocol for legal use.
</p>
<p class="sign">
<span class="smallcaps">P. Brionne.</span>
</p>
<hr class="footnote" />
<p class="footnote">
<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-1" id="footnote-1">[1]</a> The names were not revealed.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
From the photograph it may be seen
that the donkey had been teased with
some appetizing food held before his
mouth, to which tantalization the so-called
Boronali responded with the
wags of his “tail-extremity,” according
to the phraseology of the solemn document.
</p>
<p>
The picture then having been taken
to the Salon, Monsieur Boronali was
asked to pay his membership fee, and
thenceforward his name figured among
those of Matisse, Rousseau, Le Fauconnier,
and other great. To the astonishment
of the <em>Fantasio group</em>, their prank
remained unnoticed for some time; the
critics spoke of Boronali’s work along
with the other pictures, and the manifesto
of the Excessivists was but slightly commented
upon. In a series of sensational
articles and piquant stories <em>The Fantasio</em>
finally succeeded in drawing general attention
to their <em>chef d’oeuvre</em>. The Paris
press, as well as the foreign, opened a hot
discussion on the significance of Boronali’s
work in a serious tone. Only the
<em>Kölnische Zeitung</em> in a review of the
manifesto and the picture carefully remarked,
“If it is not a carnival joke”—referring
to the manifesto but not
doubting the authenticity of Boronali’s
canvas. True, the title of the picture
seemed mystifying: why <em>The Sun Asleep
over the Adriatic</em>, when there were neither
sun nor sea? <em>The Gazette de France</em>
ridiculed the title. <em>The New York Herald</em>,
endeavoring to justify the name of
the picture, suggested that the sun was
asleep <em>beneath</em> the Adriatic—an ingenious
hypothesis. <em>The Revue des Beaux-Arts</em>
gave a detailed and scholarly account
of the picture, but found in it
nothing extraordinary in comparison
with the other Independents. The hardest
blow to Boronali’s genius was dealt
by <em>De l’Art Ancien et Moderne</em>, which accused
him of being <em>banal</em>. “Among the
cosmopolite crowd, along with Messrs.
Ghéon, Klingsor, Jamet ... struts the
sheer banality of M. Boronali.”
</p>
<p>
The scandal that took place after the
mystificators had revealed their trick is
of secondary importance. What looms
out of this incident is the dangerously
vague line of demarcation between what
is true art and what is mere daubery in
Futurism.
</p>
<p>
The <em>Gaulois</em> summed up the affair in a
few significant words:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
The scholastics had maintained that “It is
much easier for the ass to disprove than it is
for the philosopher to assert.” But here came
an ass and proved something in spite of all the
philosophers of the world. He has proved—not
<em>a priori</em> but <em>a posteriori</em>—that the most
manifest daubery may pass as a picture in the
eyes of those who accept the non-real, the improbable,
and the absurd for new art.
</p>
</div>
<div class="filler">
<p class="noindent">
Thought uttered becomes an untruth.—<em>Thaddeus Tutchev.</em>
</p>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="A_WONDER-CHILD_VIOLINIST">
<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a>
A Wonder-Child Violinist
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span>
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> wonder-child is not so much a
“wonder” in Europe as in this
country. “At seven, yes—even up to
eleven, perhaps,” a young German violinist
who began to concertize at six once
told me. “But after that—there are
so many and they all play so <em>beautiful</em>!
So it is more common there and people
think not so much of it.” And she went
on to tell me, with the most wistful seriousness,
how at twelve she had felt suddenly
so oppressed with age and weariness
that for two years she had wanted
not to play at all. She described it as a
period when she wanted to “stop feeling
and run in the country all day and be
only with animals.”
</p>
<p>
But on the whole her theory seemed
to be that it was the simplest thing in
the world for a child to play well—better,
in some ways, than he will ever play
later on; and very likely it’s true. The
newer psychologists have given us
enough reason to think so.
</p>
<p>
It still comes with something of a
shock to us here, however; and when we
started for The Chicago Little Theatre
one night two weeks ago to hear Master
Ruby Davis, aged twelve, give a violin
recital, it was with the most excited anticipations.
I had never heard a child
play the violin. Surely disappointment
was inevitable....
</p>
<p>
A little boy walked quietly out on to
the stage, smiling. (I heard afterward
that some one had asked him if it didn’t
frighten him to face all those people.
“Oh, no,” he said, “I’m going to play
my violin!”) He had on a little soft
white shirt and knickerbockers. His
hair was almost auburn and curled away
from his forehead; his eyes were blue
and his skin the softest white. His
hands were the long, slender, “artistic”
type rather than the blunt, heavy type
which is quite as common among first-rate
violinists. “Antoine”—that was
all I could think.
</p>
<p>
And then he lifted his bow and swung
into the Haendel Sonata in A with all
the assurance of a master. It was only
a matter of seconds until you knew that
he could not disappoint—ever: he knew
how to feel! A musician may commit
all the crimes in the musical universe, or
he may play so flawlessly that you marvel;
but none of it matters particularly.
A phrase will tell you whether he is an
artist—the way the notes rise or fall
or seem to be gathered up into that subtle
thing which is the difference between
efficient Playing and Music by the grace
of God.
</p>
<p>
Ruby Davis makes Music. And how
he loved doing it! He played a <em>Canzonetta</em>
by Ambrosia, and the Jarnefelt
<em>Berceuse</em>, and other difficult things like
the Pugnani <em>Praeludium</em>, and that <em>Motto
Perpetuo</em> of Ries, beside the regulation
<em>Cavatina</em> and the Dvořák <em>Humoresque</em>—every
one of them, in spite of small
deficiencies that will be corrected, with
a quality that is genius. As nearly as
I can register it this is the picture of
him I shall remember:
</p>
<p>
A little slender, eager, swaying body,
and a great violin above which his face
seemed worshipping. His eyes turned
deep blue as flowers when he raised his
head for some lovely soaring tone or
dropped it on his instrument over some
deep G string melody. His mouth was
the saddest little mouth I’ve ever seen,
and somehow you could watch the music
coursing through his cheek bones. His
right foot kept moving gently inside his
shoe, always in perfect time.
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="THE_NEW_PAGANISM">
<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a>
The New Paganism
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
<span class="smallcaps">DeWitt C. Wing</span>
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">O</span><span class="postfirstchar">ne</span> of the momentous achievements
of applied science is the convincing
demonstration that the earth is a
living thing. It is as truly a live organism
as any of the animals of which it is
the mother. Life could not have been
evolved by or from it if there had not
been life in it. We do not require an
inexplicable miracle to account for the
evolution of man; we can trace his pedigree
back to an ancestry with fins and
gills, and of course it stretches far beyond
that comparatively recent stage in
his development. From the beginning
of the world conditions have steadily
grown more favorable to the habitation
of the earth by the higher animals.
Since man is a part of the earth, what
he himself has done to bring about this
auspicious change may be credited to the
mind or life resident in the earth. Then
there is essential goodness in the earth—which
is not saying that there is no
evil in it. The world is a better place
for a man to live in now than it was
when his ancestors occupied dismal caves.
It is no illusion that, design or no design,
the cosmic urge has been toward
goodness, by which I mean an increasingly
hospitable dwelling-place for men.
There have been recessions, and there
will be others, but, apart from faith and
hope, established facts compel the man
who understands them to declare his absolute
and unalterable certainty that the
inexorable law of life’s becoming greater
than it is cannot be nullified. So that,
regardless of all poverty and misery, of
all that is unlovely, of all the blind and
passionate class hatreds and sex quibbles,
the man who really thinks must
think hopefully. There is indeed the
most ample justification of optimism.
</p>
<p>
The world is God, and the man who
worships it the new pagan. He comes
off the same stock as the old pagans,
who were called heathens—because they
were not Christians. They were, in fact,
the classic earth-lovers, and, hence, more
truly the sons of God than the crusaders
who, directed by an anthropomorphic
Deity, tortured and killed them. The
new pagan, who not only feels, smells,
hears, and sees the earth, but comprehends
the established scientific facts
about it, finds a keener and larger delight
and satisfaction in it than his forefathers
could experience. He loves it
with his heart and his mind. Having
this attitude toward it, he wishes to serve
it, prompted by the same motive which
actuates him when he serves his immediate
father and mother.
</p>
<p>
Ruskin was sure that his beautiful
England was desecrated when steel rails
were laid across its green fields and factory
smoke contaminated the golden air;
he canonized the landscape, and when it
changed, his heart ached. He was an
artist, not a prophet. The industrialism
that he hated disseminated his written
appreciations of beauty. Machinery is
the extension of man’s personality and
power; the instrument with which he is
realizing the bounties and the Fatherhood
of God. At present it is too much
an end in itself instead of a means
toward nobler results, but tomorrow will
<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a>
see the needed adjustment. Wherefore
the new pagan is not saddened but gladdened
at the sight of factories and the
development of commerce. The awful
carnage which commercialism entails is
the price which we have been fated to
pay for experience. Through commerce
we are paving the way for the
action of the world-mind—the collective
thought of men. Collective thinking
precludes socialism as well as individualism,
and brings in humanism. The
increasing complexity of civilizations
symbolizes the enlarged intricacy of
human life. Experience and consciousness
are expanded by the maze of external
detail through which a child in a
modern state passes to maturity. The
extension of a more highly organized
civilization into every habitable region
of the earth, and commercial and intellectual
communication among all nations,
will synthesize the thought of the
world. Toward this goal every vital movement
is directed, whether consciously or
unwittingly. The germ of life was the
original leaven, and it will leaven the
whole lump. That races and states
should disappear does not matter; if human
life as a whole were to vanish the
birth-labor that the world has begun
would be retarded but not abandoned.
Man would return in a few billion years.
If not, a higher animal would; man himself
is on the long way to ever-new
heights. He has climbed up out of the
sea, and with the birth of reason in his
brain he began to ascend into loftier
realms. The power of reason is a late
acquisition, but it has provided the wondrous
banquet at which the modern pagan
feasts. It has enabled him literally
to soar and revel in high, thin air.
</p>
<p>
All the fine arts are subsidiary to and
dependent upon material progress, and
the primal source of well-being is the
soil. Man is a land animal, and he must
have access to the land with the same
freedom that a babe enjoys at its
mother’s breast; otherwise he will be
stunted and dwarfed. The earth is the
Old Mother, yielding an abundance of
food for all her children. More reason
and more consciousness on their part
will induce them to share it with one another,
not like unreasoning pigs but like
reasoning men. The “new freedom”
means eventually the accessibility of the
earth to every man. In the meantime the
biggest business at hand is to build soils
as well as schools; to keep the land full
of sap; to extend mechanism into the
arts of agriculture; to unify the thought
and purpose of city and country. All
this will follow the world-mindedness
that is being developed by industrialism
and internationalism.
</p>
<p>
All constructive thought and action
must deal not less with the city but more
and more with the country—the land.
Typical cities are sapping the wealth of
life that grows up round them. The
obsessed man in the market place needs
the poise and power of the shepherd on
the hill. The only true and durable
magnificence of a state lies in the equitable
use of its natural resources. No
man who has thought profoundly wants
to own land, but the majority of men do
want to use it. That ought to be every
man’s privilege, for every man is in some
fashion a lover of the verdant earth. But
even the millions of us who are landless,
because a few men legally own the earth,
have occasional esthetic accesses to it,
and if we passionately loved its beauty
we should hasten the day of its release
by an uneconomic monopoly. An intelligent
love of the earth as a living thing
<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a>
is at the bottom of the dynamic impulse
of man to be forever becoming.
</p>
<p>
And as these lovely days of wanton
greenness steal like fairies into the secret
recesses of his child-heart, man has a
sense of eternal kinship with
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
... that small untoward class which knows
the divine call of the spirit through the brain,
and the secret whisper of the soul in the heart,
and for ever perceives the veils of mystery and
the rainbows of hope upon our human horizons;
which hears and sees, and yet turns wisely,
meanwhile, to the life of the green earth, of
which we are part, to the common kindred of
living things, with which we are at one—is
content, in a word, to live, because of the dream
that makes living so mysteriously sweet and
poignant; and to dream, because of the commanding
immediacy of life.
</p>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="GLORIA_MUNDI">
Gloria Mundi
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
<span class="smallcaps">Eunice Tietjens</span>
</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">In what dim, half imagined place</p>
<p class="verse1">Does the Titanic lie to-day,</p>
<p class="verse1">Too deep for tide, too deep for spray,</p>
<p class="verse">In night and saltiness and space?</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Oh, quiet must the sea-floor be!</p>
<p class="verse1">And very still must be the gloom</p>
<p class="verse1">Where in each well-appointed room</p>
<p class="verse">The splendor rots unto the sea.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Through crannies in the shattered decks</p>
<p class="verse1">The sea-weed thrusts pale finger-tips,</p>
<p class="verse1">And in the bottom’s jagged rips</p>
<p class="verse">With ghostly hands it waves and becks.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">The mirrors in the great saloons</p>
<p class="verse1">Sleep darkly in their gilt and brass</p>
<p class="verse1">Save when the silent fishes pass</p>
<p class="verse">With eyes like phosphorescent moons.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">On painted walls are slimy things,</p>
<p class="verse1">And strange sea creatures, lithe and cool,</p>
<p class="verse1">Spawn in the marble swimming pool</p>
<p class="verse">And shall, a thousand springs.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">For as it is, so it shall be,</p>
<p class="verse1">Untouched of time till Doom appears,</p>
<p class="verse1">Too deep for days, too deep for years</p>
<p class="verse">In the salt quiet of the sea.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="THE_WILL_TO_LIVE">
<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a>
The Will to Live
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
<span class="smallcaps">George Burman Foster</span>
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">L</span><span class="postfirstchar">ike</span> the sense for the true, the good,
the holy, the esthetic sense is elementary.
Man comes to himself as man
in all alike. Without the effectuation of
his peculiar artistic impulse, man, the
born artist, could not find the real consecration
and dignity of the human. Indeed,
the worth of all human culture depends
upon the sense for the beautiful.
As religion is not restricted to some
fragment of our experience but informs
the whole, so culture requires that life
shall be beautiful down to the commonplace
and homely things of the daily
round. The new program, to which this
modern insight points, means a rebirth
of our entire moral and social life.
</p>
<p>
Why is it, then, that those who vocationally
and constantly worship in the
sanctuary of art—the priests in this
sanctuary—often so easily and singularly
fail in the consecration which the
worship of beauty is supposed to supply
to the human personality? The lives of
those whose calling it is to exhibit and
exemplify the beautiful, why are they
often so very ugly, so bereft of lovable
emotions? The shortcomings of the
artist, why do we count among these the
pettiest and the basest known to man?
To be specific, why do we speak almost
proverbially of an artistic vanity, an
artistic sensitiveness, an artistic envy or
jealousy? If we answered, “Because the
shadows of the ‘human all too human’
seem so dark in the golden light of the
artistic calling,” that would be true, but
it would not be the whole truth. Does
not the professional occupation of oneself
with art involve a danger to character?
To live constantly in the world
of the emotions, to fable and fantasy
and dream, in all this there is so easily
something weak, not to say “effeminate”
and sickly, and hence enervating.
Of great spirits this is true often enough—how
much more of the lesser who sophistically
find warrant in the weakness
of the great for the greatness of their
weakness! For instance, they have heard
of “inspiration”—something not under
the control of the artist, something that
must “come upon him,” but only when
the divine hour strikes, as it struck at
the pentecostal “outpouring” of the
“spirit” upon the early Christians.
Hence no care for a thousand things—in
both cases—for which other men
must care! Hence a standard of life
different from that by which other men
live! To be outwardly different from
others, to set oneself above others, that
is to be artistic. Because some great
artists are different from other people in
moods and manners and morals, it is
naïvely concluded that to emulate the latter
is to be the former, and right merrily
does the emulation go on. It must be a
grief to a real artist, this culture of the
eccentric head and the more eccentric
heart. Therefore we need a man to free
us from these eccentricities, a man to
lift us above these caricatures because
he has himself put them beneath his feet.
This man is <em>Friedrich Nietzsche</em>.
</p>
<p>
The sickness and the soundness of
life, both these were in Nietzsche. In
his demand for an artistic culture he put
his finger upon the wound of present
humanity. This demand was accepted,
the meaning of the demand was lost
sight of. This was the fatality—as if
<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a>
Nietzsche required a new artistic culture
only, and not at the same time a new life
culture! Beauty the form of life indeed,
but strength, will, deed, the content—that
was the brave burden of the
prophet’s message.
</p>
<p>
Nietzsche was born into a time that
marked the climax of a more than millennial
<em>cultus</em> of Death. The old songs
of death as bridge of sunset into the
eternal day of Bliss, songs of earthly
lamentation and heavenly yearning and
anticipation, these no longer came from
the heart, to be sure; though still sung,
the voices of “the faithful” grew ever
thinner and thinner; and the songs were
a monument of past piety rather than
a witness to a present. Like vice, this
earth which was once “a monster of so
frightful mien” was first endured, then
pitied, then embraced—and even wedded
by man; its sufferings were healed
and its delights enjoyed. The pain, the
pleasure of earth, what does it mean?
man’s heart again asked as it asked in
happy Greece long ago. But as time
went by, the human mind was bruised
and broken over this question, until it
concluded that all we call life is <em>a great
illusion</em>. And back and behind this life,
with its tumult and fitful fever, there is
the “vasty deep” of the infinite nothing.
Life is a cheat. And now there is <em>Weltschmerz</em>,
<em>Lebenschmerz</em>—simply a naturalistic
form of the old ecclesiastical
longing for death. It said the same
“No!” to life that the old church song
said—it, too, valued the day of death
higher than the day of birth; it, too,
urged that, since life is intrinsically evil,
the cure of the evil is to live as little
as possible.
</p>
<p>
Into such a world Friedrich Nietzsche
was born, breathed its atmosphere, was
himself once drunk upon its drugged
drinks. The preacher of this modern
yearning for Nirvana,—<em>i.e.</em>, not metaphysical
non-existence but psychological
desirelessness,—was Schopenhauer as
well as his disciple von Hartmann. This
is the worst possible world, croaked
Schopenhauer; No, moaned von Hartmann,
it is not the worst possible world,
it is the best possible world, but it is
worse than none! And once Nietzsche
called Schopenhauer his teacher—went
forth as an enthusiastic apostle of the
message of passive resignation to the
inevitable sorry scheme of things, nay,
of the message that the world is the
work of an anguished god seeking redemption
from the infinite misery of existence
by the infinite negation of life.
</p>
<p>
And surely the anguish of Nietzsche
fitted him, as no other, to be partner in
distress of this anguished god. Surely
he, if anyone, could say, To this end
was I born and for this purpose came I
into the world, to bear witness—to the
body of this death. From his mother’s
womb was he set apart to suffer. Endowed
with a transcendent and super-abundant
fulness of spirit, every fresh
and forceful impulse of his personality
he felt as an indictment of the inexorable
pitiless limitations within which his
best innermost life was imprisoned. He
was a voice crying in the wilderness, not
only to men, but to himself. Each new
flash of light which illumined his inner
eye let him see the graves upon which he
was treading, and revealed those who
claimed to be alive in the mask of the
death to which they had succumbed. In
the abounding wealth of youth he felt a
mortal sickness getting its grip upon
him. As life dragged on, he felt more
and more the hell tortures of pain from
which he had to wring his work every
hour of his existence.
</p>
<p>
Who would have the effrontery to cast
a stone at this man had he flung down
<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a>
his arms into one of those graves, and
cried with an old philosopher: This
may all be very well for the gods, but
not for me! But he did not lay down
his arms! Freed from all encumbrances
of conscience and debilitating sense of
sin which had paralyzed the Christian,
and from the Schopenhauer <em>Welt- und
Lebenanschauung</em>, he welcomed all that
life had to offer and went unhesitatingly
toward the universal goal of annihilation
with a blithe and unregretting spirit.
Entertaining no illusions about indeterminism
or free-will or immortality, he rejoiced
in his strength, seized with avidity
the passing moment, and fell fighting to
the last. He spoke his courageous
“Yes!” to life, while Schopenhauer,
with his money and his mistress, and all
the world beside, were crying to him to
say “No!” For this we must thank
him. In this we find an antidote to present-day
tendencies to sink the individual
in the multitude, to subordinate men to
institutions, and to apotheosize mediocrity.
Nietzsche met pain with a power
which transformed even death into life,
and turned the day of his death even
into a festival of the soul. He taught
himself and he taught others to believe
in that power, which alone is great,—to
believe in the <em>Power of the Will</em>! Nietzsche,
like Jesus, proclaimed the inestimable
worth of the individual man, saw
for him vast and glorious possibilities,
sought the regeneration of society
through the regeneration of the individual.
Both committed the fortunes of
the cause to which they devoted their
lives to individuals and not to masses of
men. Both believed that the best was yet
to be. Both believed in the inwardness,
the self-dependence, and the autonomy
of personality. Neither ever side-stepped
or flinched.
</p>
<p>
Today we are suffering from impuissant
personality, from cowardice, from
weakness of the will. Taming the great
wild strong instincts, making them small
and weak, choking them, so that man can
will nothing or do nothing great and
original and special—this is what we
call civilization. A comfortable existence,
this is the final end of life, according
to this civilization. No conflict, no
danger, for these menace comfort! Not
to know the comfort of a calm, safe
existence from which you can look down
upon the struggles in a neck-breaking
life far below—that is barbarism indeed!
And is not this comfort a virtue,
buttressed by moral principles at that?
So buttressed, one’s slumbers are not
disturbed. And may not one add to this
virtue of comfort that other cardinal
virtue of hatred of all that keeps matters
stirred up, all that causes unrest,
that causes sleepless nights and stormy
days? What the man of civilization
hates he calls “bad,” what he loves he
calls “good.” Accordingly, as Nietzsche
saw and said, the weak are the
“good” people, the brave and the
strong are the “bad.” Accordingly,
also, it is comfortable to be “moral.”
All one needs is to attune one’s life to
the “common run,” to quarantine
against every profound disturbance, to
steal by every dangerous abyss of life.
And if powers stir in man which do not
amiably submit to taming, why, “morality”
may be used as a whip to lash
these insubordinate stirrings into subjection.
And if the living heart
crouches into submission under the lash,
why, such crouching is called “virtue,”
and the daring to resist and escape
the lash, this of course is “vice.” In
a word, the most will-less is the most
virtuous. Thus—such was Nietzsche’s
<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a>
uncanny insight—“moral laws” are
devices for disciplining the will into
weakness! “Morality” is a poison with
which man is inoculated, so that his
strength may be palsied. “Morality”
is itself death to a man, a will to weakness,
a destruction of the will, while life
is a will to power, a will to self-affirmation.
</p>
<p>
Every virtue has its double, easily
confounded with it, in reality the exact
opposite of it. Take meekness, peaceableness.
It is a virtue which the cowardly,
the over-cautious, arrogate to
themselves—those who duck and bow
and bend so as to give no offense, and
to conjure up no violent conflict. Yet
to be peaceable and meek is in truth
supreme strength, having one’s own
stormy heart under control, and being
absolutely sure of power over the militant
spirits of men. Humility is a sign
at once of smallness and of greatness.
Patience is at once a lazy lassitude and
an active steadfast strength. Chastity
may be reduced vitality, fear of disease,
fear of being found out, lack of opportunity,
slavery to respectability, poverty,
or it may be temperance and self-control
in satisfying sex-needs. And so
on. Every virtue may arise because a
man is too weak for the opposite. And
this virtue which walks the path of virtue
because it lacks the courage and
the strength not to do so, this complacent,
harmless, untempted virtue, men
make the universal criterion of all virtue,
the codex of their morality. Today
still the pharisee, not the publican,
the son who stupidly ate his fill in his
father’s house, not the “prodigal” who
hungered in the far country, heads the
scroll of the virtuous. To fear and
flee vice, or to “pass a law,” this is the
current solution of morality, dinged
into us from youth up, not to confront
vice, battle with it, conquer and coerce
it!
</p>
<p>
So misunderstood Nietzsche thought.
He thought that the morality of “virtuous
people” was, in fact, a foe of life,
that the virtue of the weak was a grave
for the virtue of the strong, and that,
consequently the consciences of men must
be aroused so that they could see the
whole abomination of this, their virtue,
of which they were so proud. To bridle
and tame men is not to ennoble them; to
make men too weak and cowardly for
vice is not to make them strong and brave
for the good. This anxious and painful
slipping and winding and twisting
between virtue and vice, this cannot be
the fate of the future, the eternal destiny
of man; this is to make man the
eternal slave of man; to damn him in
his innermost and idiomatic life to the
lot of the eternal slave. Virtue and
vice are values which men mint, stamps
which men imprint upon their ever-changing
conduct, not eternal values,
born of life itself, sanctioned by the law
of life itself. As time goes on tables
of old values become sins. To obey
them, to have the law outside and not
inside us, is “to fall from grace” indeed.
A law of life cannot be on paper,
for paper is not living. Life must be
the law of life. Life must interpret
and reveal life. And life must be the
criterion of life. What makes us alive,
and strong, and mighty of will, is on
that account good; what brings death
and weakness, foulness and feebleness of
will is bad. The courage which in the
most desperate situation of life, in the
most labyrinthan aberration of thought,
dares to wring a new strength to live,
is good; all pusillanimity, all over-mastery
by pain, all collapse under the
burden of life, all disappointing desert
of the censure, “O ye of little faith,
<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a>
why are ye fearful?”—all this is bad.
It will be a new day for man when he
feels it wrong and immoral to lament his
lot, to whine, but right and moral to
earn strength from pain, a will to labor
from temptation to die. Not the fear
of the moral man to sin, but the fear to
be weak, so that one cannot do one’s
work in the world—that is to be the
fear in the future. The powerful will,
nay, the will become power itself, the
fixed heart, the keyed and concentrated
personality; this means freedom from
every slave yoke. And it means that life
is no longer at the mercy of capricious
and contingent gain and loss, but a
King’s Crown conquered in conflict with
itself, with man, and with God.
</p>
<div class="filler">
<p class="noindent">
<em>Also sprach Nietzsche-Zarathustra!</em>
</p>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="KEATS_AND_FANNY_BRAWNE">
Keats and Fanny Brawne
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
<span class="smallcaps">By Charlotte Wilson</span>
</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">He tried to pour the torrents of his love</p>
<p class="verse">Into a tiny vase; a trinket—smooth,</p>
<p class="verse">Pretty enough—but fit to hold a rose</p>
<p class="verse">Upon some shrewd collector’s cabinet.</p>
<p class="verse">Toward that small moon the wild tides of his love</p>
<p class="verse">Reared up, and fell back, moaning; and he died</p>
<p class="verse">Asking his heart why love was agony.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">And she? She loved the best she could, I think,</p>
<p class="verse">And wondered sometimes—but not overmuch—</p>
<p class="verse">At poor John’s queer, unseemly violence.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="A_NEW_WOMAN_FROM_DENMARK">
<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a>
A New Woman from Denmark
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
Marguerite Swawite
</p>
<p class="book">
<em>Karen Borneman</em>, by Hjalmar Bergström.
[Mitchell Kennerley, New York.]
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">F</span><span class="postfirstchar">rom</span> the north, whence Ibsen’s Nora
challenged the world as far back as
1879, comes a fresh message of rebellion
in the more radical figure of Karen
Borneman. In judging this play of
Bergström’s, which has but now appeared
in Edwin Björkman’s translation, we
must remember that it was written in
1907—before we had grown so sophisticated
concerning the rebel woman in
her infinite manifestations. And yet, because
this vanguard of a new morality is
still a slender company, the addition of
a new member cannot fail to arouse a
ripple of excitement in the watchful rank
and file. For that reason, as well as for
some novel characteristics of her own,
Karen Borneman merits a word for herself.
</p>
<p>
Bergström chose the most obvious
method of contrast in projecting his heroine
upon a background of stringent restraint.
Her father is Kristen Borneman,
a professor of theology whose chief
interest in life is the propagation of the
principles contained in his magnum opus,
<em>Marriage and Christian Morality</em>. Her
mother is an apparently submissive woman
who sometimes questions the edicts of her
husband. Her brother, Peter, is an adolescent
youth, already awake to the conflict
between the natural man and the
unnatural economic system, and seemingly
bound for destruction. Thora, her
young sister, is already seeking out the
clandestine outlet for an excessive and
dangerous sentimentality. Another sister,
Gertrude, has suffered a mental collapse
and is confined in an insane asylum.
These children, the author seems to say,
are the results of a chafing restrictive
discipline, and natural instincts gone
wrong—a conclusion weakened, not
strengthened by over-illustration. When
four of a family of eight show signs of
a similar abnormal development one suspects
not only the disciplinary system
but the purity of their inheritance.
</p>
<p>
Be that as it may, the chief protagonist,
Karen, is quite a normal person—except
in the matter of courage, of which
she possesses an inordinate amount. But
then all new women are courageous to a
fault. She is a woman of twenty-eight,
mature, cultivated, and a successful professional
writer. Her most salient claim
to consideration in the early scenes of
the play is her quiet assurance in the
right of her position. She voluntarily
opens up her past to the professedly liberal
physician who seeks her hand.
</p>
<p>
“Some years ago I—lived with a
man.... You are a widower yourself.
You may regard me as a widow or—a
divorced wife.”
</p>
<p>
And when he spurns her action as
squalor, she indignantly replies, “Doctor,
how dare you. A phase of my life
that at least to me is sacred, and you
cast reflections on it, that—”
</p>
<p>
There is a brevity, a terseness, about
her words that create greater sense of
her power than would any amount of
emotional pyrotechnics. In the later
scene with her father she is equally as
simple:
</p>
<p>
“The sum and substance of it is this:
I have been married twice.... I mean
<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a>
that twice during my life—with years
between—I have given myself, body and
soul, to the man I loved, firmly determined
to remain faithful to him unto
death.” Then follows the recital of the
two love affairs—the first with a brilliant
but very poor journalist who died
prematurely, and the other with a sculptor,
Strandgaard, whom she left on the
discovery of his faithlessness.
</p>
<p>
Her vision is of a time of greater freedom
for self-expression:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
“... the day will come when we, too, will
demand it as our right—demand the chance
to live our own lives as we choose and as we
can, without being held the worse on that
account. Of course, I know that this is not an
ideal, but merely a makeshift meant to serve
until at last a time comes which recognizes the
right of every human being to continue its life
through the race.”
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Her justification is the characteristic
one:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
“I have, after all, lived for a time during
those few years of youth that are granted us
human beings only once in our lifetime, and
that will never, never come back again. What
have these other ones got out of their enforced
duty and virtue except bitterness—bitterness
and emptiness? I have, after all, felt the fullness
of life within me while there was still
time, and I don’t regret it!”
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
The clash with her father whom she
loves tenderly she accepts as inevitable
in spite of the pain it must bring them
both. The ecstasy of a great vision
softens to the note of personal loss as she
leaves him:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
“Yes—I do pity you, father! Don’t think
my heart is made of stone. The sorrow I have
done you cannot be greater than the one I feel
within myself at this moment, when perhaps I
see you for the last time! But how can I help
that I am the child of a time that you don’t
understand? We have never wanted to hurt
each other, of course—but I suppose it is the
law of life, that nothing new can come into the
world without pain—”
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Because Karen advocates a course generally
denoted by the term (of wretched
connotation) free love, she is not to be
confused with those of lesser fineness
who are fighting at her side. For instance,
with Stanley Houghton’s heroine
in <em>Hindle Wakes</em>. Anyone who sees in
Karen another Fanny Hawthorne, has
failed to understand Karen’s position.
She is a woman of culture and of ideals
in all matters of life, and especially in
that of the sex relationship. “I have
given myself, ...” she says, “to the
man I loved, firmly determined to remain
faithful to him unto death.” This is a
far cry from Fanny’s reply to Alan:
“Love you? Good heavens, of course
not! Why on earth should I love you?
You were just someone to have a bit of
fun with. You were an amusement—a
lark.” To Karen the relationship is justified
only by depth of passion, and she
entered it with as great a solemnity and
glow of consecration as did ever a serious
woman a church-made marriage. To
the many camp-followers of “established”
feminism, those who don or doff
their principles with the transient fashion,—to
them Karen must seem a
humorous, if not a pitiable figure. For
she dares to have beliefs and gallantly
cleaves to them.
</p>
<p>
Karen, then, is a new woman in the
sense that in the moment of crisis she
did not accept as inevitable the reply of
convention, but weighed her need against
the law, and, finding the latter wanting,
fulfilled her need at the sacrifice of the
law. On the other hand, she is not of
those who break laws for the intrinsic
pleasure of destruction.
</p>
<p>
“Of course,” she admits, “it would
have been ever so much more easy for
me if, while I was still young, some presentable
man, with all his papers in perfect
<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a>
order and a financially secure future,
had come and asked for me—”
</p>
<p>
And she welcomes marriage with the
good Doctor Schou in an attitude unpleasantly
reactionary:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
“... I believe every woman who has
reached a certain age—and you know I am
twenty-eight—will, without hesitation, prefer
a limited but secure existence by the side of an
honest man to the most unlimited personal freedom.”
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
And worst of all, she, who throughout
the play declares herself unconvinced of
guilt or stain, at the close of the first act
becomes quite mawkishly sentimental
over Heine’s pretty line, “May God forever
keep you so fair, and sweet, and
<em>pure</em>.”
</p>
<p>
Because Karen exhibits these painful
inconsistencies, she is no less possible
or real or worthwhile. We who know
many women emerging in diverse odd
shapes from the travail of awakening
have discovered just as inconsistent a
combination of precipitation and reaction;
and thus will it ever be until we
have at length worked out our way to
the most serviceable harmony. It is for
this very reason that Karen is interesting:
she is no superwoman, but our own
imperfect sister.
</p>
<p>
Of the other characters there is but
one deserving special comment—Karen’s
mother, who to me is the most remarkable
person Bergström has here created.
She confesses to her husband that she has
known for three years that Karen had
been living in Paris with Strandgaard,
but had kept the knowledge to herself
because it had been too late to interfere,
and because she did not regard the calamity
as others would have in her place.
From a terrible and bitter experience
with another daughter, Gertrude, who
had gone insane through the abrupt
breaking off of a long engagement which
had aroused primitive passion and left it
unfulfilled, Mrs. Borneman had reached
a revolutionary conclusion:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
“... from that day I have—after a careful
consideration—done what I could to let
our children live the life of youth, sexually and
otherwise, in as much freedom as possible. The
result of your educational method, my dear
Kristen, is our poor Gertrude, who is now confined
in an insane asylum, as incurable. The
result of my method is Karen, I suppose. I
don’t know if it is very sinful to say so, but
I feel much less burdened by guilt than I should
if conditions were reversed.”
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
When Karen, however, defends her
course as an abstract ideal of “every
human being to continue its life through
the race,” and appeals to her mother to
understand, Mrs. Borneman retreats with,
“I wash my hands of it, Karen. I don’t
dare to think that far....”
</p>
<p>
It was her motherhood that had forced
upon her the courage to overlook the
law, and not any desire to throw over
the old to set up a new law. The glory
of the new vision means nothing to her
in comparison with her husband’s suffering
to which she herself has added.
She is the promise of a new type—the
awakened mother.
</p>
<p>
As for the play as a whole, it appears
to me that Mr. Bergström has tried to
say too much in the slight space of one
short play, for he has two distinct themes—the
right of woman to love and life,
and the relationship between marriage
and children. The first is the chief
theme, which is worked out in the story
of Karen; the second is too important
to be employed as a subsidiary thread,
and instead of adding richness to the first
it rather clutters and confuses it with
unnecessary baggage. Mrs. Borneman
pities one of her sons because he cannot
afford to have children on his slender
salary, and feels that her other son is not
justified in blindly bringing child after
<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a>
child into the world, depending upon the
rest of the family for their maintenance.
She asks her husband:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
“So it is not enough for two people to live
together in mutual love?”
</p>
<p>
“No, Cecilia, that has nothing to do with
marriage. What is so inconceivably glorious
about marriage is that, through it, God has delegated
His own creative power to us simple
human beings—that He has made us share His
own divine omnipotence.”
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
The poor professor is made consistent
to the point of absurdity, and the main
issue befogged, when he cries out to
Karen:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
“And yet I could have forgiven you everything—your
wantonness and your defiance—if
you had taken the consequences and had a
child! If you had had ten illegitimate children—better
that than none at all! But you have
arrogantly defied the very commandments of
nature, which are nothing but the commandments
of God!”
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Perhaps this matter was included for
the sake of Karen’s reply:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
“Do you think I am a perfect monster of a
woman, who has never felt the longing for a
baby? Not <em>me</em> does your anger hit, but that
society which will not regard it as an inevitable
duty to recognize the right of every human
being to have children—as a right, mark you,
and not as a privilege reserved for the richest
and the poorest. There are thousands of us to
whom the right is denied—thousands of men
as well as women. But we, too, are human
beings, with love longings and love instincts,
and we will not let us be cheated out of the best
thing that life holds!”
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Technically the play is not so perfect
a thing as Mr. Björkman’s unbounded
encomiums would make us believe. It
opens, for instance, in the good old fashion
scorned by Ibsen—with the gossip
of servants, who are here engaged in
laying the table instead of in the time-honored
task of dusting. The whole action
is cast within some eight hours, thus
causing a use of coincidence to the straining
point. The most commendable feature
of technique is the admirably sustained
suspense: the story of Gertrude
overshadows the entire piece from the
opening scene to Mrs. Borneman’s avowal
in the last act. The powerful use of the
story as contrast to Karen’s career is also
unusual.
</p>
<p>
And yet in spite of its faults—perhaps
because of them—we have found <em>Karen
Borneman</em> the most stimulating play of
the year. We hope one of our two organizations
dedicated to the drama will
put it on in the near future.
</p>
<div class="filler">
<p class="noindent">
When the ape lost his wits he became man.—<em>Viacheslav Ivanov.</em>
</p>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article blank" id="EDITORIALS" title="Editorials">
<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a>
</h2>
</div>
<div class="editorials">
<h3 class="section" id="GALSWORTHYS_LITTLE_HUMAN_COMEDY">
Galsworthy’s
Little Human Comedy
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
No magazine that comes to this
office is looked for more excitedly
than <em>Harper’s Weekly</em>. <em>Poetry and
Drama</em> is a quarterly event that keeps
us in a dignified intensity of expectation;
and there are others. But <em>Harper’s</em>
is a weekly adventure in the interest
of which we haunt the postman.
At present it is featuring a series
of sketches by Galsworthy—satirical
characterizations of those human beings
who pride themselves on being “different.”
Here is a man who knows himself
for a philosopher; here is an “artist”;
here is one of those rare individualities
so enlightened, so superior, so removed,
that there is only one label for him:
“The Superlative.”
</p>
<p>
But it is in <em>The Philosopher</em> that
Galsworthy excels himself. It is probably
the most consummate satire that
has appeared in the last decade:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
He had a philosophy as yet untouched.
His stars were the old stars, his faith the old
faith; nor would he recognize that there was
any other, for not to recognize any point of
view except his own was no doubt the very
essence of his faith. Wisdom! There was
surely none save the flinging of the door to,
standing with your back against that door,
and telling people what was behind it. For
though he did not know what was behind,
he thought it low to say so. An “atheist,”
as he termed certain persons, was to him
beneath contempt; an “agnostic,” as he
termed certain others, a poor and foolish
creature. As for a rationalist, positivist,
pragmatist, or any other “ist”—well, that
was just what they were. He made no secret
of the fact that he simply could not understand
people like that. It was true. “What
can they do save deny?” he would say.
“What do they contribute to the morals and
the elevation of the world? What do they
put in place of what they take away? What
have they got, to make up for what is behind
that door? Where are their symbols?
How shall they move and leave the people?”
“No,” he said; “a little child shall lead
them, and I am the little child. For I can
spin them a tale, such as children love, of
what is behind the door.” Such was the
temper of his mind that he never flinched
from believing true what he thought would
benefit himself and others. Amongst other
things he held a crown of ultimate advantage
to be necessary to pure and stable living.
If one could not say: “Listen, children,
there it is, behind the door. Look at
it, shining, golden—yours! Not now, but
when you die, if you are good.”... If
one could not say that, what could one say?
What inducement hold out?...
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
This is merely the first paragraph.
The rest is even better. Such an analysis
ought to extinguish the Puritan forever—except
that he won’t understand
it. He’ll think it was aimed at his
neighbor. He knows any number of
men like that....
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="KNOWLEDGE_OR_PREJUDICE">
Knowledge or Prejudice
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
A critic writes us that he finds no
fault with freedom of speech, and
that Emma Goldman’s disregard of ordinary
moral laws and blasphemy of
religion do not destroy the fact that she
exists. But such an article about her
as appeared in our last issue is well
calculated to make us appear absurd, he
thinks; it sounds like the oration of
some one who is just beginning to discover
the things that the world has
known always; and he closes with this
deliciously naïve question: “Do you
believe in listening respectfully to advocates
of free love, and, because of
their daring, applauding them?”
</p>
<p>
Yes, we believe in listening respectfully
to any sincere programme; we
believe that is the only way people get
to understand things. We even believe
in listening seriously to insincere programmes,
because the insincere person
usually thinks he is sincere and helps
one to understand even more. By doing
all these things one is likely to reach
that altitude where “to understand all
is to forgive all.”
</p>
<p>
As for “advocates of free love”—we
recall the impatient comment of a
well-known woman novelist: “When
<em>will</em> people stop using that silly, superfluous
phrase ‘free love’? We don’t
talk about ‘cold ice’ or ‘black coal’!”
</p>
<p>
And, though our applause was not
confined to Emma Goldman’s daring,
<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a>
as our critic would probably concede, is
not daring a thing worthy of applause?
Just as conflict is better than mediation,
or suffering than security, daring is so
much more legitimate an attitude than
complacency.
</p>
<p>
But it is that remark about “things
the world has known always” which
exasperates us the most. The world
has not known them always; it doesn’t
know them now. It has heard of them
vaguely—just to the point of becoming
prejudiced about them. And prejudice
is the first element that sneaks away
when knowledge begins to develop. If
the world represented by our critic
<em>knew</em> these things it might be roused to
daring, too.
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="RUPERT_BROOKES_VISIT">
Rupert Brooke’s Visit
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
Rupert Brooke was in Chicago
for a few days last month. One of
the most interesting things to us about
his visit was that he so quickly justified
all the theories we have had about
him since we first read his poetry.
First, that only the most pristine freshness
could have produced those poems
that some people have been calling decadent;
second, that while he probably
is “the most beautiful young man in
England” it was rather silly of Mr.
Yeats to add that he is also “the wearer
of the most gorgeous shirts.” Because
Rupert Brooke doesn’t wear gorgeous
shirts; he appears to have very little
interest in shirts, as we expected. He
is too concerned with the big business
of life and poetry. He is, as a very
astute young member of our staff suggested,
somehow like the sea.
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="BOOKS_AND_THE_QUIET_LIFE">
“Books and the Quiet Life”
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
George Gissing has always had
a peculiarly poignant place in our
galaxy of literary favorites, and nowhere
have we loved him more than in
that little “autobiography” which he
called <em>The Private Papers of Henry
Ryecroft</em>. The portions of that book
which have to do specifically with books
and reading have been brought together
by Mr. Waldo R. Browne and published
with Mr. Mosher’s usual incomparable
taste.
</p>
<p>
A good many people have loved books
as well as George Gissing did, perhaps,
but very few of them have been able to
express that love like this:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
The exquisite quiet of this room! I have
been sitting in utter idleness, watching the
sky, viewing the shape of golden sunlight
upon the carpet, which changes as the minutes
pass, letting my eye wander from one
framed print to another, and along the ranks
of my beloved books....
</p>
<p>
I have my home at last. When I place a
new volume on my shelves, I say: Stand
there whilst I have eyes to see you; and a
joyous tremor thrills me....
</p>
<p>
For one thing, I know every book of mine
by its <em>scent</em>, and I have but to put my nose
between the pages to be reminded of all
sorts of things....
</p>
<p>
I regard the book with that peculiar affection
which results from sacrifice ... in
no drawing-room sense of the word. Dozens
of my books were purchased with money
which ought to have been spent upon what
are called the necessities of life. Many a
time I have stood before a stall, or a bookseller’s
window, torn by conflict of intellectual
desire and bodily need. At the very
hour of dinner, when my stomach clamored
for food, I have been stopped by sight of a
volume so long coveted, and marked at so
advantageous a price, that I <em>could</em> not let it
go; yet to buy it meant pangs of famine.
My Heyne’s <em>Tibullus</em> was grasped at such
a moment. It lay on the stall of the old
book-shop in Goodge Street—a stall where
now and then one found an excellent thing
among quantities of rubbish. Sixpence was
the price—sixpence! At that time I used
to eat my mid-day meal (of course, my dinner)
at a coffee-shop in Oxford Street, one
of the real old coffee-shops, such as now, I
suppose, can hardly be found. Sixpence
was all I had—yes, all I had in the world;
it would purchase a plate of meat and vegetables.
But I did not dare to hope that
the <em>Tibullus</em> would wait until the morrow,
when a certain small sum fell due me. I
paced the pavement, fingering the coppers
in my pocket, eyeing the stall, two appetites
at combat within me. The book was
bought and I went home with it, and as I
made a dinner of bread and butter I gloated
over the pages.
</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="NEW_YORK_LETTER">
<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a>
New York Letter
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
<span class="smallcaps">George Soule</span>
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">H</span><span class="postfirstchar">ilaire</span> Belloc is coming to
America next fall for a lecturing
tour. It is well to take stock of him, so
that we shall know what to expect. He
is clever, and a Catholic—that tells the
whole story. We don’t know exactly
how he will say it, but we know what he
will say. Through various smiling subtleties
and paradoxes he will attack democracy,
feminism, socialism, individualistic
rebellion of any kind. It is quite
possible that he will aim a few careless
shots at Montessori, the discussion of sex
questions in public, Galsworthy, and Bernard
Shaw. He is a masculine, English,
Agnes Repplier. He will entertain his
cultivated audiences, and give them the
impression that he is very modern and
daring.
</p>
<p>
It is curious how the thinking mind
immediately discounts the testimony of
one who is known to have given his allegiance
to an embracing authority of any
kind. Whether the authority in question
is the Vatican, Karl Marx, Business,
Nietzsche, or Theodore Roosevelt, we
know the man’s whole mind is likely to
be colored with it, and that the evidence
is probably of less importance to him
than his case. Yet there is always a
moral suspicion against the man who refuses
to enroll himself under any banner.
He seems dead, inhuman, academic.
March to the drums, salute the colors, or
admit there is no blood in you! It is
good that most of mankind does so. The
strongest army (not necessarily the largest)
will win, and the battle must come
for the sake of the victory.
</p>
<p>
Therefore, let the radicals welcome
Mr. Belloc as a good enemy. He stands
for a sincere, highly organized, and powerful
propaganda which cannot be ignored
on the modern battlefield. On account
of their worship of authority the
Catholics have a solidarity which no
other movement can boast. For the
same reason they are doomed to an eternal
enmity with adventurous souls, those
who fight for change of any kind. They
seem often to be in accord with advancing
thinkers because they condemn present
conditions. But closer investigation
will always show that instead of pointing
to the future they cling to the past.
Mgr. Benson, during his recent visit to
New York, stated in private conversation
that present social conditions are intolerable.
He went on to say that an ideal
society can be attained only under feudalism,
with the church in control.
</p>
<p>
There will be no more danger from
the Catholics than from any other army
as long as we know what they are fighting
for, and are able to recognize their
irregular troops.
</p>
<p>
But let there be no complacency
among the enemies of the church on the
ground that it may not be really in the
field, or has not artillery when it gets
there. Without investigation of any
kind, I have heard of two books attacking
the church which were suppressed by
their publishers at the demand of Catholic
authorities. In each case the weapon
was a threat to withdraw an extensive
text book business from the house in
question. Naturally, the parties to the
matter have not been anxious to give it
publicity. A magazine which published
an article displeasing to Catholics received
a letter threatening it with black-listing.
<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a>
There appears to be a well organized
and efficient church publicity bureau
to attend to these and other matters.
A proposal was recently made by a Catholic
journal that priests in confessional
impose as penance the subscription to
Catholic papers and the purchase of
Catholic books, at the same time warning
the people against secular publications.
This was discussed with some approval
by <em>America</em>, the New York Jesuit weekly,
which regretfully admitted, however,
that in the end Catholic publications
must depend “mainly on their merit.”
We are likely to ignore such mediæval
methods until we find them obstructing
some actual movement of importance.
They do obstruct such movements, however,
sometimes very annoyingly.
</p>
<p>
All these methods are but the natural
and blameless working of the doctrine of
intolerance. And perhaps their greatest
danger is that their temporary success
will induce the opposing armies to use
the same weapon and so shackle themselves.
The intolerance of the Puritan
was a natural result of his bitter struggle,
yet it produced a century of aesthetic
darkness. The advanced opponents
of the Puritan era are now uttering pronunciamentos
and personalities that are
Archiepiscopal in their intolerance.
</p>
<p>
But, you say, intolerance is necessary
in the soldier. He must hate his enemy
and seek not only to dislodge but to
silence his opponent. Well, I will admit
that when the soldier is in battle he must
shoot to kill. But there is a new kind of
soldier developing who is more valuable
to man than the old. He joins the army
not so much because of the magic of the
colors as because of the necessity of the
cause and its temporary usefulness in
serving the truth behind it. Just as he
will not march to war without reason, so
he will stop fighting his immediate enemy
when his cause is won, and will not go on
to bickering and pillage. He is ready to
enlist under a new banner at any moment
when a new banner represents a more
glorious cause than the old. His General
is not a god, but a leader. His freedom
of choice is always the biggest asset of
his strength. Therefore he cannot be intolerant.
He is strong, hard, efficient,
relentless, but never pompous or slavish.
How much time the world has lost eliminating
armies of strong men whose fatal
fault was excessive, unreasoning loyalty!
</p>
<p>
That, after all, solves the riddle of my
second paragraph. And if the soldier
must subordinate his cause to his truth,
how much more so the General and the
King! The General has very little time
to hate his enemy. He must know their
strength, study their methods, adopt the
best of their ideas, spy out the country,
plan a campaign. He orders slaughter
not for revenge or hatred, but for success.
Therefore it is of supreme importance
that his success be worth while.
</p>
<p>
And the King, the man who selects the
cause and fires men to battle. The nearer
he comes to an assertion of infallibility
the surer is the final defeat of his cause.
If he will allow no room for change and
growth, change and growth will sweep
him aside. We need big men who will
not enlist under colors, but are always
pushing back the horizon of truth. Distrust
the leader who has found the final
answer to the riddle. Some day shall we
not have a Messiah who shall begin by
saying: “Do not found in my name any
church, cult, or school. If a man question
my message, listen to him closely and
learn what truth he has. Always seek
the new, the more perfect. Always grow
out from the fixed. So shall you begin a
race of Kings greater than I.”
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="CORRESPONDENCE">
<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a>
Correspondence
</h2>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="MISS_COLUMBIA_AN_OLD-FASHIONED_GIRL">
Miss Columbia: An Old-Fashioned Girl
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
That the United States of America is
young is a truism which needs no stating,
and unfortunately its youth is hopelessly
fettered in the strings of tradition.
</p>
<p>
Ferrero says that aesthetic taste in
America shows itself in bathrooms; and
certainly in plumbing we do seem to have
a taste above that of the rest of the
world. In other things America fears
originality and change far more even
than England does. Miss Columbia is a
bright girl, sitting in a schoolroom, with
well-worn editions of the English classics
on the book-shelves. Miss Columbia
writes verses and stories following the
most approved models; she succeeds
rather well, but, after all, they are only
school essays. It seems impossible for
Americans to have the courage to admit
that Life is as they see it. Hence the
shallow and frivolous optimism which
hangs like an obscuring fog over practically
all our writing. It would be a
convention were it not that we think we
believe it; it would be a conviction only
that we never look at it close enough to
test it. The vogue, a year or two ago,
of Mr. Robert Haven Schauffler’s <em>Scum
o’ the Earth</em> is a case in point. It deals
with the problem of immigration, not as
it is, but as it might be if it were. The
poem is imitative as art, and false as life,
but it flatters an existing condition, and
paints a sore to represent healthy flesh;
wherefore America hails it with content.
Americans are afraid of Life, in the Victorian
manner. A Catholic said to me,
some time ago: “Sex is dirty.” This
sacrilege is a thoroughly Victorian sentiment,
but sex alone does not come under
the ban; pain, squalor, and, above all,
the fact that virtue and effort frequently
go unrewarded, are facts to which, in
America, one must shut one’s eyes.
Miss Columbia is very young, and her
gold must be minted before she recognizes
it; in the matrix it looks insignificant
to her inexperienced eyes.
</p>
<p>
Style is not manner, but personality.
And the fact that our poets and story
writers keep to the old forms and expressions
proves (does it not?) that they
have no inward urging which makes them
find old molds too cramping.
</p>
<p>
In a play of George Cohan’s, <em>Broadway
Jones</em>, you have the best of middle-class
America—its good points and its
limitations. Perhaps this is even better
brought out in his other play, <em>Get-Rich-Quick
Wallingford</em>. “Crude,” you say;
“childish!” Quite true, but entirely and
absolutely America. For the United
States is governed by the Great God:
<em>Mediocrity</em>! The middle-class, or, as we
call him, “the man in the street,” rules.
Neither the gaunt simplicities of the
lower class (although we talk a great
deal about the lower class), nor the simplicities
of the educated and intellectually
alert, can leaven the lump of self-satisfied
commonplaceness. Not only don’t we
know, but we don’t want to know. An
American writer, who had lived in Europe
long enough to forget the peculiar
American temper, was sufficiently ingenuous
as to propose to the editor of one of
our best-known magazines a series of
three articles on six contemporary
French poets. They were refused, because
his clientèle did not care to read
<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a>
of things of which they knew nothing.
“They will know less than I,” said the
editor, “and I have only heard of two
of these names.”
</p>
<p>
We are a little better off as regards
our musical taste, because music is a universal
language, and we can hear music
in the “original,” so to say. In music,
again, our output is more in accordance
with the spirit of the whole world.
</p>
<p>
This does not mean that there are not
good writers in America. There are.
But most of them write “<em>dans le goût
d’avant-hier</em>.” I am only telling you
that Miss Columbia is in her artistic
’teens, and is as unimaginatively conventional
as is the human animal at the same
age. And, again like the human animal,
she was not so childish when she was a
baby. Paul Revere, riding across the
Middlesex Fells to rouse the minute men,
was like any adult man on a job which he
shrewdly suspects will change the fate of
nations. Poe and Whitman were not exactly
childish. But were Poe writing
today, he would be told that his subjects
were “unimportant” and that he “lacked
social consciousness.” For we in America
are suffering from a pathological
outlook on the world. Our activities
function along the line of preventive
medicine for communities. The richness
and variety of personality is lost sight of
in the lump. We forget that admirable
truth set forth in the poem beginning
“Little drops of water.”
</p>
<p>
And then, too, poor America is so
many different kinds of persons and
places. What we are going to be lies on
the lap of the Gods. But it seems quite
clear that, whatever it is, it will not be
Anglo-Saxon.
</p>
<p>
Go to any vaudeville theatre and you
will see Americans “turkey-trotting” to
an intricately syncopated music we have
dubbed “rag-time.” No European can
dance it with just that zip and swing.
It is a purely American thing. Stop a
minute! Do you realize that this is
America’s first original contribution to
the arts! Low or high, that is not the
point; it is America’s own product, and
for that reason I regret to see the tango
superseding it, although the tango is a
better dance. I am told by those who
know, that dancing is the first art practised
by primitive peoples. I believe
that in our “turkey-trotting” and “rag-time”
we have the earliest artistic gropings
of a new race. Our musicians scorn
“rag-time,” and it takes the clear eye of
a Frenchman to see its interest. Debussy
has seen it in his <em>Minstrels</em>.
</p>
<p class="sign">
<span class="smallcaps">Amy Lowell.</span>
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="POETRY_TO_THE_UTTERMOST">
Poetry to the Uttermost
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
We are afraid. We are all horribly
afraid. The seal of poetic propriety is
laid upon our lips, the burden of tradition
bows us down. Crouched and abject
beneath the dominance of the slave-driver,
gap-toothed Custom, we set our
shoulders to the toil—the useless toil—of
dragging through the mile-years
of simoom-whipped sand the impassive
statue of Mediocrity.
</p>
<p>
What, if the vulture scream above us,
can we dare to tell the meaning of its
<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a>
cry? Sharp will descend the whip of circumstance
to warn that otherwhere the
nightingales are singing under a full-orbed
moon and we must sing of them.
</p>
<p>
Does an all-reckless slave defy his
Maker with a thunderbolt of blasphemy,
forged in the furnace of his agony?
Straight comes the penalty decreeing
silence and neglect unless we chant apocalyptic
anodynes.
</p>
<p>
If the challenge of the blood outbeats
the clanging of the bonds and in the
glowing dusk man and woman cling to
each other until the uttermost is won,
shall this be told in paean and in song?
Not unless social usage has been satisfied
and it be ascertained that desire has
given place to design, that love has been
exchanged for lucre, and that marriage
has been substituted for mating; then
are we bidden cull from the common-casket
of permitted phrases the veil, the
orange-flower wreath, and all the weary
paraphernalia of convention, and write
an epithalamium to the plaudits of the
admiring throng.
</p>
<p>
Rituals began in poetry. And since
all rituals today have lost most of their
ancient power, serving to soothe and
charm instead of to stir and challenge,
we look to the poetry of today to lay the
web whereon the rituals of the future
shall be spun. Let not that web possess
one strand of mediocrity. Platitudinizing
is no pattern for the future. If we
are fain to cry aloud, let our throats
crack thereat; if we would hurl defiance,
let us not fear to charge after our javelins
and find our freedom in the breach
ourselves have made.
</p>
<p>
Every true poet has the uttermost
within, if he or she will but give it voice.
Oh, poets of every craft, give of the uttermost!
Better a single cry like <em>The
Ballad of Reading Gaol</em>, like <em>Bianca</em>, like
<em>When I am dead and sister to the dust</em>—to
touch on a few moderns only—than a
lumber-loft of pretty and tuneful voicings
of the themes that please but do not
satisfy. There are those of us who read
whose blood runs hot and red as well as
yours. Dare, O you poets of every
craft! Rise to the cry! Your hearts are
high and full of gallantry, the world is
waiting to be led by you to heights before
unscaled. Shake cowardice away
and dare!
</p>
<p class="sign">
<span class="smallcaps">Francis Rolt-Wheeler.</span>
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="REFLECTIONS_OF_A_DILETTANTE">
Reflections of a Dilettante
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
All art is symbolical. A mere presentation
of things as they are seen by
our physical eye is photography, not art.
Yet there exists a Symbolistic school
in contradistinction to other currents
such as Realism, Impressionism, Neo-Romanticism,
etc. Is not this a misnomer?
Can we say, for instance, that
Beaudélaire’s <em>Fleurs du Mal</em> were symbols,
while Goethe gave us but realistic
reproductions of actual life? Should
we exclude Whitman from the Symbolists
for the reason that his poems
are less fantastic, nearer to life than
those of Poe? What about Vereshchagin:
was not his brush symbolistic because
he adhered to realistic methods?
Obviously, an artist presents not objects
<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a>
but ideas, and the symbolisticity of a certain
work of art is rather a question of
method and degree.
</p>
<p>
Perhaps we should differentiate artists
according to their relationship with and
attitude towards the public. The realist—and
under this elastic term we may
understand likewise the romanticist and
the impressionist—is definite in his interpretation
of life, is outspoken and
clear in conveying his conceptions; he
drags us unto his point of view, makes
us see through his eyes and take for
granted his impressions. He says to us:
“Thus I see the world. Thus life and
nature are reflected in my mind. This is
precisely what I mean; please do not misinterpret
me.” We are bound to obey;
the artist—provided he is a real artist—forces
upon us his eyeglasses, and we
follow his directions.
</p>
<p>
The purely Symbolistic artist, on the
other hand, grants freedom to the public.
Vague tones, dim outlines, abstract figures,
imperceptible moods, misty reflections,
make his art unyielding to a definite
interpretation. All he imposes upon
us is an atmosphere, into which we are
invited to come and co-create. Here is a
canvas, here are colors, here are moods;
go ahead and make out of them what you
like. We are thus left to our own guidance;
we are enabled to put our ego into
the artist’s work, we are free to find in it
whatever reflections we choose and to
form our own conceptions. If we succeed
in solving the problem, if we make
the symbol live in our imagination, we
experience the bliss of creation; should
we fail in our task, should the symbol
remain meaningless to us, we conclude
that the given atmosphere is alien to our
mind. Music of all arts is the most symbolical.
True, Wagner and Strauss have
endeavored to impose upon the listener
<em>leit-motifs</em>, to dictate the public an interpretation
of specific tones, but they have
failed in their attempts to introduce a
sort of a “key” to music; we remain
autonomous in “explaining” <em>Siegfried</em>
and <em>Don Quixote</em>.
</p>
<p>
Which of the methods is preferable?
I should resent any narrow decision on
this point. A crystalline September day
or a purple-crimson sunset, how can we
choose? We delight in both, but in one
case we admire the visible beauty, while
in the other we make one step forward
and complement the seen splendor with
strokes of our creative imagination.
Perhaps my non-partisanship is due to
my dilettantism; as it is, I approach a
book or a picture with one scale: is it a
work of art? If it is, then any method
is justifiable, no matter how differently it
may appeal to the individual taste.
</p>
<p>
Yet—and there is no inconsistency in
my statement—I do discriminate in art
productions in so far as my personal affections
are concerned. Great as my delight
is in the arts of Tolstoi and Zola,
of Rubens and Corot, of Brahms and
Massenet, of Pavlova and Karsavina, my
mind is more akin to the mystic utterances
of Maeterlinck and Brusov, to the
hazy landscapes of Whistler and to the
unreal women of Bakst, to the narcotic
music of Debussy and Rachmaninov, to
the wavy rhythm of Duncan and St.
Denis. It is with them, with the latter,
that I erect fantastic castles of my own
designs and find expression of my moods
and whims. I may not understand all of
the Cubists and Futurists, but I owe
them many new thoughts and emotions
which I had not realized before having
seen the new art. Schoenberg’s pieces
still irritate my conventional ear, but I
allow him credit for discovering new possibilities
in the region of sound interpretation.
We, plain mortals, who are
doomed to contemplate art without having
<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a>
the gift to contribute to it, we are
envious of genius and crave for freedom
in co-creating with the artist. Hence my
love for Bergson who appeals to the creative
instinct of man; for him I abandoned
Nietzsche, my former idol: it is
so much more pleasant and feasible to be
a creative being than to strive to become
a perfect super-being.
</p>
<p class="sign">
<span class="smallcaps">Alexander S. Kaun.</span>
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="THE_IMMORTALITY_OF_THE_SOUL">
The Immortality of the Soul
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
Bergson argues that there is a spiritual
entity behind all science and that
it is impossible for scientists to go beyond
a certain point in developing a
knowledge of whence we came. Clara E.
Laughlin, in writing a review of <em>The
Truth about Woman</em>, by Mrs. Walter
M. Gallichan, accuses the writer of possessing
a short-sighted, astigmatic vision
of “whereuntoness.” She winds up her
discussion with the sob of an ultra religionist
by accusing Mrs. Gallichan of having
left out a most important point in
her discussion—that of the immortality
of the soul. To quote Miss Laughlin
exactly:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
But if, as most of us believe, we are more
than just links in the human chain; if we have
a relation to eternity as well as to history and
to posterity, there are splendid interpretations
of our struggles that Mrs. Gallichan does not
apprehend. If souls are immortal, life is more
than the perpetration of species, or even than
the improvement of the race; it is the place allotted
to us for the development of that imperishable
part which we are to carry hence,
and through eternity. And any effort of ours
which helps other souls to realize the best that
life can give, to seek the best that immortality
can perpetuate, may splendidly justify our
existence.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Very fortunately for the future of her
book, Mrs. Gallichan ignores the religionist
except to say of religion, “I am
certain that in us the religious impulse
and the sex impulse are one.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Gallichan’s book is a scientific
discussion of woman yesterday and
today, without any attempt at sentimentalism.
Her analysis is perfect and decidedly
constructive. She goes back to
prehistoric times and discusses in scientific
phraseology how woman has progressed
through the ages, and describes
the part she has taken in establishing
civilizations. Nowhere does she forget
that she is writing for posterity and indulge
in the petty foibles that are sometimes
so noticeable in the work of women
who write on feminism.
</p>
<p class="sign">
<span class="smallcaps">Lee A. Stone.</span>
</p>
<p class="note">
[The question of whether whatever it is that
is meant by the word <em>soul</em> is immortal—immortal
in the sense that it will live forever in
a realm of the spirit or the blessed—is answered
affirmatively by those who hold to the
orthodox faith, is not worth discussing by a
rational man who is informed, and is discussed
by avowed or implied atheists with a fanatical
seriousness that destroys whatever force their
main contention may have. The legitimate
domain of argument is limited; truth that is
verifiable by men here and now is its only content.
As regards what uncritical people call
“immortality” serious argumentation is absolutely
impossible. Faith, quotations, and
personal desires are not arguments. Mrs. Gallichan’s
book is in parts scientific, and is therefore
of importance to thousands of people
whose religion is an achievement of courageous
thinking and living. To many excellent persons
their professed belief in what they term
“immortality” is a kind of merciful necessity.
They crave and even invent assurances of it.
To such persons there is no argument against
it. To persons who produce the “negative”
arguments there is no argument for it. And
there you are!—W. C. D.]
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="BOOK_DISCUSSION">
<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a>
Book Discussion
</h2>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="DOSTOEVSKYPESSIMIST">
Dostoevsky—Pessimist?
</h3>
<p class="book">
<em>The Possessed</em>, by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
[The Macmillan Company, New York.]
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">S</span><span class="postfirstchar">hatov</span> was an incorrigible idealist,
with a keen satirical ability to destroy
his own ideals. He had made a god out
of Verhovensky, the leading figure in
Dostoevsky’s <em>The Possessed</em>. Verhovensky
was, he imagined, a god of selfish
courage and supreme unconcern, the sort
of man whom everybody followed involuntarily.
Shatov knew that his hero had
irreparably injured three women, one of
them half-witted and defenseless. That
did not bother the idealist at all; it was
“in character.” But when Verhovensky
lied about it to avoid condemnation,
Shatov hit him a savage blow on the
cheek and brooded for weeks over the
disappointment. The disappointment
was deepened by the fact that Verhovensky
did not kill him for the blow.
</p>
<p>
There is something characteristically
Russian about that. It goes far to explain
Russian pessimism, and give the
key to this very book. Your Russian
wants above all things to be logical. He
will fasten upon an idea and enshrine it
in his holy of holies. He will relentlessly
follow the dictates of his idea though it
lead him to insanity. There is greatness
in his attitude, also absurdity. Witness
Tolstoy. And when he recognizes his
own absurdity he becomes gloomy and
savage; there is no escape from the
vanity of the world, the spirit, and
himself.
</p>
<p>
I can imagine the mood of Dostoevsky
when this book germinated in his mind.
He saw this trait in the people about
him, he felt it in himself. The intellectuals,
each with his little theory, were
steadily working towards—nothing at
all. The government with its elaborate
systems for economic improvement and
individual repression, the revolutionary
with his scheming insincerity and chaotic
program, were equally futile. The
women with their pathetic loves, the frivolous
with their mad pursuit of amusement,
the great and the small, the sycophant
and the rebel, were all bitter failures.
Suddenly it occurred to him—they
are all mad in an insane world, each
in his way, one no more than another. I
will vent my disgust with these vermin
in a book; I will show what they really
are. Like the madman who carefully
traces out his meaningless labyrinth, I
will with the most painstaking psychology
unravel their minds, and in so doing
I will find my release and my fiendish
joy. The only thing lacking in this
madhouse is complete self-consciousness.
That I will furnish.—And so Dostoevsky
logically and nobly followed his idea
to its insane conclusion.
</p>
<p>
The fascinating result cannot be described
in a paragraph. It is done, of
course, with consummate ability. Beginning
the book is like walking into a village
of unknown people. They are real
enough outwardly; you don’t know their
nature or direction. Little by little you
learn about them, and begin to take
sides. Long habit makes you pick favorites.
This man will be noble and successful;
perhaps he is the hero. Suddenly
you begin to suspect that something
<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a>
is wrong. All things are not working
together for one end, as in well-regulated
novels. Your favorites become
jumbled up with the others. The author
doesn’t give you a chance, because he
never shows you a cross-section of a
mind. He merely tells what the people
do and say. You must draw your own
conclusions as in ordinary life. When
you get used to this, you see an occasional
subtlety, a flash of sardonic laughter.
Some of the people are not quite
right in their minds. And at length the
truth dawns; the sane people are even
crazier than the others! This impression
comes by sheer force of magic; how the
author creates it is inexplicable. But
once you have it, the fascination of following
an idea obsesses you. And at the
end it is impossible to find any meaning
or direction in the world.
</p>
<p>
Of course, no such obsession can find a
firm footing in the American temperament.
After a while it seems Russian
and incredible. If you can’t answer
Dostoevsky logically, you will abandon
logic. But he has stirred you up, and
certain important conclusions rise to the
surface.
</p>
<p>
One is that it would be impossible to
be such a pessimist unless one looked for
a good deal in the world, and looked for
it rather sharply. Idealism and courage
began this course of thought. Isn’t a
big share of our optimism shallow?
Shouldn’t we go a little deeper into
things before being so sure they are
right? Another is that no living individual
is worth very much, after all. Our
only salvation is in creating a nobler
race. And for that any sacrifice of present
individuals is supremely worth while.
</p>
<p>
It is as if some inspired member of a
negro tribe in central Africa had suddenly
awakened to the fact that his voodoo-worshipping
friends were not acting
rationally. From their status the burden
of his chant might be horrible for its
devilish revelations. But in our eyes he
would be a seer and a prophet. Why
should he have considered the feelings of
the miserable savages? There is something
more important than that!
</p>
<p class="sign">
<span class="smallcaps">George Soule.</span>
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="THE_SALVATION_OF_THE_WORLD_Y_LA_WELLS">
The Salvation of the World à la Wells
</h3>
<p class="book">
<em>Social Forces in England and America</em>, by H. G. Wells.
[Harper and Brothers, New York.]
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">L</span><span class="postfirstchar">ike</span> many philosophers, Mr. Wells is
concerned mainly with the need of a new
human race. All profound reformers
want that. The method of achieving
this desirable result is, however, the rock
of turning. It probably isn’t necessary
to say that our present reformer is not
one of those blind apostles of effortless
immediacy. Such transmution was respectable
when Botany Bay was a popular
seaside resort for radical poets and
philosophers. They of today realize
something of the immensity of the developmental
process. Their hopes are
often so remote that they seem almost
despair, but still time is trusted with a reliance
on science for the urge toward human
perfectibility. Of such the leader is
H. G. Wells.
</p>
<p>
Clearly the conviction that civilization
<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></a>
needs a new race is well founded. All
ideals, all ideas, civilization, culture are
and have always been the products of a
pitiful minority. The tendency at present
is toward making the desire of the
majority supreme. The majority do not
cleave toward ideals—not even toward
establishing their own glory. Rousseau
imagined that millions loved righteousness;
Jefferson made such beliefs the
basis of the country’s documents of incorporation.
The idealists were manifestly
mistaken. Men have never been
drawn toward the ideals they have professed.
Truth, justice, equality have
never been valued when sex, property, or
power were opposed. The virtues came
in the early days from “Thus saith the
Lord,” and they come today, if they
come at all, from “Thus saith a Strong
Man.”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wells guesses that there are fifty
thousand reading and thinking persons
in England—keepers of the citadel.
The fifty thousand are practically England.
Perhaps his estimate is too low.
John Brisben Walker says that in the
United States the number of persons
able to think independently about political
and social matters has increased from
a few score to about two hundred and
fifty thousand within thirty years. The
fact is, albeit, that the world has been
fashioned always by this very small
minority. Furthermore the present creation
is not one in which there is reason
for great pride.
</p>
<p>
The essay on the Great State is especially
fine in this connection. Wells’s
idea of the Normal Social Life and of
the constant divergence of a minority
is altogether clarifying for the watcher
from any vantage, but it is in his discussion
of the labor unrest that the reader
in Colorado discovers the prophecies he
most needs. For illustration this:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
The worker in a former generation took himself
for granted; it is a new phase when the
toilers begin to ask, not one man here and
there, but in masses, in battalions, in trades:
“Why, then, are we toilers, and for what is
it that we toil?”
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
The ruling minority in Colorado has
been confronted with this question during
the coal strike. So far no response
has been given save the impromptu
utterances of a hideous rage and fright
at the thought of awakening workers.
</p>
<p>
Wells answers his own questions. He
replies as Colorado will sometime if Colorado
is to persist. It is in this tone:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
The supply of good-tempered, cheap labor—upon
which the fabric of our contemporary ease
and comfort is erected—is giving out. The
spread of information and the means of presentation
in every class and the increase of luxury
and self-indulgence in the prosperous classes
are the chief cause of that. In the place of
the old convenient labor comes a new sort of
labor, reluctant, resentful, critical, and suspicious.
The replacement has already gone so
far that I am certain that attempts to baffle
and coerce the workers back to their old conditions
must inevitably lead to a series of increasingly
destructive outbreaks, to stresses
and disorder culminating in revolution. It is
useless to dream of going on now for much
longer upon the old lines; our civilization, if
it is not to enter upon a phase of conflict and
decay, must begin to adapt itself to the new
conditions, of which the first and foremost is
that the wage earning laboring class, consenting
to a distinctive treatment and accepting
life at a disadvantage, is going to disappear.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
That is the truth which men hate
most to hear. It is the doctrine which
“Mother” Jones preaches and for
which she has been imprisoned regardless
of laws and constitutions.
</p>
<p>
But this reasonableness of Wells appeals
as little to the left wing of the
socialists as it does to conservatives.
The I. W. W.’s have no patience with
the detailed delays suggested and Wells
is as irritated with the losses in civilization
<a id="page-44" class="pagenum" title="44"></a>
to which a violent revolution is
likely to lead. He sets forth his feeling
in a discussion of the American population,
a curious phrase, necessary on account
of his distaste for the word people.
In speaking of the possibility of a national
revolutionary movement as an
arrest for the aristocratic tendency now
so pronounced he says:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
The area of the country is too great and
the means of communication between the workers
in different parts inadequate for a concerted
rising or even for effective political
action in mass. In the worst event—and it
is only in the worst event that a great insurrectionary
movement becomes probable—the
newspapers, magazines, telephones, and telegraphs,
all the apparatus of discussion and
popular appeal, the railways, arsenals, guns,
flying machines, and all the materials of warfare,
will be in the hands of the property
owners, and the average of betrayal among
the leaders of a class, not racially homogeneous,
embittered, suspicious, united only by their
discomforts and not by any constructive intentions,
will necessarily be high.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
It is true almost. There are always
enough of the Gracchi family present to
supply the minimum number of weapons
essential. To the truth of this the revolutionary
movement in Mexico is a witness
and Colorado itself could tell tales.
</p>
<p>
<em>Social Forces</em>, a too collegiate title,
sums up satisfactorily Wells’s important
opinions. The book isn’t really a whole:
some of the essays are journalistic and
some are old. It lacks nearly everywhere
the fierceness of <em>The Passionate
Friends</em>. In this book Wells is in his
dinner coat, comfortable and well fed.
He is respectable—horrible admission—but
he is still prophetic.
</p>
<p>
In a sense, too, <em>Social Forces</em> is a warehouse.
There one may find stored the
rough materials which on occasion are
hammered into the poignancies of <em>Marriage</em>
or <em>Tono-Bungay</em>. As a vista into
a masterhand’s workshop the book has
its intense psychological interest, but
most of all it is text for salvation of the
world.
</p>
<p class="sign">
<span class="smallcaps">William L. Chenery.</span>
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="A_NOVELISTS_REVIEW_OF_A_NOVEL">
A Novelist’s Review of a Novel
</h3>
<p class="book">
<em>Vandover and the Brute</em>, by Frank Norris.
[Doubleday, Page and Company, New York.]
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
“I told them the truth. They liked it or
they didn’t like it. What had that to do with
me? I told them the truth; I knew it for the
truth then, and I know it for the truth now.”—<span class="smallcaps">Frank
Norris.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
It would seem inevitable that had
Frank Norris lived he would have rewritten
<em>Vandover and the Brute</em>. In the
book, as it was rescued from the packing
box that had been through the San
Francisco fire and sent to the publisher,
there is much that would have been discarded
by the later Norris. Perhaps he
would have thrown it all away and written
a new story with the same theme.
He was a big man and he had the courage
of bigness. He could throw fairly
good work into the waste-paper basket.
The decay of man in modern society,
the slow growth in him of the brute
that goes upon all fours—what a big,
terrible theme! What a book the later
Norris would have made of it!
</p>
<p>
In the introduction by Charles G.
Norris quotation is made from the Frank
Norris essay, <em>The True Reward of the
<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a>
Novelist</em>, in which this sentence stands
out: “To make money is not the province
of the novelist.” Also it is suggested
that the book was written under
the influence of Zola, and there is more
than a hint of Zola’s formula that everything
in life is material for literature in
the way the job is done.
</p>
<p>
As it stands, <em>Vandover</em> wants cutting—cutting
and something else. With
that said and understood, we are glad
that the book has been rescued and that
it can stand upon our book shelves.
American letters cannot know and understand
too much of the spirit of Frank
Norris, and just at this time when there
is much talk of the new note and some
little sincere effort toward a return to
truth and honesty in the craft of writing,
it is good to have this visit from the
boy Norris. He was a brave lad, an
American writing man who lived,
worked, and died without once putting
his foot upon the pasteboard road that
leads to easy money. “The easy
money is not for us,” he said and had
the manhood to write and live with that
warning in his mind. He had craft-love.
With a few more writers working
in his spirit we should hear less of
the new note. Norris was the new note.
He was of the undying brotherhood.
</p>
<p>
When Frank Norris wrote <em>Vandover</em>
he was not the great artist he became,
but he was the great man; and that’s
why this book of his is worth publishing
and reading. The greater writer would
have possessed a faculty the boy who
wrote this book had not acquired—the
faculty of selection. He would have
been less intent upon telling truly unimportant
details and by elimination
would have gained dramatic strength.
</p>
<p>
Read <em>Vandover</em> therefore not as an
example of the work of Norris the artist
but as the work of a true man. It will
inspire you. Its very rawness will show
you the artist in the making. It will
make you understand why Frank Norris
with Mark Twain will perhaps,
among all American writers, reach the
goal of immortality.
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="THE_IMMIGRANTS_PURSUIT_OF_HAPPINESS">
The Immigrant’s Pursuit of Happiness
</h3>
<p class="book">
<em>They Who Knock at Our Gates</em>, by Mary Antin.
[Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.]
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">S</span><span class="postfirstchar">haking</span> the Declaration of Independence
in the face of all those opposed to
immigration in any form Mary Antin
makes an impassioned appeal for practically
unrestricted immigration. Her
motive is no doubt praiseworthy, her enthusiasm
and eloquence are admirable.
She contrasts the nature of our present-day
immigrants with those who landed in
the Mayflower. The self-satisfied middle
class attitude peeps through the question:
“Is immigration good for us?”
</p>
<p>
And of course it is good. The immigrants
do more than three-quarters of
our bituminous coal mining. They
make seven-tenths of our steel. They
do four-fifths of our woolen, nine-tenths
of our cotton-mill work, nearly all our
clothing, nearly all our sugar, eighty-five
per cent of all labor in the stock-yards.
You cannot but come to the
same conclusions as Mary Antin: “Open
<a id="page-46" class="pagenum" title="46"></a>
wide our gates and set him on his way
to happiness.”
</p>
<p>
On his way to happiness? One thinks
of Lawrence, Massachusetts, where immigrants
are not exactly happy; or Paterson,
New Jersey; or an incident of
this kind from Marysville, California,
related by Inez Haynes Gillmore in
<em>Harper’s Weekly</em> for April 4: “An
English lad, the possessor of a beautiful
tenor voice, song leader of the hop pickers,
was walking along carrying a bucket
of water. A deputy sheriff shot him
down.” One thinks of the Michigan
copper mines. Alexander Irvine told us
something about peonage in the South
in his “Magyar.” The New York
East Side with its 364,367<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-2" id="fnote-2">[2]</a> dark rooms
and its “lung block with nearly four
thousand people, some four hundred of
whom are babies. In the past nine years
alone this block has reported two hundred
and sixty-five cases of tuberculosis.”<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-3" id="fnote-3">[3]</a>
In Pittsburgh alone, according
to <em>The Literary Digest</em> of January 16,
1909, five hundred laborers are killed
and an unknown number injured every
year in the steel industry. According
to Dr. Peter Roberts about eighty per
cent of those suffering from rickets in
Chicago are Italians, Greeks, and Syrians.
This disease is almost unknown in
the southern countries. The following
is taken from an article by Henry A.
Atkinson in <em>Harper’s Weekly</em>:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
The policy of the companies has been to
exclude the more intelligent, capable English-speaking
laborers by importing large numbers
from southern Europe: Greeks, Slavonians,
Bulgarians, Magyars, Montenegrins, Albanians,
Turks as well as representatives from all of the
Balkan states. The Labor Bureau charges the
large corporations of the state with hiring these
men—“because they can be handled and
abused with impunity.”... Louis Tikas is
dead. His body riddled with fifty-one shots
from rapid fire guns, lay uncared for twenty-four
hours at Ludlow where he had been for
seven months the respected chief of his Greek
countrymen. He was shot while attempting to
lead the women and children to a place of
safety. At least six women and fifteen little
children died with him.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
“Open wide our gates and set him on
his way to happiness” says Mary Antin.
</p>
<p>
Sixty thousand illiterate women were
admitted in 1911 to this country. The
president of The Woman’s National Industrial
League says in this connection
to the House Committee: “Syndicates
exist in New York and Boston for the
purpose of supplying fresh young girls
from immigrants arriving in this country
for houses of ill fame. Immigrants
arriving in New York furnish twenty
thousand victims annually.” Mr. Jacob
Riis said very recently: “Scarce a
Greek comes here, man or boy, who is
not under contract. A hundred dollars
a year is the price, so it is said by those
who know, though the padrone’s cunning
has put the legal proof beyond their
reach.”
</p>
<p>
But these are statistics, and Mary
Antin is horrified by statistics except
when she can prove that “the average
immigrant family of the new period is
represented by an ascending curve. The
descending curves are furnished by degenerate
families of what was once prime
American stock.” The “happiness”
that those who knock at our gates run
into once they land in our mines, factories,
sweatshops, department stores, etc.,
might be traced further. The real question
is this: Is immigration good for
the immigrant? In view of the above
facts there is but one answer so far as
the illiterate and physically weak are
<a id="page-47" class="pagenum" title="47"></a>
concerned. Twisting of facts out of a
desire to reach certain conclusions will
only harm the immigrant and the inhabitants
of this country.
</p>
<p>
Mary Antin would have been Mary
Antin in Russia, Turkey, or Aphganistan.
The weak and the illiterate are
the ones who keep this question in the
foreground. Probably the only exception
is the Russian Jew. He has no
country of his own and the New York
East Side is a comparative improvement
over the Czar’s empire.
</p>
<p class="sign">
<span class="smallcaps">William Saphier.</span>
</p>
<hr class="footnote" />
<p class="footnote">
<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-2" id="footnote-2">[2]</a> Fifth Report of Tenement House Department,
1909. Page 102.
</p>
<p class="footnote">
<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-3" id="footnote-3">[3]</a> Ernest Poole:—<em>A Handbook on the Prevention
of Tuberculosis.</em>
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="THE_UNIQUE_JAMES_FAMILY">
The Unique James Family
</h3>
<p class="book">
<em>Notes of a Son and Brother</em>, by Henry James.
[Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York.]
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">W</span><span class="postfirstchar">hatever</span> the deprecators of Henry
James’s later manner may have to say
about the difficulties of his involved style
there are some situations, some plots,
for which it is most happily suited. Was
so haunting a ghost story ever written
as that truly horrible one which involved
two children—the name of which has
unfortunately escaped me, for I should
like to recommend it for nocturnal perusal.
And in <em>The Golden Bowl</em> the gradual
way you are led to perceive the
wrong relationship between two of the
characters, which, had it been offered
bluntly, with no five degrees of approach
and insinuation, would have lost half its
mystery of guilt. As he himself says,
in the <em>Notes of a Son and Brother</em>, “I
like ambiguities, and detest great
glares.”
</p>
<p>
Unfortunately, the style that is fitting
to a slow unfolding of a psychological
situation does not lend itself well
to biography. The direct way is the
only possible way there, if the reader is
to keep an unflagging interest, and the
direct way is simply not possible for
Henry James. And one asks nothing
more than to be told simply of the
student days at Switzerland and Germany,
and the life afterward at Newport,
just as the Civil War was beginning
or best of all throughout the
story of a united family—the four
boys, little sister, father, mother, and aunt,
quite unlike, I imagine, any other family
in the world. The quality of the genius of
the brothers seems to have sprung from
the association with a father as unlike as
possible to the American father of today.
He did not influence them, we are told,
by any power of verbal persuasion to
his own ideas. It was quite simply himself,
his personality and character, the
way he lived life, that took hold upon
his sons’ imagination. Of course that
is the only way anyone ever is influenced,
but I think most parents do try
the verbal persuasion as well. Henry
James says of his father:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
I am not sure, indeed, that the kind of personal
history most appealing to my father
would not have been some kind that should
fairly proceed by mistakes, mistakes more
human, more associational, less angular, less
hard for others, that is less exemplary for them
(since righteousness, as mostly understood, was
in our parents’ view, I think, the cruellest thing
in the world) than straight and smug and declared
felicities. The qualification here, I
allow, would be his scant measure of the difference,
<a id="page-48" class="pagenum" title="48"></a>
after all, for the life of the soul, between
the marked achievement and the marked
shortcoming. He had a manner of his own of
appreciating failure or of not, at least, piously
rejoicing in displayed moral, intellectual, or even
material economies, which, had it not been that
his humanity, his generosity, and, for the most
part, his gaiety were always, at the worst, consistent,
might sometimes have left us with our
small saving, our little exhibitions and complacencies,
rather on our hands.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Speaking of the “detached” feeling
they had after returning from Europe
to settle in Newport, he says:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
I remember well how, when we were all young
together, we had, under pressure of the American
ideal in that matter, then so rigid, felt it
tasteless and even humiliating that the head
of our little family was <em>not</em> in business....
</p>
<p>
Such had never been the case with the father
of any boy of our acquaintance; the business
in which the boy’s father gloriously <em>was</em> stood
forth inveterately as the very first note of our
comrade’s impressiveness. <em>We</em> had no note of
that sort to produce, and I perfectly recover
the effect of my own repeated appeal to our
parent for some presentable account of him
that would prove us respectable. Business
alone was respectable—if one meant by it,
that is, the calling of a lawyer, a doctor, or a
minister (we never spoke of clergymen) as
well; I think if we had had the Pope among
us we should have supposed the Pope in business,
just as I remember my friend Simpson’s
telling me crushingly, at one of our New York
schools, on my hanging back with the fatal
truth about our credentials, that the author of
<em>his</em> being was in the business of stevedore.
That struck me as a great card to play—the
word was fine and mysterious; so that “What
shall we tell them you <em>are</em>, don’t you see?”
could but become on our lips at home a more
constant appeal.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Very interesting are the occasional
letters telling of Emerson and Carlyle.
Especially so to me are the side lights
on Carlyle, as chiming in somehow with
the series of impressions I seem gradually
to have accumulated about him as
time goes on. Perhaps it really isn’t
fair, as a large amount of those impressions
I feel sure I owe to Froude, but I
can’t help wondering what our times,
with modern surgery and therapeutics,
would have accomplished with Carlyle’s
indigestion, and what resultant difference
there would assuredly have been
in his philosophy. To quote from a letter
of the elder Henry James:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
I took our friend M—— to see him [Carlyle],
and he came away greatly distressed and
<em>désillusionné</em>, Carlyle having taken the utmost
pains to deny and descry and deride the idea
of his having done the least good to anybody,
and to profess, indeed, the utmost contempt
for everybody who thought he had, and poor
M—— being intent on giving him a plenary
assurance of this fact in his own case.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
And again in a letter to Emerson:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
Carlyle nowadays is a palpable nuisance. If
he holds to his present mouthing ways to the
end he will find no showman là-bas to match
him.... Carlyle’s intellectual pride is so
stupid that one can hardly imagine anything
able to cope with it.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
An earlier letter has this delicious bit
about Hawthorne:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
Hawthorne isn’t to me a prepossessing figure,
nor apparently at all an <em>enjoying</em> person....
But in spite of his rusticity I felt a sympathy
for him fairly amounting to anguish, and
couldn’t take my eyes off him all dinner, nor my
rapt attention.... It was heavenly to see him
persist in ignoring the spectral smiles—in eating
his dinner and doing nothing but that, and
then go home to his Concord den to fall upon
his knees and ask his heavenly Father why it
was that an owl couldn’t remain an owl and not
be forced into the diversions of a canary!
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
And in the postscript of the same:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
What a world, what a world! But once we
get rid of Slavery the new heavens and the
new earth will swim into reality.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Which shows how much in earnest the
Abolitionists really were—it was a tenet
of faith with them. Sad and strange
<a id="page-49" class="pagenum" title="49"></a>
and illuminating to us of a later generation,
who are now struggling for other
abolitions of slavery, and still hoping
for a new world.
</p>
<p>
I wish I could quote from the delightful
letters of William James, but they
must be read entire, with the author’s
comments, to place them correctly.
Pending a biography of the man, these
letters will be to many readers the most
interesting feature of the book. One of
the most magnificent things about the
book, however,—if I may use a large
word for a large concept—is the spirit
running through it of filial and fraternal
love, never expressed in so many
words, but apparent throughout, which
makes, as I said before, the James family
unique in the history of American
letters.
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="DE_MORGANS_LATEST">
De Morgan’s Latest
</h3>
<p class="book">
<em>When Ghost Meets Ghost</em>, by William De Morgan.
[Henry Holt and Company, New York.]
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">W</span><span class="postfirstchar">hatever</span> else I may say about De
Morgan’s new book, I absolutely refuse
to tell the number of its pages. Every
other criticism begins or ends with this
uninteresting fact, and usually adds that
it makes no difference how long it is,
since the writer’s charm pervades it all.
But it does make a difference, and it is
too trite to say we are so hurried and
nervous and given over to frivolity nowadays
that we are unable to read Dickens
and Thackeray and Scott and De
Morgan. There is a great deal more
to read, and a great deal more to do
and to think about, than ever there was
in Thackeray’s day. And if we are
going to spend our time reading countless
pages (I very nearly told how many,
after all!) we want to be sure it is more
worth while than anything else we can
be doing, or thinking, or reading.
</p>
<p>
However, one can’t say very well that
he greatly admires a stork, or would if
he had a short beak and short legs. De
Morgan’s style is his own, and he will
tell the story his own way, though we
all have a quarrel with him for leaving
the most interesting bits to a short “Pendrift”
at the end. Did Given’s lover
contemplate taking his East Indian poison
when the newspapers announced that
she was to marry an Austrian noble?
Think of cutting that episode off in a
few words, while an entire chapter is
devoted to a “shortage of mud” for
little Dave and Dolly, who were making
a dyke in the street! But then, De Morgan
doesn’t know how to stop when he
begins to talk of children. How he
loves them, and all other helpless creatures!
He can’t speak even of kittens
without a touch of tenderness:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<p class="noindent">
Mrs. Lapping explained that she was using
it (the basket) to convey a kitten, born in her
establishment, to Miss Druitt at thirty-four
opposite, who had expressed anxiety to possess
it. It was this kitten’s expression of impatience
with its position that had excited Mrs.
Riley’s curiosity. “Why don’t ye carry the
little sowl across in your hands, me dyurr?”
she said, not unreasonably, for it was only a
<a id="page-50" class="pagenum" title="50"></a>
stone’s throw. Mrs. Topping added that this
was no common kitten, but one of preternatural
activities and possessed of diabolical, tentacular
powers of entanglement. “I would
not undertake,” said she, “to get it across
the road, ma’am, only catching hold. Nor if
I got it safe across, to onhook it, without tearing.”
Mrs. Riley was obliged to admit the
wisdom of the Janus basket. She knew how
difficult it is to be even with a kitten.
</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
It is bits like this that make Mr. De
Morgan’s story so long, and it is bits
like this that reconcile us to its length.
I believe most readers won’t care greatly
whether the two poor old sisters who
have been separated so many years ever
do meet again. There is no feeling of
climax when they do—merely relief that
the thing has finally been put across. It
was beginning to look as if it never
would happen; and though the reader
himself, as I say, doesn’t greatly care,
he can see that De Morgan does; he has
apparently been doing his best to bring
it about, but the cantankerous ones just
wouldn’t let him.
</p>
<p>
On the other hand, who can help loving
Given o’ the Towers—all sweetness,
beauty, and light? Only—isn’t she
really more of a twentieth-century heroine
than a Victorian young lady, with
her crisp decisiveness and air of being
most ably able to look out for herself?
Truly Victorian, however, are our “slow
couple”—Miss Dickenson and Mr. Pellew.
Miss Dickenson is thirty-six, and,
by all Victorian standards, quite out of
the running. De Morgan is extremely
apologetic for allowing her to have a
romance at this belated hour—her
charms faded and gone. But we are
betting quite heavily on Miss Dickenson’s
chances for happiness with the
Hon. Mr. Pellew. The two were “good
gossips,” and would always have topics
of interest in common.
</p>
<p>
The Pendrift at the end—quite the
most fascinating part of the book—tells
us of the daughter of this union
Cicely, by this time sixteen years old.
</p>
<p>
“You know,” says the girl, Cis,—who
is new and naturally knows things,
and can tell her parents,—“you know
there is never the slightest reason for
apprehension as long as there is no delusion.
Even then we have to discriminate
carefully between fixed and permanent
delusions and——”
</p>
<p>
“Shut up, Mouse!” says her father.
“What’s that striking?”...
</p>
<p>
The young lady says, “Well, I got it
all out of a book.”
</p>
<p>
One good reason for reading De Morgan
is the fact that he is older than the
majority of his readers. We read so
much, we hear so much acclaimed that
is written by children of twenty, whose
experience of life must necessarily be
got, like Cicely’s, “out of a book.” The
saying of De Maupassant surely applies
here—that the writer must sit down
before an object until he has seen it in
the way that he alone can see it. De
Morgan has had the opportunity of seeing
life, surely, and knowing what most
of it amounts to. The result is a large
tolerance and tenderness toward his fellow
men.
</p>
<p class="sign">
<span class="smallcaps">M. H. P.</span>
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="THE_ECONOMICS_OF_SOCIAL_INSURANCE">
<a id="page-51" class="pagenum" title="51"></a>
The Economics of Social Insurance
</h3>
<p class="book">
<em>Social Insurance: With Special Reference to American Conditions</em>, by I. M. Rubinow.
[Henry Holt and Company, New York.]
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> logic of events is rapidly forcing
nation after nation into what has hitherto
been damned with the epithet paternalism.
America, perhaps, is the last
important country in the world to face
the problems raised by the march of
events in this direction. Social insurance,
a thing accomplished and a commonplace
of government functioning in
so many countries, recently adopted in
England, is, in this country, still a novelty
outside the university class room
and the lecture halls of fanatical demagogues
who wish to upset the foundations
of our civil government and civilization—as
the elder politicians express
it when their attention is drawn to these
sinister activities of thought.
</p>
<p>
The author of this book in fact was
the first academic lecturer on the subject
to give a university course in the various
forms which social insurance has
taken. These lectures he delivered before
the New York School of Philanthropy,
and they are reprinted here in
an extended form.
</p>
<p>
After giving the philosophy of the
matter, the underlying social necessity
for insurance, the author takes up the
various forms of the activity. Accident,
disease, old age, and unemployment
must all be provided against, and
the state, the employer, and the laborer
may share the burden among them, or
the two latter may be relieved—as in
various types of non-contributory insurance.
</p>
<p>
Of course the old school economist
will ask why the latter two are not relieved,
and why the employe or private
citizen is not just encouraged to insure
with a private corporation. The
author’s answer is that, even if he
were educated to the point of desiring
to do that, he could not. A man insures
his house because the feeling of
security is worth the small premium he
pays, even if that premium is larger than
the actual risk involved would warrant—larger
by a sum equal to the cost and
profits of the business of the insurance
company. But the poor man’s chances
of loss of employment, accident, or sickness
are so much greater in proportion
to the capitalized value of his job that
he could never afford to pay the premium
necessary for a private company
to take care of him; while his old age
could not be insured without taking all
of his earnings—and even then he
might die before he reached it.
</p>
<p>
The situation then is that an admitted
necessity cannot be obtained unless the
state as a whole takes steps to attain
it for all the members of the state. How
other states have done this, how type
after type of insurance has been evolved,
and how these types may be adapted to
American practice is the burden of the
present work.
</p>
<p>
The author writes in a clear and non-technical
manner, and makes no extravagant
claims for what some people may
regard as a social panacea; but he is
confident that the full development of
the idea of social insurance will relieve
the worst aspects of poverty—the aspects
in which poverty is not only a
hardship, but a haunting spirit, sapping
the vitality of its victims until they are
rendered socially useless.
</p>
<p class="sign">
<span class="smallcaps">Llewellyn Jones.</span>
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="PROSE_POEMS_OF_IRELAND">
<a id="page-52" class="pagenum" title="52"></a>
Prose Poems of Ireland
</h3>
<p class="book">
<em>Red Hanrahan</em>, by William Butler Yeats. New edition.
[The Macmillan Company, New York.]
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">f</span> you believe, with Chesterton, that
“should the snap dragon open its little
pollened mouth and sing ’twould be no
more wonderful a thing” than that a
solemn little blue egg should turn into a
big happy red-breasted bird; if you are
of “the young men that dream dreams”
or of “the old men who have visions”
the songs and the tales and the wanderings
and the mysteries of “Red” Owen
Hanrahan will thrill you with a sense of
your real nearness to “something lovelier
than Heaven.”
</p>
<p>
Such a group of tales of the people
and by the people as Mr. Yeats has
gathered together in <em>Red Hanrahan</em> can
be nothing if not a personal matter.
Frankly, I never saw a fairy, or a
gnome, or a hobgoblin. I have never
even had a vision worth writing a book
about; but I am young yet, and if the
gods continue to be kind.... In the
meanwhile I shall grasp the first opportunity
to read <em>Red Hanrahan</em> in a deep
woods, at dusk—regardless of the optician’s
orders.
</p>
<p class="sign">
<span class="smallcaps">H. B. S.</span>
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="TO_WILLIAM_BUTLER_YEATS">
To William Butler Yeats
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
<span class="smallcaps">Marguerite O. B. Wilkinson</span>
</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">As one, who, wandering down a squalid street,</p>
<p class="verse1">Where dingy buildings crowd each other high,</p>
<p class="verse1">Where all who pass have need to hurry by,</p>
<p class="verse">Saddened and parched and fighting through the heat,</p>
<p class="verse">Comes suddenly where pain and beauty meet,</p>
<p class="verse1">And sees a stretch of fair, unsullied sky,</p>
<p class="verse1">Covering a field of clover bloom, so I,</p>
<p class="verse">With heart prepared to find the contrast sweet</p>
<p class="verse2">In seeking through a world of sordid prose,</p>
<p class="verse3">Where use-stained words with huddled shoulders stand</p>
<p class="verse2">In sullen, monumental, loveless rows,</p>
<p class="verse3">Have found a sudden green and sunny land</p>
<p class="verse4">Where you, O Poet, give us back lost wonder,</p>
<p class="verse4">Leisure, sweet fields, clean skies to travel under!</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="SENTENCE_REVIEWS">
<a id="page-53" class="pagenum" title="53"></a>
Sentence Reviews
</h2>
</div>
<div class="sentrev">
<p class="note">
[Inclusion in this category does not preclude a more extended notice.]
</p>
<p class="noindent">
<em>The Titan</em>, by Theodore Dreiser [John Lane
Company, New York], will be reviewed at
length in the July issue.
</p>
<p>
<em>Clay and Fire</em>, by Layton Crippen. [Henry
Holt and Company, New York.] A provocative
philosophical discussion of the basal problem
of religion by an author who treats pessimism
according to the homeopathic principle.
Reasonable hopes are made to seem hopeless.
A morbid retrospectiveness may, however, force
thought into light, and the book leaves one in
a strange illumination effected by spiritual fire.
</p>
<p>
<em>At the Sign of the Van</em>, by Michael Monahan.
[Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] These
essays include <em>The Log of the Papyrus with
Other Escapades in Life and Letters</em>. Whether
he is praising Percival Pollard, explaining
Whitman’s cosmic consciousness—which he did
to a Whitman Fellowship gathering—or wistfully
telling us how he would like to have had
a look in on the doings in Babylon, the amorous
dallyings which Jeremiah muckraked in the
name of his Comstockean Jehovah, Michael
Monahan is always interesting even if he is not
always as stormy as his designation “the
stormy petrel of literature” would indicate.
In truth it would take a number of birds of
different species—but all pleasant ones—to
make up the tale of the qualities which this
versatile essayist exhibits in these pages.
</p>
<p>
<em>Aphrodite and Other Poems</em>, by John Helston.
[The Macmillan Company, New York.] Mr.
Helston does not write great poetry,—though
he comes close to very good poetry at times,—but
he writes greatly about love. His attitude
is a refusal to divorce the spiritual from the
earthly with which we have a hearty sympathy.
No franker love poetry has been written, probably;
but somehow we failed to find in it the
sensuality that its critics have discovered. It
is richly pagan.
</p>
<p>
<em>Love of One’s Neighbor</em>, by Leonid Andreyev.
[Albert and Charles Boni, New York.] A very
excellent translation of a one-act play which
will probably sell well, though coming from the
author of <em>The Seven Who Were Hanged</em> it
seems a mere trifle. The translator, Thomas
Seltzer, should be urged to undertake the more
worthy task of introducing Andreyev’s really
great work to English-speaking readers.
</p>
<p>
<em>New Men for Old</em>, by Howard Vincent
O’Brien. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.]
The first novel of a new young writer, especially
when he is as sincere as Mr. O’Brien
and as deeply interested in the joy of Work,
is a matter of importance. The book has its
obvious faults technically, even psychologically,
but it preaches socialism from an interesting
standpoint and makes good reading.
</p>
<p>
<em>Challenge</em>, by Louise Untermeyer. [The
Century Co., New York.] Virile and ambitious
songs of the present. <em>Caliban in the Coal
Mines</em>, <em>Any City</em>, <em>Strikers</em>, <em>In the Subway</em>, <em>The
Heretic</em>, show that the poet is not a shrinker
from modern life. The title poem sounds the
keynote:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">The quiet and courageous night,</p>
<p class="verse1">The keen vibration of the stars</p>
<p class="verse">Call me, from morbid peace, to fight</p>
<p class="verse1">The world’s forlorn and desperate wars.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
<em>John Ward, M.D.</em>, by Charles Vale. [Mitchell
Kennerley, New York.] Seneschal sentimentality
with a “modern” plot woven about the
questionable science of eugenics. One of those
irritating books in which one reads page after
page after page in the vain endeavor to find
out why Mitchell Kennerly spent his money
on it.
</p>
<p>
<em>Forum Stories</em>, selected by Charles <a id="corr-12"></a>Vale.
[Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] All these
stories have appeared in <em>The Forum</em> since it
came under Mr. Kennerley’s management, and
they are all by American writers. They represent
the work not only of such well known
writers as <a id="corr-13"></a>Reginald Wright Kauffman, James
Hopper, Margaret Widdemer, and John S.
Reed—who has a tense little narrative of the
struggle toward land of two swimmers wrecked
in the Pacific Ocean—but the work of several
lesser known but promising authors. Among
them is Miss Florence Kiper, of Chicago, who
writes under the title <em>I Have Borne My Lord a
Son</em> a most penetrating study of the psychology
of motherhood.
</p>
<p>
<a id="page-54" class="pagenum" title="54"></a>
<em>Papa</em>, by Zoë Akins. [Mitchell Kennerley,
New York.] A little play which shows so much
determination to be clever and very, very
naughty that it’s almost a pity it doesn’t
succeed.
</p>
<p>
<em>Saint Louis: a Civic Masque</em>, by Percy MacKaye.
[Doubleday, Page and Company, New
York.] A valuable contribution to the dramatic
“spirit” of awakening civic intelligence.
</p>
<p>
<em>Great Days</em>, by Frank Harris. [Mitchell
Kennerley, New York.] Audacious, vivid,
gripping sex experiences of the son of an
immoral English innkeeper. The big rough
brother of <em>Three Weeks</em>.
</p>
<p>
<em>Poems</em>, by Walter Conrad Amberg. [Houghton
Mifflin Company, Boston.] Poems written
with a sure and gentle delicacy that seems forgotten
by this generation of rude iconoclasts.
</p>
<p>
<em>The True Adventures of a Play</em>, by Louis
Evan Shipman. [Mitchell Kennerley, New
York.] The play is <em>D’Arcy of the Guards</em> and
its author tells in full the trials and tribulations—and
the eventual triumph—which met
him from the moment when he offered to submit
the manuscript to E. H. Sothern, and that star
told him to send it along. Not only are the
details of acceptances of plays, the incidental
negotiations and red tape described, but the
making of costume plates, the designing of the
whole presentation, and the collaboration between
author, producer, and actors are told
with such humor and documentary fidelity to the
actual transactions that the book will not only
be interesting to the general reader but indispensable
to the tyro playwright.
</p>
<p>
<em>Nova Hibernia</em>, by Michael Monahan. [Mitchell
Kennerley, New York.] Competent, incisive
studies, sketches, and lectures dealing with
“Irish poets and dramatists of today and yesterday”—Yeats,
Synge, Thomas Moore, Mangan,
Gerald Griffin, Callahan, Doctor Maginn,
Father Prout, Sheridan, and others.
</p>
<p>
<em>The Pipes of Clovis</em>, by Grace Duffie Boylan.
[Little, Brown, and Company, Boston.] A
forester’s son proficient on a magic pipe; a blue
and silver-gowned princess; the invasion of
Swabia by the Huns away back in the twelfth
century, all woven into a romance for children
and grown-ups who still love the fairies.
</p>
<p>
<em>The Post Office</em>, by Rabindranath Tagore.
[The Macmillan Company, New York.] A
touching little idyll of a sick child who longs
for a letter from the king through the post
office which he can see across the road. And
his dream comes true. Written in rhythmic
prose.
</p>
<p>
<em>Sanctuary</em>, by Percy MacKaye. [Frederick
A. Stokes, New York.] A bird masque performed
in September, 1913, for the dedication
of the bird sanctuary of the Meriden Bird
Club at Meriden, N. H. A defense of birds
and a defense of poetry. The theme is the
conversion of a bird slaughterer. The verse is
full of “birdblithesomeness.”
</p>
<p>
<em>Old World Memories</em>, by Edward Lowe Temple.
[The Page Company, Boston.] The story
of a summer vacation in Europe as naïve, as
full of human interest, disjoined history, and
worthy indefinite advice as the after dinner
“post card tour” of a just-returned Cook’s
traveler.
</p>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="bookstores" id="WHERE_THE_LITTLE_REVIEW_IS_ON_SALE">
<a id="page-55" class="pagenum" title="55"></a>
Where the Little Review Is on Sale
</h2>
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<a id="page-57" class="pagenum" title="57"></a>
De Morgan Again
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and at His Best
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<span class="smallcaps">When Ghost Meets Ghost</span>
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“All the essentials that make up an admirable and typical De Morgan novel are
here.”—<em>The Outlook.</em>
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CONINGSBY DAWSON’S <span class="larger">FLORENCE ON A CERTAIN NIGHT</span>
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BARRETT H. CLARK’S <span class="larger">THE CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TODAY</span>
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Outline suggestions of half-a-dozen pages or less for each play, for the study of the
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WILLIAM BOYD’S <span class="larger">FROM LOCKE TO MONTESSORI</span>
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SISTER NIVEDITA’S and
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With 32 illustrations in Four Colors by Nanda Lal Bose, A. N. Tagore, K.
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$4.50 net.
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“No better volume exists for anyone who wishes an introduction to the
study of Oriental literature. In stately and excellent English we find summaries
of practically all the important religious documents of both Hinduism
and Buddhism. The pictures are equal to the very best examples of ancient
Indian art.”—<em>The English Review.</em>
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L. MARSH-PHILLIPS <span class="larger">ART AND ENVIRONMENT</span>
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A. L. RIDGER’S <span class="larger">SIX YEARS A WANDERER</span>
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The author, a young man, tells what he saw of the world from 1907-’12
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N. JARINTZOFF’S <span class="larger">RUSSIA: THE COUNTRY OF EXTREMES</span>
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With 16 full-page illustrations.
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$4.00 net.
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Adopting a critical attitude towards several recent works on Russia by
English travellers, Madame Jarintzoff, a Russian who has resided for some
years in England, supplies from first-hand knowledge accounts of various
political and social crises, and gives a picture of life in Russia today.
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<span class="larger">LETTERS FROM A LIVING DEAD MAN.</span> Written down by Elsa
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If you are at all interested in the problem of a Future Life, you cannot afford to overlook this book.
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contribution to “psychic” literature of recent years. The volume, with its tone of optimism, its minute,
intimate account of life beyond the grave, is certain to be widely discussed, and those who do not read it
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with power and feeling. He has grasped the wider meaning of it all, made plain the essential nobility of
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what Constant Meunier did in bronze.
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<span class="larger">JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.</span> By Van Wick Brooks, author of
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<span class="larger">THE MYSTERY OF PAIN.</span> By James Hinton, author of “Life in
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This little book is a classic. It deals with pain in its necessary, beneficial aspect. Hinton addressed it to
the sorrowful, to whom it assuredly brings comfort, but it will prove interesting and helpful to all thinking
men and women. It shows how pain, if it could be recognized as development, and in a sense as joy, would
be as much welcomed as pleasure is now. We are afraid of both, instead of recognizing them as two parts
of the development of the soul; neither is good alone, but as a completion the one of the other.
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<span class="larger">THE TRUE ADVENTURES OF A PLAY.</span> By Louis Shipman.
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<p>
Perhaps you remember Henry Miller in “D’Arcy of the Guards.” Its author, Louis Shipman, has written
this unique book about “D’Arcy,” in which he tells exactly what happened to the play from the very first
moment the manuscript left his hands. Letters, contracts, telegrams, etc., are all given in full, and there
are many interesting illustrations, both in color and in black and white. “The True Adventures of a Play”
will prove of almost inestimable value to all those who practise or hope to practise the art of playwriting;
and it abounds, furthermore, in bits of fine criticism of the contemporary theatre.
</p>
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<span class="larger">NOVA HIBERNIA.</span> By Michael Monahan, author of “Adventures in
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<span class="larger">AT THE SIGN OF THE VAN.</span> By Michael Monahan, author of
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Michael Monohan, founder of that fascinating little magazine, “The Papyrus,” is one of the most
brilliant of present-day American critics. He has abundant sympathy, insight, critical acumen, and, above
all, real flavor. His essays are all his own. And into this Volume he has put much of his own life story.
Then there is a remarkable chapter on “Sex in the Playhouse,” besides papers on Roosevelt, O. Henry,
Carlyle, Renan, Tolstoy, and Arthur Brisbane, to mention but a few. “At the Sign of the Van” is really
a second, larger, and even finer book than “Adventures in Life and Letters.”
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<a id="page-59" class="pagenum" title="59"></a>
FOR SUMMER READING
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<span class="larger">NEW MEN FOR OLD.</span> By Howard Vincent O’Brien.
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One of the finest first novels of many seasons. A book too that for verity, passion
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But make no mistake—this is a good story as well. A young fellow, son of a wealthy
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That’s the situation that faces Harlan Chandos at the opening of “New Men for Old,”
the book tells the rest of the story.
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<span class="larger">GREAT DAYS.</span> By Frank Harris, author of “The Man Shakespeare,”
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There is nothing of the problem-novel about this newest book by Frank Harris. It
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is set in the time of Napoleon—there are smugglers and privateers and fighting and—by
no means least—<em>love</em>. Bonaparte is etched strikingly and vividly, and so is Charles
Fox. Emphatically a book for the Spring and Summer months.
</p>
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<span class="larger">WHEN LOVE FLIES OUT O’ THE WINDOW.</span> By Leonard
Merrick.
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<span class="larger">$1.20</span> net.
</p>
<p>
This, the latest of Leonard Merrick’s novels to be published in America, is a brilliant
story of theatrical life. The scene shifts rapidly from London to Paris, back again to
London and finally to New York. It’s a very human tale and Meenie Weston and
Ralph Lingham with their ups and downs, their miseries and their joys (but chiefly
joys) will give every reader many hours of pleasant entertainment.
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<span class="larger">NOTHING ELSE MATTERS.</span> By William Samuel Johnson, author of
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<p>
The scene of this novel is laid in Paris, and the characters are for the most part students
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introduction to some of the most delightful aspects of life in the French capital.
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<span class="larger">JOHN PULITZER: Reminiscences of a Secretary.</span> By Alleyne
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<p class="r adp">
<span class="larger">$1.25</span> net.
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<p>
This will prove a peculiarly attractive book to the average man and woman. Mr.
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the half dozen private secretaries who were constantly with Pulitzer, or “J. P.,” as they
called him. In this book you see the very man, you learn how he lived, what he read,
and you get an idea of the vigor and power that made <em>The World</em> the great paper it is.
</p>
<p>
No ordinary biography this—but a tale that for sheer interest in its telling leaves
most fiction far behind. It is dedicated (by permission) to Joseph Pulitzer’s widow.
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<span class="larger">FORUM STORIES.</span> Selected by Charles Vale, author of “John Ward,
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Sixteen of the best stories that America can produce today. Each by a different
author. Among those represented are John Reed, James Hopper, Reginald Wright
Kauffman and Edwin Björkman.
</p>
<p class="c">
<em>At all Book Stores or from the Publisher</em>
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<p class="u ade">
MITCHELL KENNERLEY, <em>Publisher</em><br />
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<div class="ads chapter">
<p class="h1 adh">
<a id="page-60" class="pagenum" title="60"></a>
<em>The Mosher Books</em>
</p>
<p class="c">
<em>LATEST ANNOUNCEMENTS</em>
</p>
<p class="h3 adh">
<em>I</em>
</p>
<p class="adb">
<span class="larger">Billy</span>: The True Story of a Canary Bird
</p>
<p class="ada">
By <span class="smallcaps">Maud Thornhill Porter</span>
</p>
<p class="r adp">
<em>950 copies, Fcap 8vo. $1.00 net</em>
</p>
<p>
This pathetic little story was first issued by Mr. Mosher in a privately printed edition
of 500 copies and was practically sold out before January 1, 1913. The late Dr. Weir
Mitchell in a letter to the owner of the copyright said among other things: “Certainly
no more beautiful piece of English has been printed of late years.” And again: “May
I ask if this lady did not leave other literary products? The one you print is so unusual
in style and quality and imagination that after I read it I felt convinced there must be
other matter of like character.”
</p>
<p class="h3 adh">
<em>II</em>
</p>
<p class="adb">
<span class="larger">Billy and Hans</span>: My Squirrel Friends. A True History
</p>
<p class="ada">
By <span class="smallcaps">W. J. Stillman</span>
</p>
<p class="r adp">
<em>950 copies, Fcap 8vo. 75 cents net</em>
</p>
<p>
Reprinted from the revised London edition of 1907 by kind permission of Mrs. W. J.
Stillman.
</p>
<p class="h3 adh">
<em>III</em>
</p>
<p class="adb">
<span class="larger">Books and the Quiet Life</span>: Being Some Pages from The Private
Papers of Henry Ryecroft
</p>
<p class="ada">
By <span class="smallcaps">George Gissing</span>
</p>
<p class="r adp">
<em>950 copies, Fcap 8vo, 75 cents net</em>
</p>
<p>
To the lover of what may be called spiritual autobiography, perhaps no other book in
recent English literature appeals with so potent a charm as “The Private Papers of
Henry Ryecroft.” It is the highest expression of Gissing’s genius—a book that deserves
a place on the same shelf with the Journals of De Guérin and Amiel. For the
present publication, the numerous passages of the “Papers” relating to books and
reading have been brought together and given an external setting appropriate to their
exquisite literary flavor.
</p>
<hr class="hr10" />
<p class="c">
<em>Mr. Mosher also begs to state that the following new editions are now ready</em>:
</p>
<p class="h3 adh">
<em>I</em>
</p>
<p class="adb">
<span class="larger">Under a Fool’s Cap</span>: Songs
</p>
<p class="ada">
By <span class="smallcaps">Daniel Henry Holmes</span>
</p>
<p class="r adp">
<em>900 copies, Fcap 8vo, old-rose boards. $1.25 net</em>
</p>
<p>
For an Appreciation of this book read Mr. Larned’s article in the February <em>Century</em>.
</p>
<p class="h3 adh">
<em>II</em>
</p>
<p class="adb">
<span class="larger">Amphora</span>: A Collection of Prose and Verse chosen by the Editor
of The Bibelot
</p>
<p class="r adp">
<em>925 copies, Fcap 8vo, old-style ribbed boards. $1.75 net</em>
</p>
<p>
<em>The Forum</em> for January, in an Appreciation by Mr. Richard Le Gallienne, pays tribute
to this book in a most convincing manner.
</p>
<p class="s c">
<em>All books sent postpaid on receipt of price net.</em>
</p>
<p class="ade">
<em>THOMAS B. MOSHER</em> <em>Portland, Maine</em>
</p>
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<a id="page-61" class="pagenum" title="61"></a>
THE DRAMA
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play.</b> These plays, which are not otherwise accessible in English,
represent especially the leading dramatists of the continent.
Chosen as they are from various countries and from many schools,
they give one an introduction to the most significant features of
modern dramatic art. Plays by Giacosa, Donnay, Gillette,
Tagore and Andreyev have appeared recently. Forthcoming
numbers will bring out the work of Goldoni and Curel.
</p>
<p>
In addition to the play and a discussion of the work of its
author, articles on all phases of drama keep the reader well informed.
<b>Modern stagecraft</b>, new types of <b>theater building</b>, organizations
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<b>the history of the drama</b>, and all pertinent subjects receive attention.
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From time to time the developments of the year in <b>foreign art
centers</b> are considered. In no way other than through <b>The Drama</b>
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and recreation.
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<a id="page-62" class="pagenum" title="62"></a>
The<br />
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A New Book of
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<p>
The GLEBE publishes
twelve or more complete
books a year. It is an attempt
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on their own merit and
regardless of their chance for
popular sale. Once a month—and
occasionally more frequently—the
GLEBE brings
out the complete work of
one individual arranged in
book form and free from editorials
and other extraneous
matter.
</p>
<p>
Prominent among numbers
for the year 1914 are <em>Des
Imagistes</em>, an anthology of
the Imagists’ movement in
England, including <em>Pound</em>,
<em>Hueffer</em>, <em>Aldington</em>, <em>Flint
and others</em>; essays by <span class="smallcaps">Ellen
Key</span>; a play by <span class="smallcaps">Frank
Wedekind</span>; collects and
prose pieces by <span class="smallcaps">Horace
Traubel</span>; and <span class="smallcaps">The Doina</span>,
translations by <span class="smallcaps">Maurice
Aisen</span> of Roumanian folksongs.
The main purpose of
the GLEBE is to bring to
light the really fine work of
unknown men. These will
appear throughout the year.
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An anthology of the youngest and most discussed school
of English poetry. Including selections by Ezra Pound,
Ford Madox Hueffer, Amy Lowell, Richard Aldington,
Allen Upward, and others.
</p>
<div class="s">
<p>
“The Imagists are keenly sensitive to the more picturesque
aspects of Nature.”—<b>The Literary Digest.</b>
</p>
<p>
“... contains an infinite amount of pure beauty.”—<b>The
Outlook</b> (London).
</p>
<p>
“These young experimentalists are widening the liberties of
English poetry.”—<b>The Post</b> (London).
</p>
<p>
“It sticks out of the crowd like a tall marble monument.”—<b>The
New Weekly.</b>
</p>
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Mariana
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<p class="ada">
<span class="smallcaps">By Jose Echegaray</span>
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<em>Crash Cloth 75c net; 85c postpaid.</em>
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Winner of the Nobel Prize, 1904.
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Love of One’s Neighbor
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<span class="smallcaps">By Leonid Andreyev</span>
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</p>
<p class="u ads">
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A play in one act, replete with subtle and clever satire.
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The Thresher’s Wife
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A narrative poem of great strength and individuality.
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Chants Communal
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<span class="smallcaps">By Horace Traubel</span>
</p>
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Inspirational prose pieces fired by revolutionary idealism
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following unusual commendations:
</p>
<div class="s">
<p>
<b>Jack London</b>: “His is the vision of the poet and the voice
of the poet.”
</p>
<p>
<b>Clarence Darrow</b>: “Horace Traubel is both a poet and a
philosopher. No one can say anything too good about him or
his work.”
</p>
<p>
<b>George D. Herron</b>: “It is a book of the highest value and
beauty that Horace Traubel proposes to give us, and I can
only hope that it will be read as widely and appreciatively
as it more than deserves to be; for it is with a joy that would
seem extravagant, if I expressed it, that I welcome ‘Chants
Communal.’”
</p>
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<p class="adb">
Not Guilty
</p>
<p class="ads">
<em>A Defence of the Bottom Dog</em>
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<p class="ada">
<span class="smallcaps">By Robert Blatchford</span>
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Our Irrational Distribution of Wealth
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<span class="smallcaps">By Byron C. Mathews</span>
</p>
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<em>Cloth $1.00 net.</em>
</p>
<p>
The author undertakes to show that the agencies which
are used in distributing the products of industry and are
responsible for the extremes in the social scale have never
been adopted by any rational action, but have come to be
through fortuitous circumstances and are without moral
basis. The wage system, as a means of distribution, is
utterly inadequate to measure the workers’ share. The
source of permanent improvement is found in social ownership,
which transfers the power over distribution from the
hands of those individuals who now own the instruments
of production to the hands of the people.
</p>
<p class="u ade">
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PUBLISHERS AND BOOKSELLERS<br />
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<a id="page-63" class="pagenum" title="63"></a>
VOL. IV · <b>Price 15 cents</b> · NO. III
</p>
<div class="centerpic poetry">
<img src="images/poetry.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<p class="h1 hidden adh">
Poetry
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A Magazine of Verse
</p>
<p class="hidden ada">
Edited by Harriet Monroe
</p>
<p class="h3 adh">
JUNE, 1914
</p>
<div class="table">
<table class="tablepoetry" summary="Table-2">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td class="col1">On Heaven</td>
<td class="col2">Ford Madox Hueffer</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1">Iron</td>
<td class="col2">Carl Sandburg</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1">The Falconer of God</td>
<td class="col2">William Rose Benét</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1">Poems</td>
<td class="col2">Grace Hazard Conkling</td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1" colspan="2">To the Mexican Nightingale—Ave Venezia—“I will not give thee all my heart”—The Little Town.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1">Poems</td>
<td class="col2">Wilfrid Wilson Gibson</td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1" colspan="2">The Tram—On Hampstead Heath—A Catch for Singing.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1">Editorial Comment</td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1" colspan="2">“Too Far From Paris”—Mr. Hueffer and the Prose Tradition in Verse—Notes.</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</div>
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</p>
<p class="u cell">
Mabel Riegelman<br />
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Meda Zarbell<br />
Alice Zeppilli
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Official Piano of the North Shore Music Festival<br />
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Official Piano of the Chicago Grand Opera Company<br />
Official Piano of the Philadelphia Grand Opera Company
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<div class="trnote chapter">
<p class="transnote">
Transcriber’s Notes
</p>
<p>
Advertisements were collected at the end of the text.
</p>
<p class="skip_in_txt">
The poem with rotated text on <a href="#page-13">page 13</a> is given both as scanned image
of the original printing and as transcribed text in order to represent its
shape as intended by the author.
</p>
<p>
On <a href="#page-16">page 16</a>, there seems to be some text missing—perhaps a line—between
<a href="#misslin1"><em>Of course, the Romanticists contributed their ...</em></a> and
<a href="#misslin2"><em>... did this, so to speak, casually, while actually ...</em></a>.
This has been left as in the original since no other source for this text could be
identified.
</p>
<p>
The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors
were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here (before/after):
</p>
<ul>
<li>
... The <span class="underline">cannon</span> is contained in one word: L’excessivisme. ...<br />
... The <a href="#corr-4"><span class="underline">canon</span></a> is contained in one word: L’excessivisme. ...<br />
</li>
<li>
... Forum Stories, selected by Charles <span class="underline">Vail</span>. ...<br />
... Forum Stories, selected by Charles <a href="#corr-12"><span class="underline">Vale</span></a>. ...<br />
</li>
<li>
... writers as <span class="underline">Reginal</span> Wright Kauffman, James ...<br />
... writers as <a href="#corr-13"><span class="underline">Reginald</span></a> Wright Kauffman, James ...<br />
</li>
</ul>
</div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 63809 ***</div>
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